But I have these minutes. Each night as I fold my body between the sheets and mattress, I have this moment. This moment between the harsh realities of the day and harsh realities of my dreams. I have this moment when I close my eyes and open my ears and hear only myself. What stories I tell myself, what adventures await, what desires will yet become realized. They are all possible in these moments. This is when I feel my best. Pity it's at such a dreadful hour.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
It's setting in
I come home
Take off my shoes
My clothes and the rest
Pyjamas and toothpaste
Retainer and alarm clock.
Today becomes yesterday
That was a lot of fun
But now I am here, in bed
What about tomorrow
Oh right.
Another day will pass
Waiting, hurting, praying
Why would tomorrow be any different
It won't, I'll need an escape
Tomorrow I'll go somewhere new.
I wake up
Alarm clock and retainer
Pyjamas and toothbrush
My clothes and the rest
I put on my shoes.
To leave this place
I never really do
I make tomorrow a today
To make today another yesterday
This is getting old.
Take off my shoes
My clothes and the rest
Pyjamas and toothpaste
Retainer and alarm clock.
Today becomes yesterday
That was a lot of fun
But now I am here, in bed
What about tomorrow
Oh right.
Another day will pass
Waiting, hurting, praying
Why would tomorrow be any different
It won't, I'll need an escape
Tomorrow I'll go somewhere new.
I wake up
Alarm clock and retainer
Pyjamas and toothbrush
My clothes and the rest
I put on my shoes.
To leave this place
I never really do
I make tomorrow a today
To make today another yesterday
This is getting old.
TIFF Meditations - Ship of Theseus
Plank by plank life is taken away from me. Her joys, her friendships, her successes, her lovers. Plank by plank life is restored.
Time will do this for me, he is a tireless servant of change. He does everything according to plan and follows his orders despite my requests. Never does he halt nor take caution; he has no freedom and works without fault. But me with all of my freedoms, I should look to time for inspiration, for I take caution where none is needed and stand still before green lights. I can change myself, I need not fear it. Plank by plank I can restore my life.
I wonder, if I change too much too fast will I still be myself? Like the Ship of Theseus* I wonder what will become of my identity? Surely I will not be entombed in this body forever. This body that changes each day and will soon change to naught. But what of my other planks, the things I hold near and dear to my identity. My anger, my sensitivity, my beliefs, my disposition, my motivations, my ideals, my dreams. Which of them should I keep and which should I change before time changes them for me?
[Relate to character's plot developments]
If my planks - my body, my words, my actions - are just the vessel and my identity is actually my life story, my great quests and my character in times of strife, then I am not attached to my planks. Let each plank that accepts water in the face of the great tide be replaced. Let each of my beliefs that sink me to sadness be replaced by beliefs that keep me afloat. It is neither time for this ship to sink nor return to shore. I am on my journey and by faith I know I have enough planks to make it, old and new. Some planks were meant to take you from shore to shore and others were meant to take you only most of the way. Sometimes you have to risk being wrong to truly know when you are right. Life is ordered even when it is hurtful, and the great sea will swallow the weak and glorify the strong.
The planks I have, the person I have become, will go far, but I wish to go farther than far. There is much more out there for me to learn, I miss learning. There is much more out there for me to experience, I miss experiencing. It's time for a change. Today is the day to go down to the gallows and search for puddles, not to admonish myself for them, but to bless the puddles, for they will lead me to the planks that need reprieve. When I look at my life in this light, it's all quite elementary really.
Time will do this for me, he is a tireless servant of change. He does everything according to plan and follows his orders despite my requests. Never does he halt nor take caution; he has no freedom and works without fault. But me with all of my freedoms, I should look to time for inspiration, for I take caution where none is needed and stand still before green lights. I can change myself, I need not fear it. Plank by plank I can restore my life.
I wonder, if I change too much too fast will I still be myself? Like the Ship of Theseus* I wonder what will become of my identity? Surely I will not be entombed in this body forever. This body that changes each day and will soon change to naught. But what of my other planks, the things I hold near and dear to my identity. My anger, my sensitivity, my beliefs, my disposition, my motivations, my ideals, my dreams. Which of them should I keep and which should I change before time changes them for me?
[Relate to character's plot developments]
If my planks - my body, my words, my actions - are just the vessel and my identity is actually my life story, my great quests and my character in times of strife, then I am not attached to my planks. Let each plank that accepts water in the face of the great tide be replaced. Let each of my beliefs that sink me to sadness be replaced by beliefs that keep me afloat. It is neither time for this ship to sink nor return to shore. I am on my journey and by faith I know I have enough planks to make it, old and new. Some planks were meant to take you from shore to shore and others were meant to take you only most of the way. Sometimes you have to risk being wrong to truly know when you are right. Life is ordered even when it is hurtful, and the great sea will swallow the weak and glorify the strong.
