You destroyed eight years of privacy. For eight years this was my home. Never would I think my most honest words would be used against me. I put my most precious words here in my home, against this black backdrop.
She opens my doors, and words pour out from the dark. They spring forward from the cold dark corners where I left them towards the warmth of the fire in my heart. The tiny flame that finally began to shine so brightly against the dark of my home has been exposed to the light of my greatest fear. Now our flame appears less impressive, yet still it burns. Why?
The lights are on. Exposed, my words and I are naked. Luckily I am proud of my body, of work.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Excerpt: Handshakes
So then what are your thoughts on religion?
You know, more often than not I feel like religion is a necessary custom. Call it whatever you want and practice it however you want, we all search at times for that moment when we are in touch with the universe. What does that mean? For that moment when we are not merely a part of it, but communicating directly with its fabric. Science is a religion in this sense as well.
So what does this mean as it relates to our world? Well, on the one hand, I see religion to be a universal handshake. I gesture from man to man, a sort of greeting. Where one person communicates to another person, within his mosque or temple, I too believe. I too wish to connect with the universe, in much the same way you do. Let us discuss all that God has told us. Religion has that same feeling as when you meet someone for the first time and shake hands; an agreement that you believe there is a higher order that governs us. I could just as well have met this man with a shove, a denial of the way we are supposed to treat our fellow neighbour at first contact, but I didn't. For I believe in the Father and will shake my brother's hand as I wish he will do unto me. We need handshakes, they help us come together.
On the other hand, sometimes religion to me seems a lot like a handshake. Time for a story: Perhaps I was 7 or 8 years old. I used to go over to my cousin's house on weekends, play nintendo until the headaches happened, sleep over and then go home the next morning. One weekend, my Uncle took us over to work with him, I forget why. All I could remember was that this would be my first time anywhere near a data center. Uncle introduced me to one of his employees, an IT manager or analyst. After Uncle put both of our names out in the open, a nervous man reached down to an extremely nervous boy extending his hand. I, the nervous boy, filled with a desire to introduce myself with every fibre of my being extended my hand, my left hand. As the tips of my left fingers met the tips of his right fingers, we both felt the need to switch; my need a result of embarrassment, his a result of empathy. As the tips of my right fingers met the tips of his left, we realized this gesture had now transcended formality and spilled into hilarity. What happened next stuck with me for the rest of my life. The IT manager said to me with a comforting introspection, 'You know, it's funny this has happened because I too am naturally left-handed, it must have been about 30 years now since I last shook somebody's left hand. I always thought it was a matter of respect to extend your best hand to someone whom you have just met, but over the years working with countless people, you just learn to give in and shake with your right hand only. Since we're two southpaws, why don't we just this one time shake with our lefts?' I never actually told him I was left-handed, it's maybe worth mentioning. I also never told him that he would know me with a greater depth in 1 conversation than some others will know me throughout my life.
I feel like the other half of my perspective on religion was summarized in that introduction. Religion sometimes is like a handshake, it divides man. It forces man to make a choice to follow a certain rigid custom. Not because that meaning behind that custom cannot be expressed in other ways, but merely because we are scared. Scared that if the rest of the world doesn't shake hands the way we shake hands, there will be anarchy. Anarchy, is what most religions proclaim. A world of suffering, others proclaim. A world where left hands disagree with right hands, and nobody knows what's right anymore. So we have a select few decide for us how to go about greeting our fellow man. Smiles for the man who shakes with his right; guilt, fear, dishonour, pretentious warning, even so far as death for the man who doesn't. It need not matter if he too only wished to extend his hand and introduce every fiber of his being. We get so obsessed with the custom, that the gesture behind it is lost in our anger, and in our lack of desire to simply communicate.
