Would love a gift card

If romantic love was a store, it would be Holt Renfrew. Which means to say, I have never really shopped there. I can't afford it. I walk in every time with high hopes and a lot of savings, but never enough. In fact when I walk into the store, everybody in there already knows I don't have what it takes to make a purchase, so they don't pay much attention to me. They just wait until I leave. Or they tell me kindly their store is closed. They'll re-open tomorrow morning when I'm not there, no doubt.

So I walk into Club Monaco feeling pretty good about myself: HR was really overpriced, who do they think they are? Nothing at Club Monaco fits me properly, who am I kidding? My shoulders are too broad, but so is my stomach. Felt nice while I was buying though. They were so nice to me. Deep down they knew I was making a bad purchase from the beginning, we were a bad fit. But I hold my breath and try her on. She's suffocating me. I'm stretching her limits. This isn't going to last past the summer.

I used to wish things were different, like love wasn't a store, and I didn't have to shop, and somebody would want to purchase me! But I guess I got what I expected. I suffocated her, she stretched my limits. It didn't last past the summer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s96nlATQCGU&feature=related/

Now I'm broke and don't know if there's the right store for me. Maybe there will be sales online? I just want a gift card.

Hallowe'en

I'm scared. Like, I really didn't think she was going to really have something. Every time she says, "Oh man, that one felt like death" I figure, "Ok, gramma had a bad cold." Not to patronize her, but she always jumped back. So she calls me on my birthday to tell me exactly that, she couldn't make it because she was so sick. So I told her exactly what I think: It's okay gramma, you don't have to come all the way here to wish me happy birthday. It's okay. It was that bad? That's alright. I had an okay day, but I was at work. Actually a bunch of people at work got me gifts. Yes, thank you for the card it meant a lot. Okay gramma, feel better.

The last time my gramma ever spoke to me was over the phone. In all likelihood, the last time gramma will ever speak to me will have been over the phone. The next weekend my dad dropped by her house, doing one of those things that people take for granted and think "isn't too important," he saw a sale on sardines at the local grocery store, so he picked up some for her to bring over. Coupons: Coupons are the reason my dad found her before it was too late. Coupons are why the stroke was not fatal. Gramma's neighbours are really nice and visit her all the time, but who knows if they would have been overly concerned to hear nothing from her apartment. I don't even want to visualize what it was like for my dad to see her there on the couch, unable.

The first time I visited her I thought to myself, over the last few years, I might have built some sort of a stomach for matters of mortality. I really haven't. I'm poised on the phone, poised in social interaction, poised intellectually, but faced with the idea of the end I'm very scared. I've really recently been feeling extra scared and this is part and parcel. I don't know what to say. The first time I saw her in the hospital she had lost all use of the right side of her body and her ability to speak. She was coming in and out of cogency and not necessarily on time. There was a brain hemorrhage that accompanied her stroke which has really dampened hopes of a quick turnaround. Then for one moment when my brother and I approached her and said "Hey Gramma it's your boys." She looked my brother and then me dead in the eyes. When she looked at me, I knew she saw me. I knew it. I felt that distinct feeling you get when you look into the eyes of a human being. Then her eyes watered, but nothing else emotive seemed to follow, and what felt so much like a communicative connection seemed very mechanical. So it started to feel more like when you look into the eyes of a cat; she knew someone was there and it made her feel a certain way. Then she kind of looked left I guess, and then at her wrist. That's when I broke. Very quickly I wasn't talking to gramma anymore.

I've learned of myself that I'm much better speaking about than speaking to. I know how to personalize a conversation but my comfort level is still conversations about. Recently I've noticed that my friends are finding this to be a point of difficulty with me. They don't know how to talk to me. They don't know what I want to hear, so they'd rather just try and tell me what they think I need to hear. So it's something new to work on. It's easiest to work on this with Gramma now, because I can't even really talk to gramma, for the most part I have to talk at her. Which is how the first day felt. All I could do was speak at gramma, and that pained me horribly. Growing up, the idea of speaking at someone or something seemed so pathetic and juvenile. 'Don't you know she isn't listening? Why are you wasting your breath? That doll is not real, you might as well keep those words inside.' Talking at someone seemed either ignorant or rude. Then again, I'm probably the biggest hypocrit in this respect, because I talk at myself all the time. Out loud (it's embarrassing) and well, even here, on this blog. So I ought to be good at talking at people.

Well today is her birthday. She caught an infection and had to be re-hospitalized, so it wasn't the best birthday. My mom had even bought balloons and stuff to take to the home. Oh well. We went to go talk to her and, blessing in disguise, the policies of emerg is that only one person can visit at a time. So I was given the chance to talk at her one-on-one. I think I did well. There was one part where I said, "Well looks like they got you set up well here" and she put her eyebrows together with a look of almost alarm, and I completed her thought "yea, well as good as they can set you up, right? haha" And then she kinda moved her head to the side affirmatively, like, "Bingo." I told her that I got a new job, and that I start tomorrow, and the nurse was here to change her drip, and that Khary's coming in next, and some other stuff. I really forgot how old she was, so it was great that the nurse came in and had her chart. I was always thinking to record this day and now I can. I still feel like she can stabalize to a degree in time, which is a small mercy to hold on to, so I'm happy to say that today is not the day on which Hyacinth O'Gilvie was born. There is no need for eulogistic references. No, today is Gramma Maggie's 87th birthday. And even though I was sick earlier this week, I got to see her. So for that I am blessed.

On long weekends

In the haze of busy work weeks, most of which spill into the brainspace we hope to keep for more important things than work, I tend to forget what outside feels like.

I forget what the world outside my office feels like. When I talk to my fellow yuppies during our scheduled sitdowns after work, every 3 weeks or so, I forget that not every organization operates with as much or as little bureaucracy as does mine. I make a point not to use acronyms or industry talk when I get into my own stories, but to be frank I'm the only one who pays that consideration. Whether we admit it or not, people love having a job that other people don't understand, that is the definition of importance. Right? Myself included, I only make the effort to be universally descriptive because I have dreams of being the world's court jester.

I forget what life is like outside of the business world. Meeting up with my friends who are doctors, lawyers, students, teachers, nurses, and other fields that are less directly corporate, I forget that not only am I a small fish in a large pond, but that there are many rivers to cross between my pond and theirs. And what's more, I'm going to have to master the waves of this pond if I hope one day to make it to the ocean. I'm happy that my pond is large enough to teach me the ropes. Some of my friends tell me they could never handle my waves, which is my latest reason to smile.

Most importantly, I forget what life is like outside. You know, where things grow and bugs exist and there are all sorts of quiet sounds that only get loud when you pay close attention. Outside is normally despair. Actually, I'll be less dramatic. Outside is normally obligation: What must be done in order to get to my car, the restaurant, the office, the beach, my game, her house, home. I hardly appreciate the warmth of the sun on the 401! When oh how the glory of the sun is magnified by the warm reflective asphalt, and my warm absorbant black car interior. I must say I spend many hours a week actually rebuking the majesty of the holy sun. But today, sitting on my deck and reading a book of my choice in my backyard I decided to protect my face from the sun, after giving it some time, with the bookface. A sudden crisp cool came over my skin and I felt a certain relaxation you can't experience indoors.

To everyone who can relate to my rat race, I have only one thing to share from my experience from this long weekend. Relaxation isn't when your mind can turn off, it is when your mind can turn on. I'm happy to say I wrote this entire note outside on my deck. Special thanks to my Blackberry as well.

On superficial attention to sadness

Somewhere along the line I made the point to stop telling people that I'm sad. I realized that in my case saying that I'm sad is a lot like telling people 'I am wearing a blue shirt.' First of all it shows, quite clearly. It's not even ambiguously blue, my sadness. More importantly, saying my shirt is blue doesn't really engender any real meaningful discussions about the nature of my shirt.