The planks I have, the person I have become, will go far, but I wish to go farther than far. There is much more out there for me to learn, I miss learning. There is much more out there for me to experience, I miss experiencing. It's time for a change. Today is the day to go down to the gallows and search for puddles, not to admonish myself for them, but to bless the puddles, for they will lead me to the planks that need reprieve. When I look at my life in this light, it's all quite elementary really.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
TIFF Meditations - End of Watch
We have a long way to go, our society, this is often very easy to see. We have come along way, our society, this is often very difficult to see.
I think this is difficult because we look out there instead of inside ourselves for progress. Sitting there in the upper balcony of Toronto's prestigious Elgin Theatre before the movie I gazed momentarily at the crowd while most of my group had gone to buy overpriced water. Gazing out at the empty and likely unused reserved sections, and at the tired feet of the volunteers whom have stood for hours tirelessly at our service to receive a very tired applause from the crowd (once prompted to show our appreciation, of course, by a sponsored ad), I saw only classism, only pretense, separation of wealth and other bourgeois delights. But looking inwards, taking a step back from myself to gaze within our booth I saw just the opposite. 2 Jamaican guys, 2 Italians and a Portuguese sharing a balcony that previously would have been reserved for classism was freely occupied by us. In our groups of man and woman, old and young, employed and jobless, we are divided by no lines, separated by no differences. We are free in ways those before us could only dream, and free because they dared to.
But of which freedoms will we dare to dream, and for which will we strive? We're still talking about progress, just as before. If we look for freedoms elsewhere we are likely to find only barriers, but if we look within ourselves we will know what changes can be made. In fact, I should make the effort to stop using the word we. 'We' is such a presumptuous word. Far be it from me to assume that my hardships are your hardships, or that my life lessons will be ours. I've spent enough time in a corporate leadership position to know that if an idea is truly good enough to be used in a person's life they will steal it. In fact, people prefer it; to take an idea, augment it and make it their own. Patent law exists for a reason. The true valuation of an idea is its propensity for the theft. So, I will speak only of what I think will work for me, possessing my ideas as my own. And if you visit me ever to find my ideas presented with open doors, fear not, the keys are in the ignition, you just have to turn them. Take them wherever you please, to the bank, to your job, to your spouse. I left them unlocked for you. I'm somewhere else now, picking the locks off new ideas for myself, finding out which freedoms yet unseen are out there and worth daring for.
"Can you live without her? If you can, then cut her loose now before you even think about marrying her."
I think this is difficult because we look out there instead of inside ourselves for progress. Sitting there in the upper balcony of Toronto's prestigious Elgin Theatre before the movie I gazed momentarily at the crowd while most of my group had gone to buy overpriced water. Gazing out at the empty and likely unused reserved sections, and at the tired feet of the volunteers whom have stood for hours tirelessly at our service to receive a very tired applause from the crowd (once prompted to show our appreciation, of course, by a sponsored ad), I saw only classism, only pretense, separation of wealth and other bourgeois delights. But looking inwards, taking a step back from myself to gaze within our booth I saw just the opposite. 2 Jamaican guys, 2 Italians and a Portuguese sharing a balcony that previously would have been reserved for classism was freely occupied by us. In our groups of man and woman, old and young, employed and jobless, we are divided by no lines, separated by no differences. We are free in ways those before us could only dream, and free because they dared to.
But of which freedoms will we dare to dream, and for which will we strive? We're still talking about progress, just as before. If we look for freedoms elsewhere we are likely to find only barriers, but if we look within ourselves we will know what changes can be made. In fact, I should make the effort to stop using the word we. 'We' is such a presumptuous word. Far be it from me to assume that my hardships are your hardships, or that my life lessons will be ours. I've spent enough time in a corporate leadership position to know that if an idea is truly good enough to be used in a person's life they will steal it. In fact, people prefer it; to take an idea, augment it and make it their own. Patent law exists for a reason. The true valuation of an idea is its propensity for the theft. So, I will speak only of what I think will work for me, possessing my ideas as my own. And if you visit me ever to find my ideas presented with open doors, fear not, the keys are in the ignition, you just have to turn them. Take them wherever you please, to the bank, to your job, to your spouse. I left them unlocked for you. I'm somewhere else now, picking the locks off new ideas for myself, finding out which freedoms yet unseen are out there and worth daring for.
"Can you live without her? If you can, then cut her loose now before you even think about marrying her."
Friday, September 14, 2012
TIFF Meditations - Mumbai's King
Those without. I envy them. I envy them because while they may hunger more, they hunger for less. They would be happy with even half of what I have, and yet am I happy with half of what I have? Am I even happy with what I have now?
Tough circumstance has humbled them, they are always quite loud. They laugh more loudly than we do. And loudly do they share in their disgust for our opulence, our greed. In return, we despise them right back because they are right about our greed. They know of our greed oh so well. What we know is that we are the embodiment of their greed. They may never know that they are but the germ of our greed, that we are the graduated poor.
We hope for more just as they hope for more, the only true mark of poverty. Poverty isn't a description it is a disposition. If a rich man had but one orange and one glass of water, he would feel blessed to have a meal, but those of us in poverty live for tomorrow's breakfast, next week's brunch, and the endless steak dinners. Make no mistake, poverty is in us all, but only some of us deserve to lay claim to it. The hungry deserve to be poor, deserve to want more, as in their case want and need are in harmony. But we who want for the sake of want, we have rights to neither our monetary affluence nor spiritual poverty. We want for the sake of want and create new needs for the sake of need to balance the scale. Then we wonder why instead of balance, our scales teeter evermore violently with our added pressures.