Personally, I was born left-handed and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). Personally, I was born philosophical and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). My parents were always more concerned that I would continue to extend my hand forward, even when they weren't there to watch, that's all that mattered. The world can try to beat me into right-handed submission: That the only way to the Father is through the church, that Allah alone speaks the truth, that heaven and earth are supported through the Dao, that there is no God, that causality alone is the comprehensive description of existence... The anarchy of the many right-handed who have created such a mess out of a seemingly flawless system of elimination. Deny all other approaches and perhaps everyone will shake in the same way, and that will cause human harmony: Centuries later, individuality survives. I shake a right hand with the best of them, I'm open to any religious text or teacher given the time to respect the accompanying lessons, I mean this wholly. But I'm naturally left-handed: I'm more concerned with the philosophy. I'm more concerned that a man's handshake is an expression of introducing himself with every fibre of his being. Where there is conflict in belief, I meet that with a laugh and a smile about how funny it is, this game of shaking hands.
What's more, I come from a culture and neighbourhood where handshakes and greetings can become very elaborate. There are many ways to say hello and goodbye with your hands where I come from. In my life, I expose myself to them all. Isn't that the point, to find new ways of extending your hand, until the very end?
You know, more often than not I feel like religion is a necessary custom. Call it whatever you want and practice it however you want, we all search at times for that moment when we are in touch with the universe. What does that mean? For that moment when we are not merely a part of it, but communicating directly with its fabric. Science is a religion in this sense as well.
So what does this mean as it relates to our world? Well, on the one hand, I see religion to be a universal handshake. I gesture from man to man, a sort of greeting. Where one person communicates to another person, within his mosque or temple, I too believe. I too wish to connect with the universe, in much the same way you do. Let us discuss all that God has told us. Religion has that same feeling as when you meet someone for the first time and shake hands; an agreement that you believe there is a higher order that governs us. I could just as well have met this man with a shove, a denial of the way we are supposed to treat our fellow neighbour at first contact, but I didn't. For I believe in the Father and will shake my brother's hand as I wish he will do unto me. We need handshakes, they help us come together.
On the other hand, sometimes religion to me seems a lot like a handshake. Time for a story: Perhaps I was 7 or 8 years old. I used to go over to my cousin's house on weekends, play nintendo until the headaches happened, sleep over and then go home the next morning. One weekend, my Uncle took us over to work with him, I forget why. All I could remember was that this would be my first time anywhere near a data center. Uncle introduced me to one of his employees, an IT manager or analyst. After Uncle put both of our names out in the open, a nervous man reached down to an extremely nervous boy extending his hand. I, the nervous boy, filled with a desire to introduce myself with every fibre of my being extended my hand, my left hand. As the tips of my left fingers met the tips of his right fingers, we both felt the need to switch; my need a result of embarrassment, his a result of empathy. As the tips of my right fingers met the tips of his left, we realized this gesture had now transcended formality and spilled into hilarity. What happened next stuck with me for the rest of my life. The IT manager said to me with a comforting introspection, 'You know, it's funny this has happened because I too am naturally left-handed, it must have been about 30 years now since I last shook somebody's left hand. I always thought it was a matter of respect to extend your best hand to someone whom you have just met, but over the years working with countless people, you just learn to give in and shake with your right hand only. Since we're two southpaws, why don't we just this one time shake with our lefts?' I never actually told him I was left-handed, it's maybe worth mentioning. I also never told him that he would know me with a greater depth in 1 conversation than some others will know me throughout my life.
I feel like the other half of my perspective on religion was summarized in that introduction. Religion sometimes is like a handshake, it divides man. It forces man to make a choice to follow a certain rigid custom. Not because that meaning behind that custom cannot be expressed in other ways, but merely because we are scared. Scared that if the rest of the world doesn't shake hands the way we shake hands, there will be anarchy. Anarchy, is what most religions proclaim. A world of suffering, others proclaim. A world where left hands disagree with right hands, and nobody knows what's right anymore. So we have a select few decide for us how to go about greeting our fellow man. Smiles for the man who shakes with his right; guilt, fear, dishonour, pretentious warning, even so far as death for the man who doesn't. It need not matter if he too only wished to extend his hand and introduce every fiber of his being. We get so obsessed with the custom, that the gesture behind it is lost in our anger, and in our lack of desire to simply communicate.