Most people can only really respond with a sort of uncomfortable laughter. A chuckle, followed by, "...and so?". No, it makes no sense to state the obvious about my shirt. All I can really hope is that someone asks, "So where did you get your sadness?" or "How much did your sadness cost you?" Or in my special tailored case, because I've invested more heavily into my appearance than what lies beneath, I often hope someone remarks, "I must say, you wear your sadness very well, it fits you well."

Again, my shirts are tailored so I can never really tell people what their true origins were, who knows, so I end up telling people "Well this sadness I just picked up last week. The sadness I was wearing yesterday is old, from a purchase I made last year."

As for the price, luckily there is no price or discernible barcode in my store of dignity, so I used to assume each shirt was relatively expensive until I made my way to the register. The last few shirts I purchased were a real drag. So I've become very cost sensitive, pre-purchase.'

As for the fit, well with all fabrics there is a cost per square inch. If I lost some weight I think my next shirt wouldn't cost me so much pain.

The Evolution of the Great Jam Dynasty

One Day I was talking to wife Tampon about her man, and after giving her some insight and making her feel better about the situation, she said to me, "Jammi, you're like a surrogate boyfriend. When I need someone to fill the role of understanding me, listening to me, occasionally running errands, and basically everything except the sex, I know you got me."

In the fall of 2002 after this conversation with wife Tampon, the Great Jam Dynasty was publicly solidified.

This was the first sudden realization for our young sage, for he knew then that he had spent the last 5 years (wiki: Early Jam Dynasty) engaged in emotional polygamy: He realised hence that he in fact had a series of surrogate girlfriends, who did on to him as he did on to them; filled the role. Oh, how he could delight in their auras, the lights of their souls, their warmth, caring, and willingness to share their own self-explorations. How he learned of himself through their stories, how they learned of themselves through his stories. The mutually beneficial relationship bestowed upon him, as if from the Gods, were his beacon of importance, a measurement scale of his existent value.

However, as time passed and the parameter's of Jamil's Dynasty extended outwards towards new domains, the Dynasty entered a warring period. A brief period under which the Dynasty was unbalanced. Time conflicts between Jamil's concubines and his surrogate girlfriends, together with the time constraints his academic and spiritual persuits paid a toll on the Dynasty. The drought of insight fell over the Dynasty and their was disarray throughout the lands. The surrogates were confused: "Who is this man sitting on our Emporer's thrown?" they wondered. As both test and testimant to his Dynasty, Jamil formalized the structure and nomenclature of his Dynasty, elevating the importance of his surrogates in his life. To each surrogate who fit the roll, he announced unto them the title of Wife (wiki: Middle Jam Dynasty). In the summer of 2006, after facing the importance and finality of life due to a life-alterning knee surgery, Jamil bewed all of his surrogate girlfriends and created the sub-categories of matrimony under which you all dwell today.

For those who wonder, those who know, and those who simply forget, each of you mentioned below constitute the Great Jam Dynasty and have had title as wife to its emporer. With names here revised to reflect only current wives (lest I speak the names of the Forgotten Wives) the Great Jam Dynasty contained the following sub-categories and members:

Ancient Revered Wives:

Neeta

Kailee

Pentagon of First Order Wives:

Amrit

Elina (Tampon)

Larah

Tanya

Yvonne

Most Honourable School Work and Soccer Wives:

Annie

Bianca

Christine

Cici

Gitane

Haylie

Lilian

Melanie

Natasha

Navdeep

Nicole

Tiffany

That a man such as myself could be loved by so many women at once is a blessing that cannot be forgotten and so I have immortalized it here. All of you have been my Dynasty, trophy wives in the most honoured sense. However, we must go forward, this time into the sun.

I knew this day would come. We would get older, you and I, and I would have to give back to you a very cherished title. I would have to bite my tongue upon calling you my wife, as I see in your eyes that this word no longer belongs to me. You have, or are about to, or will eventually, give this title to another. All of you. My work here is done. As for myself, I am the happiest man in the world because I know now, only today, that I am everpresent. My Dynasty needs not walls or parameters, nor titles or order. Immortalized in me is the love and laughter we've all shared. I go to sleep every night with that joy that I can remember exactly how each of you smile. You've all taught me so much, and I'm finished stealing from you. And with a realisation just as sudden and unprovoked as the one that created my Dynasty, I realise that I must now call its end.

It would take all the pulp of the Great Northwest to put on paper the many moments of bliss I've shared with each of you, and yes even the forgotten wives, but I hope as any good Emporer should do, that I can share these moments again with you in person. Nonetheless, as of today, the title "wife" is off my tongue, lest I disrespect your current, and soon-to-be, and far-to-be, husbands. Understand, each of you, that this note is an introduction only: Hi, I'm Jamil, your loving ex-husband. Have you met my other ex-wives?

A young pupil once asked,"What differs between a fake rose and a real rose?"

His teacher sat back in his chair and said "A fake rose is dead, a real rose has died."

The pupil questioned, "Is that not rather a similarity?"

The teacher without a moment's hesitation shouted "Without a doubt, no!"

That's my way of saying,"It's been real, ladies."

Love and Football - Playing Injured

I'm playing injured. Not because I'm unwise. How silly of them all to suggest this. Younger or older, well read or not, well experienced or not, they all tell me what you never have: You're not the one for me. There for me when I was younger. I came to you, kicking around and not sure how to. You taught me to love you, I got better at you. I grew with you. I grew because of you, I owe you that regardless. But you grew because of me too. I shared you with my friends, as best as I could. Morning or night, and best of all on hot summer evenings, stepping outside to be with you was always best, is always best.

When I was with you, I knew myself. Living in the head of a young man makes a slave to ambition. I tell myself where I need to be and I'm there. I don't need to dwell on where I was, or whether I'm ready. I'm ready. Playing injured, when I'm with you, I know myself. I know my limitations because they catch me by surprise. My mind knows what to do, but I can't bring about the action as I wanted, as I planned. Trying to catch you, but I can't. When I was younger, before the injuries, I could have caught up to you. We could have ran together however you liked, at my feet, bouncing off my head, or right into my chest; I would have kept you safe and all to myself. Now you slip away as I scramble to catch up to you.

Some say injuries are life lessons. Not sure what to learn from this injury except that now things are harder. Harder than they need to be. "Why carry on?" they ask me. "You shouldn't carry on" they tell me. "Why don't you just try something new?" they ask me. "Try something new" they tell me. How silly of them to suggest this: That I play their games for my happiness. Somewhere along the lines everyone else got the memo on where my happiness lies. But I am not mistaken. Even when you break my bones with harsh words like torn and ruptured - words harder than sticks and stones. Even when you lay me out for weeks on end in rehab, on my bed in tears, I will come back to you. I met you by circumstance but over the years we've kept in touch because we're better together. We have a lot to offer each other. You are my light even when you're burned out. I will tend to myself and to you as needed so we can shock the world again. I'm playing injured with you, not because I am unwise, but because I was born to play with you.

I'm not looking for alternatives, I just need you to give me clearance to play.

I saw...

I woke up one afternoon almost 2 years ago and saw 2 eyes looking at me. 2 eyes not believing what they were looking at. 2 eyes that were convinced the man at the front of the room was asleep when he was trying to suggest he was awake. 2 eyes filled with judgment and wonder at the same time. 2 eyes that never seem to care for sunlight.

I sat by a window sill one day about a year ago and saw a baby kitten. Not sure how she got here and not sure if she wanted to be here. So many interesting toys and people in this house though. Maybe she could get used to this. She'll have to get familiar with the territory. Cute little baby kitten is scared of her own reflection, pawing away at her image. Watching herself in the mirror she tries to jump up the first stair in this big building but doesn't make it: Sore paw, going to have to sharpen those claws. She watches herself as she jumps again and again. Always just short. Ick, her fur is all tangled in a rut, better to keep it straight. How did that big nasty dog make the jump, she wonders? So I told her, 'Stop looking side-to-side while you're jumping, there'll be enough time to watch yourself when you're up there. If it's too high up you can come down later. But I think you'll like it up here.' She faced forward and jumped.