Personally, I was born left-handed and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). Personally, I was born philosophical and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). My parents were always more concerned that I would continue to extend my hand forward, even when they weren't there to watch, that's all that mattered. The world can try to beat me into right-handed submission: That the only way to the Father is through the church, that Allah alone speaks the truth, that heaven and earth are supported through the Dao, that there is no God, that causality alone is the comprehensive description of existence... The anarchy of the many right-handed who have created such a mess out of a seemingly flawless system of elimination. Deny all other approaches and perhaps everyone will shake in the same way, and that will cause human harmony: Centuries later, individuality survives. I shake a right hand with the best of them, I'm open to any religious text or teacher given the time to respect the accompanying lessons, I mean this wholly. But I'm naturally left-handed: I'm more concerned with the philosophy. I'm more concerned that a man's handshake is an expression of introducing himself with every fibre of his being. Where there is conflict in belief, I meet that with a laugh and a smile about how funny it is, this game of shaking hands.
What's more, I come from a culture and neighbourhood where handshakes and greetings can become very elaborate. There are many ways to say hello and goodbye with your hands where I come from. In my life, I expose myself to them all. Isn't that the point, to find new ways of extending your hand, until the very end?
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Here I am
Here I am, beside her finally. Alone in my boudoir, finally hidden from the eyes. Here, there is no time; we are not bound. Here in my room there are roses which I hope she was able to smell, a music playlist I want her to hear, a massage I want her to feel, tea that I want her to taste, and a love that I want her to see. Ironic, that despite all of that, all of the sleep lost preparing this festival of the senses, it is in fact my senses that are firing. She is in remission from the night before.
Here I am, on top of her with my hands pressed against her. Hoping they could fix all of her pain and knowing that they can't. Hoping that they can offer her an escape from the pain and knowing that they can. They knead and they fold and they rub to warm and press to relax. Unsure if I have the algorithm for success, but trying all the same. At last, a gentle moan. The quietest motivation I've ever had to keep going. Keep trying to get closer, to let her sense your love. Today, however, with her quiet acquiescence and loud hesitancy, she has only opted for 25 minutes of devotion. But I shall return, for I know there is more she wishes to say without words.
Here I am, beside her finally. Laying ever still with my eyes covered. They speak too loudly and too soon for her. So I allow my lips to catch up while my eyes and the rest of me cool down. They tell her something she already knows. She doesn't need alerts and reminders, she needs rest. Thankfully her comfort is always on my agenda. So we lay. Her hand is already available for me. At last, I touch her ring finger with my index, as if to point to marriage. Her fingers extend and fold over mine, killing my fears as a venus fly trap frees its victim from eternal hunger. I am satisfied with her hand as she lays asleep. I nestle my head closer to her fingers and offer them a kiss. As my eyes dim to the rest of the room, her black nail polish shines with a small sliver of brightness, like the moon among the endless night sky. I am at rest. She is not, fidgety sleeper as she is, she moves her feet between my legs for the warmth of my body. I ask if she wishes for the covers and she denies it; she wants warmth. She turns about face and nestles her body close to mine. We are laying as 1 now. My body pressed against hers. My hands have access to her body as she sleeps, but my hands wish to take nothing that she wouldn't offer up when she was awake. They move, as before, along her torso, towards her fingers, in her hair. My face also now in her hair. Her hair strands filter the stink of the outside world where we are not yet together. When I breathe in air with my nose tucked into her hair I feel as though for the first time I have smelled oxygen. I've become intoxicated. I must move. She nustles a little bit closer to me and now my lips are pressed against the rear of her shoulder blade, which is when I open my eyes.
Here I am, peering along the far end of her shoulder blade with my eyes, as I make my way along her back with my lips. Gently, much more softly than a kiss, much more firmly than an accident, my lips make my way forward. As I peer up I realize that while her closeness has made parts of me much larger, the circumstances have made me much smaller. The small lamp in my room casts a refraction of light against her shoulder which looks as though the sun is rising against the desert sands, and I am a mere thirsty prophet, crying to cross it, my lips against the sand, thirsting for fresh juices. My eyes making contact with the image of a dark fading cherry tree, standing in the desert alone. With an energy I've never felt before I make my way towards the fruit, lip by lip, towards this oasis. But, as with any mirage, despair follows. She wakes up and says, "What time is it?"
Here I am, back to a world of time, we are once again bound. The flowers, the music, the massage oils, the tea, the painting, will all have to stay in my room this weekend. We'll have to find a way to transport them 1 by 1. Perhaps these flowers will have to stay with me forever in fact, there is no good way for me to bring them to her without risking their premature death, either in her car trunk or in her house. I will have to offer her a second chance to smell my love in the spring. It was a bit early for flowers. The tea, not her favourite. To be honest, not mine either, but it stimulates bloodflow. The playlist, good for the moment only, I still love every song on it, but I'm only in the mood to appreciate it when she's here. The massage, finished; I ought to get a bed higher off the ground if I am to really cure her with my hands. After all is said and done, now that we are back within the realm of time, she can only see my love. The painting, and my eyes, were always hers. We've planned for the rest of the day for her to see my past, so she can see exactly what roads I had to travel to get to her, and today she's willing to walk a few of those roads together with me. Thank god for the sunlight and the endless blue sky, despite the cold weather that still looms around her and I. I am looking forward to the spring.
Here I am, looking forward to the spring.
Here I am, on top of her with my hands pressed against her. Hoping they could fix all of her pain and knowing that they can't. Hoping that they can offer her an escape from the pain and knowing that they can. They knead and they fold and they rub to warm and press to relax. Unsure if I have the algorithm for success, but trying all the same. At last, a gentle moan. The quietest motivation I've ever had to keep going. Keep trying to get closer, to let her sense your love. Today, however, with her quiet acquiescence and loud hesitancy, she has only opted for 25 minutes of devotion. But I shall return, for I know there is more she wishes to say without words.
Here I am, beside her finally. Laying ever still with my eyes covered. They speak too loudly and too soon for her. So I allow my lips to catch up while my eyes and the rest of me cool down. They tell her something she already knows. She doesn't need alerts and reminders, she needs rest. Thankfully her comfort is always on my agenda. So we lay. Her hand is already available for me. At last, I touch her ring finger with my index, as if to point to marriage. Her fingers extend and fold over mine, killing my fears as a venus fly trap frees its victim from eternal hunger. I am satisfied with her hand as she lays asleep. I nestle my head closer to her fingers and offer them a kiss. As my eyes dim to the rest of the room, her black nail polish shines with a small sliver of brightness, like the moon among the endless night sky. I am at rest. She is not, fidgety sleeper as she is, she moves her feet between my legs for the warmth of my body. I ask if she wishes for the covers and she denies it; she wants warmth. She turns about face and nestles her body close to mine. We are laying as 1 now. My body pressed against hers. My hands have access to her body as she sleeps, but my hands wish to take nothing that she wouldn't offer up when she was awake. They move, as before, along her torso, towards her fingers, in her hair. My face also now in her hair. Her hair strands filter the stink of the outside world where we are not yet together. When I breathe in air with my nose tucked into her hair I feel as though for the first time I have smelled oxygen. I've become intoxicated. I must move. She nustles a little bit closer to me and now my lips are pressed against the rear of her shoulder blade, which is when I open my eyes.
Here I am, peering along the far end of her shoulder blade with my eyes, as I make my way along her back with my lips. Gently, much more softly than a kiss, much more firmly than an accident, my lips make my way forward. As I peer up I realize that while her closeness has made parts of me much larger, the circumstances have made me much smaller. The small lamp in my room casts a refraction of light against her shoulder which looks as though the sun is rising against the desert sands, and I am a mere thirsty prophet, crying to cross it, my lips against the sand, thirsting for fresh juices. My eyes making contact with the image of a dark fading cherry tree, standing in the desert alone. With an energy I've never felt before I make my way towards the fruit, lip by lip, towards this oasis. But, as with any mirage, despair follows. She wakes up and says, "What time is it?"