A couple weeks ago I saw a lion. Perched in her attack stance, with proud long fur and claws made for killing, she stands ready to capture any live pray that crosses her path. Roaring at other lions more senior than her in her own pride, giggling with unsuspecting hyenas over the phone who don't even know that she will be stealing their lunch. Guiding new baby kittens to find their direction and face it. Her eyes are always facing forward now with a ferocity that even scares a big dog such as myself. Eyes that turn hard when an old dog needs to be seen through but soft when an old dog just needs to be seen. The same eyes as before, still filled with judgment, a ton of knowledge, with just a little room to spare for wonder now.

I see 2 eyes that never seem to care for sunlight, because they already belong to a star.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Vata

Let us find time

It was Time who tricked us. Tricky fellow. All along, we thought it was not Time. Back in grade school when we met, Time was with us everywhere. Everything we did had a Time to it: Recess, lunch, math class. We had all the Time in the world. When neither of us had any money, we spent Time together instead; on the phone, at the mall. I thought we would always be together with Time, but something changed between us.

Different schools, different lives, different circumstances, different choices. I never meant to leave you alone first but I did. It was crowded between us; three is a crowd. I think you felt the same way sometimes. Every time we thought about it I always thought there was just some underpinning difference between you and I that we couldn't resolve, but there wasn't. It was always Time playing tricks on us, that jealous bugger! Don't you see? Whenever you and I finally wanted to be together, all of a sudden we declared that we needed Time apart. Kind of insulting we must admit, to just push him away so we could learn to be together. Emotions ran wild during highschool, then they lay quiet for 7 years.

7 long years I waited for you to find the Time to come back in my life. I was jealous and thought you were off with him in secret, basking away taking all that Time to yourself. Then one day you came back to me, without him. We had hardly any Time at all that night. But in that moment when our lives and lips finally touched it felt like the first Time, the Time we grew up with. Again, something was wrong. It wasn't our Time, we worried..

He's changed. He's been hurting other people, trying so desperately to bring us together when we were both trying to spend Time with others. I don't blame him. Time is our lovechild, and we've each brought so many different partners home. How torn he must have felt when I was spending Time with her and you were spending Time with him. We were wasting Time, splitting him up and going our separate ways, probably because we still felt we were better off spending Time on our own. But Time is only so welcoming when we are together. Time is fleeting when we are apart.

I've been looking at the Time over the last couple of years, and man is he out of sorts. I swear, the last few years Time has just been flying by. Almost like a child out to dinner with his new step-parent Time just wanted those relationships to be done with. But we figured we were older and wiser and knew more about love than he did.

We're not older than Time, I don't know why we keep acting like we are. Both of us. It's hard to trust Time sometimes, especially when he gets so emotional slips out of our fingers and just starts running out. We both know he's right though. We should be together. Time will tell, you told me once. I believed you. I believe in him. I want us to be a family together, me you and Time, and have new Times together. Little baby Times to call our own. Times to grow. Times to share. A nice house with you and me and a bunch of Times we can look back on and smile. What else do we need right now?

Travel Journal 4 - Bafana Bafana (never completed)

This one I'll have to write in installments. I'm not sure how often I'll be able to connect or how much time I'll have to think about what's going on until I come back. All the same, I hope you enjoy the read. Please permit me to speak in a North American tongue, for I grew up referring to my beloved sport as Soccer instead of its rightful name Football. I don't have the social-political wherewithal to prevent this modern form of colonial brainwashing, and so I reserve the term football for an American tradition where the foot in fact rarely connects with the ball. That being said...



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Day 0: My Life and Soccer

A few people have been wondering whether or not it's true that I am going to South Africa to watch the World Cup. The short answer is no, I'm going to Bafana Bafana to watch the World Cup. Currently I am sitting in seat 17D on the tarmac in a relatively swank Ethiopian Airlines 767 on my way from Addis Ababa to Johannesburg; and then to Pretoria (which will soon be named Tshwane). Due to the nature of this trip this story will be as much a retrospective as it is a travel journal.

May 28th, 1989 is a day I'll never forget. It was the scariest day of my life to date. For a shy 6 year old that is a pretty big claim to make since for me even mere social interaction was absolutely petrifying. A few weeks prior my dad and brother were watching a World Cup qualifying match which featured Argentina and the then top of his game Diego Maradona. My dad used the excitement of the match to suggest to me that I should start getting into sports, particularly soccer. The moment he finished his elevator pitch on how soccer will be an excellent way for me to overcome being so fat in his eyes, I turned to the television screen to avoid what felt like shame and witnessed something worse. An Argentina player took a blow to the head causing blood to race down and a substitution. Again, a few weeks later, May 28th, when the registration date for the Scarborough National Malvern Soccer Club house league came, and my dad dragged me to the Malvern Recreation Centre to sign up for this sport of bloodshed, I was petrified. My brother gave me one of his amazing pep talks which to me he was famous for when I was young, but still there was unease.

"What number would you like?" the lady Hyacinthe asked me.
"Pele's number is 10," my dad said to me.
"Ten?" I asked of her.
"Sorry, we're out of 10." I jumped ahead and said "Eleven, please!"

My dad was proud for he knew I remembered the classic soccer numbering system he had taught me and remarked, "Good, 11 is a striker's number." Hyacinthe looked at me for a moment and said, "I think I've got just the jersey for you" and she handed me the first jersey I would ever own or wear. With vertical green and yellow stripes and a black trim around the neck and biceps my dad exclaimed, "Those are Brazil's colours!" I knew that this was a declaration from him that I will have a great responsibility of soccer tradition to uphold, despite the fact that I was not on the Brazil national team. With this jersey, I was official starting member of the Bombers. The pride of that moment lives with me every day of my life. The rest is history

I don't mean this in jest. 21 years and two knee surgeries later (possibly a third to come), competitive soccer is truly in the past for me. Demoted to the green pastures of Men's Leagues, Social Clubs, and impromptu Futsal runs, soccer is now only exactly what my father meant for it to be, a way for me to keep fit and have fun. That's a bit of a half truth; soccer still has the powers of a spiritual therapy to which in my life I have not experienced a match.

Stern as my dad may have been while I was growing up, forever flowing from the heart is my father's bounty. The same can be said for my older brother's benevolence. And so, 21 years after my inception to the sport they have offered soccer to me in yet another fashion.

The short version of the story which brings us here to my journal is: My father swiped his Sobey's card to buy some cake and won a trip to South Africa. The trip is designed for young adults to partake in a 5 days skills assessment camp to groom talent, awareness, and love of the beautiful game. My dad said that he felt as though he is too old for the hustle and bustle of this camp. He asked if I wanted to go in his place. My secondary reaction was one of reverence and so I called my brother and asked him if he wants to go. I must mention that while my dad introduced me to the sport, my brother is directly and ostensibly responsible for my progression in soccer. Ball control, as an example, becomes a secondary reflex when as an 8 year old one spends 4hrs a day on his driveway playing 'keep away' from his taller, faster, in better shape, 15 year old soccer veteran brother. My brother said, after I explained to him the circumstances of this prize our dad has won, that his lease was coming up at the end of the month and so he wasn't sure if he could attend the trip. Another likely story. Here, between my dad and brother's claims you can see evidence to suggest that not all lies are evil. Indeed, if anything my dad and brother must both have stamped their seats in the kingdom of heaven with these lies, as they have bestowed upon me a gift which touches me more deeply than I could ever let them know.