Here I am, back to a world of time, we are once again bound. The flowers, the music, the massage oils, the tea, the painting, will all have to stay in my room this weekend. We'll have to find a way to transport them 1 by 1. Perhaps these flowers will have to stay with me forever in fact, there is no good way for me to bring them to her without risking their premature death, either in her car trunk or in her house. I will have to offer her a second chance to smell my love in the spring. It was a bit early for flowers. The tea, not her favourite. To be honest, not mine either, but it stimulates bloodflow. The playlist, good for the moment only, I still love every song on it, but I'm only in the mood to appreciate it when she's here. The massage, finished; I ought to get a bed higher off the ground if I am to really cure her with my hands. After all is said and done, now that we are back within the realm of time, she can only see my love. The painting, and my eyes, were always hers. We've planned for the rest of the day for her to see my past, so she can see exactly what roads I had to travel to get to her, and today she's willing to walk a few of those roads together with me. Thank god for the sunlight and the endless blue sky, despite the cold weather that still looms around her and I. I am looking forward to the spring.
Here I am, looking forward to the spring.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Doors
It's funny how your perspective on things can change, even when nothing inside of you has chhanged. The world alone can steal away your reference point and alter the way you approach your own existence.
When I'm in a good mood, when there is love in my heart, I can take a look at a house and see everything that's happening with it in the most positive light. I can see that while one door inside my house is now closing, another door is opening. That's just the way the world works; one door closes, another door opens. When I'm in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in my heart, everything in the house looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another door closes; that's the way the world works, against me.
Recently, she's been opening all of my doors. So many doors have been closed for me, and a few of them I felt I had to close on my own, but she's opened up doors within my inner psyche and opened up doors to a love I never thought was possible before.
When she's in a good mood, when there is love in her heart, she can take a look at everything that's happening within her house in the most positive light. She can see that while one door is closing for her, another door is opening. When she's in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in her heart, everything in her house just looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another closes; that's just the way the world works, her bad luck comes in 10s. Many doors have closed for her recently, some were closed for her, and a few she's had to close all by herself, for me.
Recently, I've been approaching her house trying to reciprocate all that she has done for me. I'm eternally greatful for all of the doors she is closing just for me - or I should say, both doors - and I will dedicate my life to opening any other door she wants me to help open. But love is not just reciprocation. I forget that, in this case, her doors were already opened. She already let someone in to her house who sullied her carpet and slammed some of her most precious doors shut. Here I am with a ring full of keys thinking all I need to do is open the doors to her most precious rooms and she'll come storming out with a hug and a kissfor me. She's a big girl, bigger than me. She'll invite me in when the carpet is clean and when the cucumber sandwiches are ready. I'm a beloved guest in her home, she doesn't want me to help clean her messes.
All the same, I hope we both open enough doors to stand in each other's corridor and realize, "It's really beautiful in here."
When I'm in a good mood, when there is love in my heart, I can take a look at a house and see everything that's happening with it in the most positive light. I can see that while one door inside my house is now closing, another door is opening. That's just the way the world works; one door closes, another door opens. When I'm in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in my heart, everything in the house looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another door closes; that's the way the world works, against me.
Recently, she's been opening all of my doors. So many doors have been closed for me, and a few of them I felt I had to close on my own, but she's opened up doors within my inner psyche and opened up doors to a love I never thought was possible before.
When she's in a good mood, when there is love in her heart, she can take a look at everything that's happening within her house in the most positive light. She can see that while one door is closing for her, another door is opening. When she's in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in her heart, everything in her house just looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another closes; that's just the way the world works, her bad luck comes in 10s. Many doors have closed for her recently, some were closed for her, and a few she's had to close all by herself, for me.
Recently, I've been approaching her house trying to reciprocate all that she has done for me. I'm eternally greatful for all of the doors she is closing just for me - or I should say, both doors - and I will dedicate my life to opening any other door she wants me to help open. But love is not just reciprocation. I forget that, in this case, her doors were already opened. She already let someone in to her house who sullied her carpet and slammed some of her most precious doors shut. Here I am with a ring full of keys thinking all I need to do is open the doors to her most precious rooms and she'll come storming out with a hug and a kissfor me. She's a big girl, bigger than me. She'll invite me in when the carpet is clean and when the cucumber sandwiches are ready. I'm a beloved guest in her home, she doesn't want me to help clean her messes.