To take a little spice out of this story, I have in fact been to 2 world cups before: USA '94 and France '98. It's not my first, but believe me, virgin appeal rarely adds value to the moments in life that are truly special. If they truly are special they'll be special the third and fourth time as well. I'm happy to not be a rookie, in fact I think having seen matches before will only heighten my appreciation for what is about to unfold. The truly priceless feature to this trip is that it is in Bafana Bafana! Just implore me for a moment and think: A few hundred years ago the world's leading colonials dragged my family off of the continent as a measure of better financing their endeavours to extend their ideals, customs and products westward towards unknown markets. Now one of the world' largest conglomerates, namely the Coca-Cola Corporation is flying me back to Africa free of charge to extend its ideals customs and product eastward, to markets I fear it will never truly understand.

Out of appreciation for the gift Coca-Cola has provided for me might I take this time to announce my honest feelings for the 2010 World Cup's official Sponsors?

I love Coca Cola. If I'm ever offered the choice between Coke and Pepsi I will never waver. I spent a good many years addicted to Coca-Cola, drinking on average 2 cans a day in highschool. It was to my and their great fortune that since the 1920s Coca-Cola has no longer included cocaine as its key ingredient. Although one would have to present the numbers to decide whether cocaine or caffeine wins in terms of profitability and risk management. All the same, I only drink Coke at theatres or to chase rum now, but it still has a special place in my heart, as do most items containing high-fructose corn syrup. I love Powerade. Despite the fact that warm Powerade tastes exactly like liquid Tylenol without the medicinal value or nice aftertaste, Powerade is typically my choice over Gatorade because Powerade is more readily available in dollar and discount stores than than Gatorade. Out of convenience and adjacency to my house I've also come to enjoy Sobey's. I love Electrolytes. When neuronal passages to my muscle fibres result in a reaction that is faster than my opponents I am given a certain sense of pride, and with the same certainty I'm sure to enjoy the results from Powerade's new sub-brand ION4. In summation, tongue-in-cheek as it may be, you cannot find me to be a hypocrite if you come across any advertisements this year where I happen to mention that I love Sobey's Coca-Cola Powerade ION4 for sending me to the World Cup!



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Day 1: Airports or Planehaus as I call them now

It is not a short flight to Johannesburg, particularly not when you have two stop overs in Frankfurt and Addis Ababa. Longer still when you are travelling with complete strangers. There were four Canadian winners for this contest, 2 from Calgary and 2 from Toronto. As well, our chaperone Diego currently lives in Toronto. Diego is meeitng us in Jo'burg. Lauren, from Calgary, took a direct flight to Frankfurt and seems to be an elusive character so we will probably meet her alongside Diego.

That leaves Curtis from out west and Jenn from Toronto. I met them both in Terminal 1 at Lester B. Pearson Airport. Being social is not nearly as difficult for me to produce but a lot harder for me to sustain, as it was when I was younger. I will never question or cast shame upon my better judgment, and believe me my judgment is typically better. But I must say it's a lot harder for me to not judge characters whom I know nothing about. Immediately I knew Jenn would have the most words to share of the three travelers, and that before 10am each morning I would want to hear them the least. However, that is more snark than Jenn deserves, it's actually a commentary on me and sleep deprivation. The point is Jenn is extremely pleasant and talkative which makes it easy for me to recline in my chair into myself periods during these long flights where I need to rest my tongue. Curtis is an older gentleman who couldn't find a good way to decide which of his 3 kids should go on this trip. Indeed, he proved to have a diplomatic tongue and disposition and is pretty laid back.

I've had my moments as the diva of the group. I've traveled a bit on my own now I can say, so I was pretty confident about traveling around Germany with no plans, ideas or knowledge of the country and language. I was dubbed 'most responsible' by Jenn and Curtis which I supposed got to my head as I lead the way into to Zara, Nike Town and a tea store for my own purchases. Not exactly their ideal way to kill a 12hr stopover in Frankfurt. However, a good 6-8 hours were spent in the heart of Frankfurt learning, from our prejudices, about Germany and each other. Sausage was consumed, but not by me. I had...Gaffehaffen? Pig calve, salted and roasted. Chocolate was purchased at the Duty Free and man was it tasty. To be honest I think the bar I purchased was a Swiss Brand - Milka? However I tackled one stereotype properly. Believe me please here and now for I tell you the truth: German beer is absolutely delicious in Germany. A bottle of Beck's is not what I mean by German beer. I had a half-pint of Diesel served perfectly chilled in a glass. It was served with a cappuccino-like whipped froth, light flakes on top of the beer head. The only thing that would have made this beer taste better is if it was served at breakfast beside an omelette. The glass left me with a wholesome feeling, no doubt due to the natural ingredients and larger proportions of wheat and hops. If the point of this trip was to visit Germany I would have ordered beer until I was tanked, and I am not a beer drinker. Alas, there were 2 flights ahead of us and so pace was a virtue. I'm reconvinced I need to visit Germany one day as a vacation. It was a beautiful day in Frankfurt and a marvelous introduction to German architecture. Anything else should be said only with photos which will come. Also, I must remark that if I were to ever hire a cleaning person, they would not be Filipino or Mexican. Fear of theft notwithstanding, I would hire a German. In every corner of the city I noticed that Germany (sorry Philippines, I'ma let you finish) has the cleanest washrooms of all time! Of all time! This is the end of the installment written from the plane on the last leg to Jo'burg. We just passed Mount Kilimanjaro in the air but I'm sitting int he aisle and had to view it through the LCD screen of a stranger's camera. Stay tuned for the next update where I will share my reflections on Africa so far and yet to come.


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Day 2: Reasons why this trip is not perfect

I hate when things in my life end with a whimper. Then again, I don't exactly like it when my life falls apart with a crash. All the same, at least for playing soccer I always thought there would be an epic moment when I would leave the game, which I suppose is silly. 4 years ago my game changed dramatically after a random dude decided he'd take out his frustrations from losing the ball from me and made way with 3 of my cruciate ligaments and meniscus in my right knee. 4 weeks ago the turf at Downsview Park had its way with my left knee and I'm yet to get a diagnosis on it. However, 4 hours ago I got a prognosis: It was a drill like any other drill, until I reached forward to collect a through ball and heard the kind of pop that never means anything good. I walked to the medic who looked me over. It's highly advised I have this looked at the moment I get back to Canada, and it's highly advised I don't push my knee any further.

The saddest part is, I have expected this but i couldn't face the truth. This morning, armed with my knee brace and high hopes I started to feel my knee feeling tighter than it should. Just as I thought maybe I should take a break, one of the coaches began talking to one of the players from Mexico. He asked him, "You know what is N'doda?" the Mexican replied "Que? What?" Coach said, "N'doda. It means man. Like me. And you. You are a man. Because..." Coach grabbed his pair "...you have these! Yes, you are N'doda" So I thought to myself, "Me, I am N'doda too!" gassing myself up to play through the pain. I am n'doda. Men are stubborn.

I have to say that I was quite liking the idea of playing with people around the world. The scarce moments I could share my skills with the few friends I've made from Mexico, Guatamala and England felt good but not great. I wanted to show them the many ways I know how to embarrass a defender. I wanted to show them my sometimes blistering shot. I wanted to show them the passing Beckham is jealous of that I do. Not to brag but I was good. I am good. But not today. Not until this gets fixed.

- - - - -

Africa

When we left Frankfurt I was absolutely exhausted. I didn't know how to possibly stay awake to enjoy the flight over the motherland. However the pilot did wake us up as we crossed over the equator. A sudden rush reminded me that I've never been in the southern hemisphere before. There was daylight. I woke again to the Pilot's reminder that we were approaching Mount Kilimanjaro on the left. Funny story about that, the person who's moment I stole by glancing over at her camera's LCD screen was in fact Lauren from Alberta. She didn't see when I crept in to glare through her camera, all she saw was "(me) sleeping with (my) mouth open!" Lauren is a very frank personality. I don't mind it, I'm rarely in the mood for any bullshit that isn't my own creation. Come to think of it I guess that's why it's called that: One can only really bare his own stench. Back to the point...