All the same, I hope we both open enough doors to stand in each other's corridor and realize, "It's really beautiful in here."
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Words
Mine are like dynamite. If I put enough care, preparation and timing into them, they look beautiful, whisking through the sky and amazing those who came to be impressed. Otherwise, my words only destroy. Today I spent the whole day thinking I had the words to change the world and make into a better place, instead I burned the only thing that matters to me.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Graduation
Another 4 years comes to a close in a little more than a month. 4 Years ago a month from now, I was waiting for my name to be called. Finally they said, "Jamil Lumley" and I walked forward. I already knew that something big was about to happen.
Earlier in the morning, my brother showed up at UofT Convocation Hall and said, "You ready to graduate?" And I knew what he meant. See in my family we have a tradition of celebrating each successive Post-Secondary Graduation with an absolutley shocking level of immaturity. When my mom graduated from York, 10 years before, the crowd was halted by two young boys going, "Gooooooo MOM." and a 2-man wave. Amateur show. When my brother graduated from UofT 8 years before, there was some undergraduate laughter at my yelling, "Yeaaaa Boyyyyy." Good show, it was enough to have my mom give me the look. When my mom graduated from her Masters, from the University of Central Michigan, at a campus where we would never have to show our faces again, well, the responsibility fell onto my brother and I like that of convicts and civil servants during wartimes. We knew then to bring the pain. And so from our seats at the very back of the auditorium, we yelled, "Yeaaaaaaaaaaa! That's MY mommaa!! Right There" in the best American accents we could mustre, as she was handed her certificate. It was enough for my mom to give us both the look.
The morning of my graduation, my brother said to me, "You ready to graduate?" and I knew what that meant. This one was going to go down in the books. The late David Onley, previously of City TV, was our keynote speaker. I can't remember much of what he told us: Partially because I was sitting on the only wooden chair in all of Convocation Hall that had no padding (I have proof); partially because I was fresh off of my 2nd knee surgery and sitting still distressed me; and mostly because as I looked up into the rafters from behind the guest speakers I saw my brother standing there, and as he shot me a thumbs up and then proceeded to take that thumb and draw it across his neck I knew what was about to happen. An hour passed as they went from A through L. Finally they said "Jamil Lumley" and I walked forward. I already knew something big was about to happen. From the very back of the auditorium my brother yelled "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HERE COMES THE PAIN TRAIN!!!!" With 5000 eyes on him and 5000 eyes on me, from 5000 people in the building, I stopped dead on the podium, turned 180 degrees, and gave the leaning Deon Sanders 2 fingers to the sky and yelled, "TRIPLE T IS IN THIS!!!" The crowd erupted, apparently there are more than a few fans of Terrible Terry Tate - Office Linebacker. The head chancellor shook my hand and asked, "Do you know that man?" and I remarked, "I have no idea who he possibly could be." Then he asked, "Would you like to have him removed?" and my reply was, "My lord, could you have him killed!?" I flashed the peace sign to 2000 confused asian Management Student graduates who wondered if a photo was to be taken, and exited the building and entered the corporate world - both, through the side door.
4 years ago, I was waiting for my name to be called. Today, I cannot, or perhaps will not, wait for my name to be called. I'm working 2 jobs for the same company, and giving each of them 40 hours of attention. I want to pave a better life for myself, sooner than later, and if I have to do my unfair share, to get my unfair share, then that is fair. I'm planning to start a new life this year. So far, I've planned to move out of Toronto to Mississauga to be closer to my corporate life. I've also made tentative plans to move further west, to be closer to my personal life.
As I close in on my first 4 years of corporate life, and shaking off the lifestyle habits I don't think I could ever go back to, I must say that I've become largely more proactive with my own life. You learn very quickly that nobody will call you forward unless you do the work in the background that nobody sees to make that name worth calling forward. I suppose I can thank university for that. It's up to you to pass or fail, it's up to you to decide what goes on your transcript, it's up to you to decide how you will be remembered. But there was still something missing in this approach in University, something that took away from the lesson. Very recently I realized what that is. In my life, I spent a lot of time focusing on how I would be remembered. Which is to say, when I am no longer with the people who will tell my story, they'll have fond memories of me. It's a funny thing to wake up one day and realize that you were writing your obituaries instead of your memoires.
I did this with my lovers as well. Few of them have any complaints, not to brag. Few of them look back on the months or weeks or nights they spent with me and think, "He just took and wouldn't give." I made sure of that. I became very good at giving girls no complaints, no reason to hate me; but sadly, no reason to love me. No reason to want to keep this going. A few of them had faith that we could have lived on together. When I got a sense of that, I panicked and protected myself from the pain of possibly losing them, by cutting them free myself. I think even then I knew that I didn't know how to write memoires. I've written too many romantic obituaries, too many well wishes from across the wire, too many summations of the way things ended. Then last year I learned to fall in a love in a completely new way. And every day our story together either gets deeper or richer.
Ironically, she was the first person to test my new approach - not waiting for my name to be called. At times, I felt like it was a resounding failure, I penciled a few obituaries, but each time she revived me. Each time I wrote a summation of the way things have been, the love I once felt at a moment in time. Though worded to be impressive, they were never truly satisfying for her or even myself to read. Surely, there will be more to our story she would asserted. The story was just beginning, it was not yet defined as a comedy or tragedy. I was always obsessed with definitions, and she was always obsessed with my putting pen to paper and promising more words. Maybe this is why I perfer typeface and she the written word: I'm more concerned with being able to save and backup the words I've already put out there, and she's more concerned with knowing every word to come will have the same level of meaning as before.
She's a lot like me when she wants to be, she has written a few successful and unsuccesful obituaries herself. My greatest fear in life right now is her writing ours. I get so scared that I don't even give her the space to write our memoires in the past tense. I have valid reasons for concern, and valid motivation for concern. All the same, as April approaches, and as I graduate from my introduction to corporate life, my mode of operating is centered around writing my memoires. I feel at a point in my life where planning is losing its value and execution has taken its place. No more obituaries, no more planned failures, no more safeguards from being hurt. I'm writing my life with actions that will turn into words, not words that might turn into action. This is what will define or at least describe how the next stage of my life progresses.
Another 4 years will start in a little more than a month. I already know that something big is about to happen.
Earlier in the morning, my brother showed up at UofT Convocation Hall and said, "You ready to graduate?" And I knew what he meant. See in my family we have a tradition of celebrating each successive Post-Secondary Graduation with an absolutley shocking level of immaturity. When my mom graduated from York, 10 years before, the crowd was halted by two young boys going, "Gooooooo MOM." and a 2-man wave. Amateur show. When my brother graduated from UofT 8 years before, there was some undergraduate laughter at my yelling, "Yeaaaa Boyyyyy." Good show, it was enough to have my mom give me the look. When my mom graduated from her Masters, from the University of Central Michigan, at a campus where we would never have to show our faces again, well, the responsibility fell onto my brother and I like that of convicts and civil servants during wartimes. We knew then to bring the pain. And so from our seats at the very back of the auditorium, we yelled, "Yeaaaaaaaaaaa! That's MY mommaa!! Right There" in the best American accents we could mustre, as she was handed her certificate. It was enough for my mom to give us both the look.