As we flew over the African airspace it was quite funny to see all of my conceptions of Africa unveil themselves in the clouds. I give myself no literary license with what I'm about to say. My first glance out the window over Africa there was a small cut in between the clouds below us where sunlight seemed to pierce upwards towards us. It was perfectly in the shape of a riverbed piercing between a mountain. Second, there was an open terrain with a few bunched up clouds to look like tumbleweeds and small hedges, the type a Hyena might lurk behind until a main course has officially been declared leftovers. Shortly after, a little closer towards the bottomside of the plane was a wild herd running expertly close together through the terrain. I thought I actually saw proof that the lives of the creatures below the clouds were in fact pre-written above the clouds. You didn't even have to go so far as space to see the story.

Africa is not, and has not been, the Lion King. I'm sure parts of Africa are in fact the Lion King. But not Ethiopia, and certainly not Bafana Bafana. When I touched down in Ethiopia there was no sunshine, there was heavy overcast. What i did see of Ethiopia was the fundamentals of human existence. The life of a nation starting in the age of technology. Fork lifts and plows creating the dirt pathways between sets of huts. A more efficient way of transporting resources creating the bare essentials of communities. Humans need food. The huts themselves with a fundamental design. A roof, made of iron, and a foundation made of cement, and holes in the cement which serve as windows. Humans need air. Sporadic areas away from those huts housed treatment plants and refineries. Humans need water. They already had the love. All the same, I expected a bit more out of an international airport, which regrettably was all I got to see. A flea market style customs and duty free area, a departures gate which seemed to contradict logic (Why am i getting a boarding pass after I've taken my shoes off and am now sitting in the terminal? And why is it hand-written? And why is the stamp of authenticity a red circle sticker? I got better stickers in grade school!). Anyhow, a server connected to a terminal plus point-of-sale solution would be overkill for this airport. They flight through Frankfurt 4 times for the week. I'm sure the next time I'm in Ethiopia there will be changes, especially since they're now securing a 787 jet that can fly direct from Boston. It will all come, in time. Africa stand up!

South Africa isn't all gaming fields and wild animals either. When we got to the airport one of our Chaperons asked us if we've ever been to South Africa. We all said no. He said, "When you go outside you'll actually get to see Lions roaming around." I had jumped ahead and thought he meant they created an exhibit for the World Cup in a TIA (this is Africa) marketing spin. Regardless, both Curtis and I sounded like fools when we said, "Really?" That was a big laugh for him. As he mentioned, a lot of people have misconceptions about South Africa. It's actually a very developed nation, obviously with much room for improvement, but definitely worth visiting. South Africa's problem is crime, and I suppose apartheid but I can't offer testimony there. The crime needs to stop however. When I told people back home I was going on a Coca Cola paid and chaperoned trip to South Africa, I was received with at least 15 "stay safe" and "come back alive" replies. I thought to myself, "Do people really need to hate on Africa so bad?" It's funny how exorbitant crime in Los Angeles, Washington, Detorit, New York, Louisiana, San Francisco and Miami, doesn't make North America a bad continent to travel to, but the odd story here and there about crime in non-specific African countries makes the whole continent a write off.

Bah, humbug. My boy Hugh is down there right now and says its beautiful! He's right. He says the people there are actually really nice and Torontonians could learn a lot from them. He's right. It's all true, come to South Africa. But South Africa isn't at a place where I can tell you it's perfectly safe. The day i arrived, after having already signed my life away to Coca Cola in the event of injury or accidental death, I had to sign a brand new disclaimer stating I will not leave the premises. A few blocks down a few tourists left their camp and wandered into a local area and were killed. Details about the tourists' sobriety and the nature of the altercation were later revealed but really weren't important. The story alone, coupled with the extra security at every corner of our campus, are convincing enough. I'll tell you the same story for Pretoria that I'll tell you for New York, since I've now been to them at both: Don't wander at night, and if you do, do it in a group. You're equally likely to lose something in either city, only carry what you're prepared to lose, including your life. Anyhow, I have four more days here. I hope to have softer words for Pretoria sooner than I do for New York, since crime in New York is like the cheese on their pizza, thick. But if that's going to happen, all I can say is Africa, stand up!



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Day 3: Yo Soy Español...Español....Español!

I've made new Spanish friends. I should have been born in Spain. The title above is one of the few chants I learned on the bus to the game. Toronto FC has some work to do when it comes to chants and team spirit.

There's a lot I could say about going to the Spain vs. Chile Match, a lot that I probably will say later on. But for now I'm going to just show you. The World Cup is like Disney World but better; unless you've seen it you won't get it. I've loaded a facebook album with photos. I'll see if I can link it here. For now...


Here is a photo of the Canadian Group: Diego (Chaperon), Jenn, Me, Lauren

The Crew

Curtis took the photo so he's not in it. :(




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Day 4: The ball is no different than any ball

I generally take good advice. You'll know I took your advice if I make little to no acknowledgment of how wrong I was but your advice starts to manifest in my behaviour later on. Really, I'm open to suggestion. I'm just not open to suggestions that stand in the way of me playing soccer. Last night I had what I like to call The 11 hour Naps. Tossing and turning in my sleep like a malaria victim I spent the night overcoming my cold and the general malaise that overcame my body on this trip. I got a bit of a pep email from a loved one in response to my complaints that my knee was shot, I was here unable to play soccer or even walk without pain, I was sick as a dog almost unable to breathe at night in what felt like the coldest country in the world. She basically told me to not miss out on the experience while I was here experiencing it. And so, after a night of hot physical and spiritual expulsion, today I was able to say "I'm back!" Big up to Z and my room's space heater.

So I slept through breakfast and the assessment camp - I didn't really need anyone to tell me at this point which side of my body is stronger. But at lunch I summoned the will from within and went against the better advice of everyone here and went back to playing. Armed with the tensor band and some creative wrapping I made new ligaments for myself and got on the field. I joined the team named "The Rejects" and boy did we strike fear into the eyes of our competitors. The first round was outdoors, 5 on 5. My first few touches on the ball were magnificent. Before I left my bro made a clever observation about soccer. Africans, if you don't already know, are known for doming some dangerous tackles. I think the 2-footed studs-up tackled was in fact invented in Nigeria. Anyhow, whenever an African team has their backs against the ropes, they regress into this natural feature of the African game. West Indians have a regression as well. It's called SALAD!!!!!! Yuh dun know I-man love fi put ball truu all ah unah legs! So, I used every opportunity I could to beat everyone I could in lieu of being able to pivot and sprint. Man did I dirty some Mexcans. In the outdoor series I even actually scored a goal. And not a cheap one either. I thighed down a cross. The ball fell into what real soccer players would call "the wheel house" and the rest was pre-written. A left footed blasted bottom right corner. In spite of the language barrier. The entire Mexican team saluted me with thumbs ups.

Later they begged our team to play in the evening indoor matches: Round of 16 playoffs to correspond with the actual round of 16 going on now. We accepted and mustered together half of our squad. This time we were playing the staff team in the playoff death match. Quickly it was observed by the fans that our team was mostly in it for a moral victory. The Mexicans yelled VAMOS REJECTOS!! and I was charged and ready to go. Moving to a central defense roll I did a series of dirty moves on a few unsuspecting staff members. As I beat them the Mexicans yelled "OLE!!" with each move and the smile was back on my face. Then I offered what seemed like a simple pass, and turned into a pain that turned my blind for a moment. For the first time in a long time, I felt the adrenalin rush to my knee as I muttered to myself, "Just finish the game!" We were down 3-0, and needed some pride. In the end an outlet pass I sent to one of our ringers (whose name I actually still don't know) made it a 3-2 final. A fair enough result for the rejects. We went home like Trojan warriors. Well actually we kinda hung around for awhile and watched the other matches.

Tomorrow, for all you patient readers, I actually get to visit parts of Pretoria, not just the University or stadium. So I might have something to write that isn't just all about me. Thanks for your patience so far.

Might I leave tonight with a small remark? We've been playing with the official world cup balls for 3 days now. There's nothing funny about it. The ball is like any other ball. The Chinese guy who took the fantastical free kick a few weeks ago deserves his credit. If a Brazilian took that shot it would have brought nothing but praise to him and his nation's football history. The ball is quite regular, if anything just a bit hard. But not too hard for my fantastic left foot!

The Myriad (Exerpt)

It was a day like any other for the Void. Business was thriving as usual in his World of nothingness. Quarterly results showed there to be no activity present. No peaks or troughs in matter or energy, indicating that in the Void's world nothing existed, as expected. You see, Void worked so very hard his whole life at making sure his World remained cool and empty. "An empty world is a clean world," he would say. In emptiness Void found a certain sense of inner tranquility. Whenever he was confounded with pressure or gloom, it was in this emptiness that Void would find inner strength. For most of his life he sought after this sense of peace, ridding his World of everything unnecessary. Indeed, due to Void's hard work there was no reason for sadness or pain or misery. Nor was there any time for such affairs, for time did not exist. He made sure that for anything in his life that would cause woe, he would find or create its antidote. For sadness there would be an immediate remedy of gladness. For pain, instant gratifications. For misery, staunch and defiant optimism. As these opposing forces would collide they would - as the laws of the entire universe demand - annihilate one another, causing emptiness, and Void would feast upon this emptiness. By and large this sort of diet worked for Void, for he used to feed upon anger and hostility, but that left him very gassy. But now, there was peace and tranquility in everything the Void knew. However, a nagging predicament would arise after every meal: Void wasn't sure if he was consuming the emptiness in his world or whether the emptiness of his world was beginning to consume him.

One day, as Void approached his empty workspace to prepare for another day of nothingness he was confronted by a bright shining light. At first he was in awe, he had never seen a light quite like this ever before. She was warm enough so as to appear inviting, and yet cool enough to put to rest any fears one might have that she would burn her guest. She was bright enough to illuminate Void's World, and even show him a few items he had forgotten to annihilate, but dull enough to allow Void to stand in his own peaceful darkness, if he desired.

Void was taken aback with awe, as mentioned, but finally couldn't allow this intrusion to go unnoticed. Unsure of how to confront this new appearance in his world, and even more unsure of whether he wanted to, 'Void reached out towards this light with his right hand, offering a gesture to shake. He did this only to test whether or not the light was real or somehow a figment of his vibrant imagination. He had only dreamed of these lights as a young child and wasn't convinced they were real. The light reached out as well as if to suggest she was okay to touch, but not to suggest that she wanted to touch, at least not in this cold formal manner. All the same he shook her hand and was overcome with emotion.

Her touch was soft and yet powerful. It's fair to say that she did not shake back, but probably more accurate to mention she did not need to. She looked at him with a glance as though she was wondering when he would finally break the silence and introduce himself. Anyhow, as mentioned, Void shook her hand and introduced himself as Void. She mentioned that where she comes from his name means 'handsome,' but Void already knew this, he was quite learned. She mentioned she had met a few Voids before in her travels, but none quite like him. He quickly asked her what her name was and she told him her name was Myriad. He felt obliged to give her some similar feedback on what her name meant in his World, so he said Myriad made reference to a local trendy unisex fashion store. She asked him if he knew what Myriad means where she was from, for she did not know herself. Void wasn't even sure yet where she was from and so exclaimed that he could not know unless she told him. She responded, "Guess where I'm from!" After a few guesses Void got it right, a far away world; she was from the Motherland, the very centre of the Universe, mother to all other worlds and home of the ancients. Robust as her attention to world history may have been, she had neglected to understand the full meaning of Myriad, but Void came across this word in his studies.

He told her: This is the depth of what Myriad means. It encapsulates all that you are, it defines you as much as it defines itself. In the days of the ancients, Myriad was a way of describing an idea, the idea that we can define the infinite. The universe and the world you are from were both in their infancy, and we did not yet know how large either was. Our knowledge was small but our ideas were most grand. We set out with the belief that the infinite was simply a number, a large number for us at the time, 10,000. Myriad at base means 10,000. The number isn't important, what's important is the idea that Myriad is a measure of the infinite within the finite, an impossible notion for some to understand. However, I understand the concept myself quite well but never thought I would live to see a Myriad. Today I am awe, you may have noticed, because I am quite certain your name is not an accident.

What do you mean?" Myriad wondered, "How am I a Myriad? Void voiced the only reply he could at the time "One day I'll tell you why you are a Myriad." It was not yet time.

In short order Void and Myriad became immeasurably close, resounding complements for one another. The pair shared many interests and made plans to spend much time together. Void was a little unsettled. He owed her an explanation as to why she was a Myriad, but he just could not find the words. Time passed and with each passing day he spent with her he understood her a little bit more, and understood himself a little bit less. When he came to grips with this, he knew 100% that she was indeed a Myriad.

He jotted down a few notes here and there so he wouldn't forget, but by an large the explanation spewed forth. Excited with the good news of his epiphany he called upon Myriad to let her know he finally had the words. He was ready, like a freddy. They planned a night to go out among the stars so that Void could take his time and have his words about him. On that night he told her what's has been on his mind:

You are a Myriad, and if I'm the first person who has ever told you this than I might be the first person who has ever been able to notice it. Others may have felt that you are just a girl, just another passer by, but I see in you a million souls. Just a scientist looks at an atom to find 1,000,000 sub-atomic particles. Just as a mathematician looks at a formula and sees a 100,000 applications. Just as a Sufi mystic looks at tree and sees 10,000 souls I look into your eyes and I see 1,000 reflections of myself, or perhaps more. If you let me look for long enough I can actually feel the two of us standing side by side in a past life, but you never do, we shouldn't dwell on the past. The point is we're here. You may have said it first but I meant it first: I'm so glad I found you. What Myriad means to me is how I'll always remember you: You are my perfect compliment.

You are the last piece of the World's greatest puzzle: How do we define the infinite? I know for my sake, if I could define the infinite, that would enable me to experience the infinite. Infinite joy, infinite love, infinite tranquility....infinite possibility. But how?

Well, you can take a single object, any object, and theoretically divide it into an infinite number of halves, a never-ending regression of stories about division. Likewise, you can take a single moment, any moment you and I have shared together so far and divide it into an infinite number of joys, a never-ending regression of stories about love and laughter. All we need, to make a single moment infinite, to make it Divine, is you and me. All we ever needed was a Myriad coupled with a Void, side by side, intertwined. In fact, that's exactly what the infinite is. Mathematicians, Philosophers, Noble Kings, and college students on shrooms have all had a swing at defining the infinite. But after meeting you I realise that the concept is quite simple. If you combine a Perfect Void with a Perfect Myriad you reach infinity...


...to be continued.

The Horizon

I can't remember any of the words you said to me back then, it was so long ago. It was maybe 15 years ago I remember laying in my bed, asleep, recapitulating the events of our last lifetime together. Flashbacks of the love that only you and I can remember. You were so beautiful then, I bet you still are. I was younger than I am now, but older than I was when I had this dream.

The day we met I remember there were no words. Words would have put waste to the emotions that were welling up inside. Words are great for putting away the fears that all animals have: Why are you here? Why are you looking at me? Are you kind? Are you going to hurt me? Do you know how to help me? Will you stay with me? When I saw you walking towards me all of those questions were somehow already answered; so why use words to convince myself further? There was no hello, the only hint you gave me was when you stopped very close to me to let me know that you did in fact notice me. I was quite sure that someone as beautiful as you would either be on her way to something or someone else, but you weren't. Thanks for that, it's all I needed. I tried to look you in the eyes, I felt as though I at least owe you this gesture in return for yours, but I couldn't. The sky opened and the sun poured in from behind you. As your frontside began to silhouette, your hair shined with a certain radiance that I couldn't ignore. I peered outwards behind you towards your left cheek and for a moment caught a glimpse of the horizon peering out from behind the acres of tallgrass. It was at this moment that I realized the sky has finally reached down to meet the ground. The horizon was now not a mundane academic concept but rather an analogy for this moment of truth, the day we met.