The morning of my graduation, my brother said to me, "You ready to graduate?" and I knew what that meant. This one was going to go down in the books. The late David Onley, previously of City TV, was our keynote speaker. I can't remember much of what he told us: Partially because I was sitting on the only wooden chair in all of Convocation Hall that had no padding (I have proof); partially because I was fresh off of my 2nd knee surgery and sitting still distressed me; and mostly because as I looked up into the rafters from behind the guest speakers I saw my brother standing there, and as he shot me a thumbs up and then proceeded to take that thumb and draw it across his neck I knew what was about to happen. An hour passed as they went from A through L. Finally they said "Jamil Lumley" and I walked forward. I already knew something big was about to happen. From the very back of the auditorium my brother yelled "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HERE COMES THE PAIN TRAIN!!!!" With 5000 eyes on him and 5000 eyes on me, from 5000 people in the building, I stopped dead on the podium, turned 180 degrees, and gave the leaning Deon Sanders 2 fingers to the sky and yelled, "TRIPLE T IS IN THIS!!!" The crowd erupted, apparently there are more than a few fans of Terrible Terry Tate - Office Linebacker. The head chancellor shook my hand and asked, "Do you know that man?" and I remarked, "I have no idea who he possibly could be." Then he asked, "Would you like to have him removed?" and my reply was, "My lord, could you have him killed!?" I flashed the peace sign to 2000 confused asian Management Student graduates who wondered if a photo was to be taken, and exited the building and entered the corporate world - both, through the side door.
4 years ago, I was waiting for my name to be called. Today, I cannot, or perhaps will not, wait for my name to be called. I'm working 2 jobs for the same company, and giving each of them 40 hours of attention. I want to pave a better life for myself, sooner than later, and if I have to do my unfair share, to get my unfair share, then that is fair. I'm planning to start a new life this year. So far, I've planned to move out of Toronto to Mississauga to be closer to my corporate life. I've also made tentative plans to move further west, to be closer to my personal life.
As I close in on my first 4 years of corporate life, and shaking off the lifestyle habits I don't think I could ever go back to, I must say that I've become largely more proactive with my own life. You learn very quickly that nobody will call you forward unless you do the work in the background that nobody sees to make that name worth calling forward. I suppose I can thank university for that. It's up to you to pass or fail, it's up to you to decide what goes on your transcript, it's up to you to decide how you will be remembered. But there was still something missing in this approach in University, something that took away from the lesson. Very recently I realized what that is. In my life, I spent a lot of time focusing on how I would be remembered. Which is to say, when I am no longer with the people who will tell my story, they'll have fond memories of me. It's a funny thing to wake up one day and realize that you were writing your obituaries instead of your memoires.
I did this with my lovers as well. Few of them have any complaints, not to brag. Few of them look back on the months or weeks or nights they spent with me and think, "He just took and wouldn't give." I made sure of that. I became very good at giving girls no complaints, no reason to hate me; but sadly, no reason to love me. No reason to want to keep this going. A few of them had faith that we could have lived on together. When I got a sense of that, I panicked and protected myself from the pain of possibly losing them, by cutting them free myself. I think even then I knew that I didn't know how to write memoires. I've written too many romantic obituaries, too many well wishes from across the wire, too many summations of the way things ended. Then last year I learned to fall in a love in a completely new way. And every day our story together either gets deeper or richer.
Ironically, she was the first person to test my new approach - not waiting for my name to be called. At times, I felt like it was a resounding failure, I penciled a few obituaries, but each time she revived me. Each time I wrote a summation of the way things have been, the love I once felt at a moment in time. Though worded to be impressive, they were never truly satisfying for her or even myself to read. Surely, there will be more to our story she would asserted. The story was just beginning, it was not yet defined as a comedy or tragedy. I was always obsessed with definitions, and she was always obsessed with my putting pen to paper and promising more words. Maybe this is why I perfer typeface and she the written word: I'm more concerned with being able to save and backup the words I've already put out there, and she's more concerned with knowing every word to come will have the same level of meaning as before.
She's a lot like me when she wants to be, she has written a few successful and unsuccesful obituaries herself. My greatest fear in life right now is her writing ours. I get so scared that I don't even give her the space to write our memoires in the past tense. I have valid reasons for concern, and valid motivation for concern. All the same, as April approaches, and as I graduate from my introduction to corporate life, my mode of operating is centered around writing my memoires. I feel at a point in my life where planning is losing its value and execution has taken its place. No more obituaries, no more planned failures, no more safeguards from being hurt. I'm writing my life with actions that will turn into words, not words that might turn into action. This is what will define or at least describe how the next stage of my life progresses.
Another 4 years will start in a little more than a month. I already know that something big is about to happen.
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