We met again a few nights later. Laying again in my bed, face up, looking at an ever-puzzling pattern on my ceiling that looked like a face when I opened only my right eye and looked like a dog when I opened them both, I near fell asleep with the lights on. My eyes closed and opened fighting to solve the optical illusion. Once more my eyes closed and opened and there we were, walking along the shore of the stream. Again you had no words for me, but this time that was not a comforting thought. Your head down as you paced along the shore with me hovering over your left shoulder, you wouldn't look at me, I wouldn't have the opportunity or desire to be distracted by the sun that was extremely hot this day. Perfect for the lilacs on the other side of the pond but hardly the weather for our discussion. It's been so long now, maybe a few months even. We've talked about it, which maybe is the problem to begin with. I can't wait any longer, even though I told you I would wait an eternity for you. I meant it when I said it, I really did, but I forgot what an eternity feels like. That's really the difference between us, you know. You keep fighting for eternity and I keep fighting for now. I didn't know how else to convince you that we were meant for each other so I made all sorts of promises about being there for you no matter what, no matter when. Now you want all of those promises even more than you want me.

All I ever wanted was you. You didn't have too promise me anything, so you didn't. Now I want confirmation. I'm a man so I demand it, because that's easier than asking for it. Nope, I won't take no for an answer, because a no would absolutely destroy me. I need you to do this for me, for us. You owe it to me and I want it so bad. If you and I are really a couple than you'll do it. It doesn't matter what your parents told you or what your friends might think, it's natural.

Still hovering over your shoulders with all these demands one can imagine why you just want to walk away. It hurts you, every demand makes you question who this monster is beside you. This isn't the man you saw leaning confidently at work that afternoon in the field of tallgrass, peering out northwards with his chin held high as though perched up against his achievements. This man beside you is groveling! What's worse is he's either too proud or too ashamed (if there's a difference) to admit that he's begging. If he can change so quickly how could you possibly see yourself with him for your whole life?

Once again, she lets me into her life simply by stopping. Thank goodness there was a small bench here by the pond for all of the older folk who like to feed the ducks. We've decided to talk things through.

I didn't mean to pressure you. You're right, I guess. We have all the time in the world. Who cares if today is the day or tomorrow or next week. Irony is, I guess the only reason why I want this to happen now is it'll make me feel like we have an eternity together too. See, I always figure that you're doing something or you're doing nothing. And see, if we're doing nothing than maybe that means our relationship has stopped. Maybe we aren't really together like I wanted. But, if we did this then I would know for sure we're a couple, a mighty fine one.

The beauty of the sky is her formlessness. All the ideas people come up with as they stare up at her, day and night. She knows it's hard for us to make up such ideas out of nothing so she gives us clouds and stars to hang our ideas against while we turn them into words. Nonetheless, everything that is beautiful about our maiden the sky is intangible. The ground, on the other hand, is a very pragmatic fellow. His allure stems from his strength, his size, and the beauty of forms that exist against his landscape. Valleys, mountains, forests, fields and man made contraptions are awesome because of their forms. The beauty of the ground is tangible.

Here we are again finding each other at the horizon. Sometimes words are a waste but they're the best we've got, us men. You can appreciate that. I was just being honest earlier when I told you about how I felt. Maybe you didn't even really listen to the words; you hardly do ever care about form. But you definitely felt my honesty - honesty is tangible too. You looked up at my eyes and saw that they were always looking at yours, even when you had them turned away from me. Sitting there on the bench looking at me, seeing that nothing else matters to me but you, convinced you more than my words ever could. I can spend an eternity or more with you and only you, all you have to do is remind me now and again that you're still here, as I tend to forget. All of a sudden a feeling welled up within you that is very familiar to me. A feeling to express everything you feel for me without words. We stood up from our bench of understanding and your eyes looked up at mine and then forwards towards my chest. My eyes followed yours downwards and as I stroked the back of your right ear I knew that in spite of my prior forcefulness you were now ready to joyfully submit. Today you were ready to give me everything I asked for. And you did. Right there, beside the pond, as the sun reached down and gently glazed against the ripples in the water, I leaned in towards you and gave me the kiss I always wanted and would never forget.

Someone must have turned off my light as I was asleep because I woke up that morning to the soft ray of light that entered my room at daybreak, better rested than I ever had been before. I had no words for myself that morning. I opened my window to peek my head outside as I often liked to do. As I took a deep breath in I heard you whisper to me through the sky that you would come find me in this life, and that I should have things ready for you when you did. The other day I found myself leaning confidently at work, filled with memories from you and words for you, peering out at the horizon. And just then I think I saw you.

10 Years - Undelivered

How do you sum up 10 years? You don’t when it’s 10 years like ours. The way I am with words, it would probably take me more than 10 years to tell you my version of Our Story this decade. All I want to do here is let you know how much you’ve meant to me over the last 10 years, so please don’t get insulted that it all fits on one sheet. I hate saying best friend, I try not to rate friends but it’s natural. When you and I met it was a natural fit, and I didn’t expect it to be. You know I’ve got a bit of that shyness, and I thought I was going to have to get Mark or Devang to introduce us formally. But it just happened. Can you even remember what our first words were? I think our entire friendship has been spontaneous, not just the McDonald’s runs. You are my best friend, and sometimes you seem to wonder why, so I’ll remind you the way it was told to both of us. You are an Enzyme, my catalyst, responsible for lowering the activation energy (the massive negative energy that must first be overcome) so that I can go on with my life and perform tasks at a million times the rate than if you were never there to help. As we learned in OAC you follow the “lock and key” model and change your structure to lock into my active site and you have an innate sense on how to increase my activation rate. Now, some enzymes are known to break down under certain circumstances (most notably, temperature) but it doesn’t take away from the fact that once united, we became an instant fit for one another, and I could never replace you for a younger or shapelier enzyme. I remember when we used to talk for hours and you would thank me for giving you the forum and the compassion to let you say all that you had spinning up there. You made me start to think that maybe I don’t do my fair share of talking in this partnership. Maybe I’m too closed. But in those times, I needed to listen, I needed to develop ideas. Now I talk too much, look at me rambling, and you seamlessly went along with it and now you’re my ear, my audience, during these times where I need to sell ideas more than develop them. You’re always there for me. The first time I called you, you didn’t pick up. I biked to your house to drop off your gift and your Dad punked me and didn’t let me know that you were actually just sleeping. I can’t remember a time since when you haven’t picked up, when you didn’t shoot back with 10 msn messages or 5 texts or 6 google wave invites. You are dedication. You manifest it. Seriously, who asks to be the Godmother of my future kid while I’m eating chicken, in my early 20s, and single? Though I met you with sarcasm, as is my nature, I understood and appreciated this gesture more than you ever knew: For whatever reason, you are determined to be the rock in my life that I can turn to, even when I am unable to turn to you myself. Other people might find it hard to describe why you and I are such good friends, and I’ll be honest I’ve had my fair share of practice, I’ve been asked. I find it easy to describe, like a self-evident truth: We are friends because we were meant to be. Even in matters of faith, I turn to your friendship to rekindle the idea that certain items in life were set down on the table for us before the meal was served; you and I were always meant to meet. Even when we are not physically together, you and I live and play in each other’s head. A brief confession: Sometimes you’ll start a story with, “Remember I was telling you about….” And I said, “Uh huh.” I was lying. You never told me that story, it wasn’t me. You thought you did, but you didn’t. You maybe meant to tell me, but you didn’t. You may have even told me the story in your head, and that’s probably where I heard it. That’s why I don’t skip a beat with you; I was thinking it when you were thinking it. It’s easy for either of us to open up to one another because we’ve both spent a lot of time in each other’s library; all of our books are open to each other. And whenever my books are scattered, I know I can turn to you to arrange them back into the proper dui-decimal order. I believe you have extensive training in this.

Now, it wouldn’t be fair to tell you everything that I have felt for you without telling you everything that I have felt for you. Don’t worry, I still know the rules. One day a long time ago I asked you, “So what would it take to convince your parents for you to date a black guy?” And you said, “For me to date a fucking black guy, he would have to be a fucking superstar!” At the time I was thinking “superstar = superstar sister = aerostar = Van; Van = eldest sister” because I’m bad with names. But I got the point, as you can see it has stuck with me. At the same time, over the last 9 years, yes 9 years, understanding how you feel has made me feel like I’m not a superstar, not worthy of your love. And with everything I’ve said above about the strength of our friendship, it’s been hard for me at many different times to come to terms with not being worthy of your love. The stronger our friendship grows, the less of a superstar I feel like, and as we approach 10 years of friendship it’s starting to look like our friendship is not going to stop growing, but I need a way to feel like a superstar in your eyes and mine. So please, after 10 years of holding up the white flag for our friendship, let me have a few minutes to tell you a story you’ve already heard. It was 9 years ago, we were both sitting down, I was in my element chatting with others but I glanced over and quickly saw that you weren’t in yours. You scurried around asking everyone else something that I couldn’t hear with my ears, but when your mind is on something so is mine. I got down on my knees and reached under the table, and there it was, in the dark, but to me it was shining gold. I reached towards it with a bit of urgency, I couldn’t believe that you didn’t even tell me it was lost but I found it, and I was going to be the hero who gave it to you. I got off my knees, brushed off the dust bunnies and walked over to you. “Hey Name, I found your camera!” That’s when it happened. You actually lit up, jumped towards me with a huge bear hug. And then, as if to let me know that this was no quick gesture, you kissed me softly, right here. I melted. A slow song started to play at that moment. You asked me if I wanted to dance. Did I say any words? You’ll have to tell me how the rest of that night went because when that song ended I was still lost in 3 minutes prior. For 9 years I’ve still been lost in that moment. Just recently I asked you a question I already knew the answer to: I asked you why you think I’m still single, and you said, “I don’t think you know what you want.” Close, but wrong. I’ve always known. I wanted that kiss. They’ve always known. I heard once, a woman always knows when she looks into the eyes of her lover, and sees someone else. Before I heard this quote I agreed with it, because when I had my first time, she knew I didn’t want it to be with her, and that’s why she asked me why you and I never hooked up. She saw it in my eyes. They all have. So have you. Sooner or later they’ve known that I can’t convince myself yet that they are the one for me. And when you see yourself in my eyes you always look away, which is why we tend to have amazing conversations in a car or while walking in the same direction, trying to face something else. Parking lots are our friend. So why tell you this hear and now? Trust me, I’ve tried to tell you several times before. I have a myriad of anecdotes around sharing my inner dialogue with you over the last 9 years, which I would love to share with you over the next 9 years, but I didn’t write this to be anecdotal. Like these fucking clowns who had the nerve to tell you the words that they don’t even understand, but I have always meant: I love you. Clayton, Walter, Kunal. I only mention these names here so you know who I am talking about, and who I am not talking about. Anyway, I wrote this because this is the only gift I could possibly think of giving you to celebrate both the 10 special years we’ve shared together, and also the many better years I want to share with you. (Half-truth: I also saw this necklace at Peoples with 2 dolphins on it that reminded me of Valencia). I wrote this because I want to stop asking you the questions I already know the answer to. I wrote this because I want to stop asking myself the questions I don’t want to know the answers to. I wrote this because if I didn’t write it down, I would ramble. I wrote this because I want to stop lying to you.

Not too long ago, you asked me a question that I already knew the answer to. But because our friendship has had me committed to lying, I didn’t tell you the truth. After O Noir, we were driving in a parking lot, good timing, and you asked me a question that in romance movies you would’ve asked me beneath the stars: How can you ever know if you’ve found the one, is there really anything more to love? For me, the answer was easy. If it doesn’t at least feel like the kiss you gave me at the edge of the dance floor after I found your camera for you at Grade 12 prom, then it’s not the one. But if it does, you’re probably on the right track. Maybe you’ve found that kiss, or maybe very shortly you’ll discover you’ve found that kiss. Maybe I’ll find that kiss again, unlocking me yours. Maybe you can help unlock me from your kiss. One day, after you’ve read or thought of this message again and you understand that everything is still good between us, you can take me by surprise and give me a soft kiss on this side, complete the circuit, so that I’m not still being shocked by the first kiss. Until then, all I can hope for is that you still want to take care of my babies if I flee the country, because this message only makes our friendship stronger. Not only is our friendship magnificent and pre-determined, but now it is also the truth. Happy Anniversary! I love you.

Around this time of year - March 2010

When I was in my early childhood, about to become anything I put my heart to, around this time of year I would find myself face down. Face down in the dirt having a coach or his assistant telling me "just 20 more!" 20 more pushups, 20 more and then maybe the conditioning portion would be finished and we'd be able to work on drills. I didn't even like drills, all I really wanted to do is play free soccer score some goals and celebrate, but anything was better than conditioning.

The smell of the grass as the rain beating against the back of my head gave me strength. It made me think of England. I've never been there, but I heard it's always raining there with weather quite like this. They get so much done in England, and who knows if I become a soccer star maybe everyday will be like this. It made me think of movie perseverance. The oh-so-typical scene of rising despite the odds. Your face in the dirt. The slow rise. The orchestra playing in the background as you face your oppressor who has mostly had your number until this point, but here is where you will show that you are second to none. It made me think of my union with the world. All I needed from now until the moment of my upcoming victory was the smell of the earth and its vegetation and the nourishment of manna from the heavens in the form of cooling rain. The unstoppable Juggernaut needs no food, drink, nor shelter, nor even a path, all he needs is conflict to achieve victory.

When i was in my early twenties, torn from the idea that I could become anything I want to be, around this time of year I would find myself face down. Face down in books trying to remember what the professor told us before the midterm about the final. Face down in obligations with the councils, committees, groups, teams, and everything else I distracted myself with. Face down in life, wondering if there was a way out.

The sight of the rain outside would be a constant reminder that I am late. Buried in my own disorganization that I said I would fix. Buried in the debt that my job never seemed to resolve. Buried in the loathing that my recent failures cultivated. Buried in the demise my recent successes failed to circumvent. I would say to myself by the next rainfall I am going to have everything back in place. My room will be clean and as extension so will my life. I will have read and written everything so that my mind will be prepared to deliver and accept a B-average for this semester. And if I can just do these things I can lift the Apocalypse, the veil of my demise and look beyond the obstacles. For beyond the Apocalypse is still a world to be traveled and greater battles to engage, a life for Titans and Demigods such as myself.

Today as I watch the rain fall against the hood of my car I meet it not with anguish nor with fear, but once again, I am face down. Face down in the marketplace, as a merchant and a patron, dealing with the affairs of the common man. It's important to be noted that I asked for this. I always had a fear of living my life in this place, but I always knew that this was a demon that had to be overcome. I only hope that I can still find my way out.

Certain heroes are heroes by virtue of the fact that they were born different. Born to fight the devil and his army with their natural abilities only; a harnessing and re-harnessing of everything they were given from day one. Other heroes are heroes by virtue of the fact that they were born similar. Born to live and learn among the common man so that one day he can face a moment of gracious dissatisfaction. The moment where he turns his back on all that have attached itself to him, so that he can find the voice that has always summoned him outside. He is the hero of the people, for the people, but not by the people. He is on the path of ascension, all he has to do is open his ears and follow the voice.

Today, around this time of year, I am face down as I have been maybe my whole life. Low to the ground, listening for this year's message. In fact I've already heard it. There's actually going to be much more than 20 push-ups remaining, but i am at peace. The rain continues to fall.