Yes, I envy them, the poor. I am trapped, bound by my first world problems my eyes are green with this envy. I envy them so much I want them all to be gone, yes I want them all gone. I want all of the poor to be rich like me, only then will my eyes change colour. As the witch doctor fights poison with poison I will fight green with green. I think even the poor deserve a chance, a real one. Sitting behind the reserved seats tonight my date and I overheard from the film's press agent that the two young boys who played the lead actors from the slums of Mumbai were in fact just poor slum kids from Mumbai. The one who sold balloons for a living in the film did exactly that before the lights were on and likely still does today. The press agent is starting a charity to get those kids an education but they simply don't want it. Only reinforcing for me that there is a deeper level of poverty than monetary, and also a deeper level of affluence. There's something they have that we can't see in all our desire for them to have more, sometimes greed is externalized and nicknamed philanthropy. All the same, what they have lost is hope, and that you can never have enough of. When it comes to hope, the rich and the poor alike could afford to be greedier.
Perhaps this is where I can help.
Tough circumstance has humbled them, they are always quite loud. They laugh more loudly than we do. And loudly do they share in their disgust for our opulence, our greed. In return, we despise them right back because they are right about our greed. They know of our greed oh so well. What we know is that we are the embodiment of their greed. They may never know that they are but the germ of our greed, that we are the graduated poor.
We hope for more just as they hope for more, the only true mark of poverty. Poverty isn't a description it is a disposition. If a rich man had but one orange and one glass of water, he would feel blessed to have a meal, but those of us in poverty live for tomorrow's breakfast, next week's brunch, and the endless steak dinners. Make no mistake, poverty is in us all, but only some of us deserve to lay claim to it. The hungry deserve to be poor, deserve to want more, as in their case want and need are in harmony. But we who want for the sake of want, we have rights to neither our monetary affluence nor spiritual poverty. We want for the sake of want and create new needs for the sake of need to balance the scale. Then we wonder why instead of balance, our scales teeter evermore violently with our added pressures.
Yes, I envy them, the poor. I am trapped, bound by my first world problems my eyes are green with this envy. I envy them so much I want them all to be gone, yes I want them all gone. I want all of the poor to be rich like me, only then will my eyes change colour. As the witch doctor fights poison with poison I will fight green with green. I think even the poor deserve a chance, a real one. Sitting behind the reserved seats tonight my date and I overheard from the film's press agent that the two young boys who played the lead actors from the slums of Mumbai were in fact just poor slum kids from Mumbai. The one who sold balloons for a living in the film did exactly that before the lights were on and likely still does today. The press agent is starting a charity to get those kids an education but they simply don't want it. Only reinforcing for me that there is a deeper level of poverty than monetary, and also a deeper level of affluence. There's something they have that we can't see in all our desire for them to have more, sometimes greed is externalized and nicknamed philanthropy. All the same, what they have lost is hope, and that you can never have enough of. When it comes to hope, the rich and the poor alike could afford to be greedier.
Perhaps this is where I can help.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
TIFF Meditations - Fly With the cranes
Between our hearts there are bridges and barriers; mine are all paved with words.
Something beautiful about Toronto is that while every year it seems people are a bit busier and a but more attached to their person networks, when you strike up a conversation with a stranger rarely are you met unkindly. The homeless man on King Street yesterday had a stronger desire to impart knowledge on me than relinquish me of my change, once I spoke with him as a person. Even he was not too busy to stay true to his roots and represent our city with the politeness people fly here for. Today, sitting here in this theatre, is testiment to the point that not only the seemingly insane are warm to strangers. Waiting for my date to arrive from her late work meeting I struck up the most delightful conversation with Helen, an older lady with a delightful misunderstanding of the importance of technology. If there's one thing I miss about my old job it would be the satisfaction of having a pleasant conversation with a complete stranger. I told her about my previous job in IT which immediately facilitated a discussion around her children and their misunderstansing of the importance of technology. I love being 30 because I feel my ability to relate to antiquity and modernity is immeasurable. I'm young and old enough to know thag we're all wrong. We do provide so much more but achieve so much less with our tools.
I know enough to feel both happy and sad at the idea that the way technolgy is going, there is harsly any reason for us to have to actually talk any more. How utterly analogue, the act of speaking. How much more our minds could achieve in this digital world. I was only 13 years old or so when I realized that the average picture is actually worth about 365,000 words, by Kb. As time and technology advance, perhps our ability to relate will ascend to a higher cognitive realm. Perhaps the things we hold dear will be up for more than simply discussion, or debate. We could instantly poll our opinion to know how the world felt about even the most minute topic. We could know what the atoms inside our science project actually look like, not just how we prefer to sletch them. I imagine a world before we hard words, where dance and growl and thrust and laughter were all we had, and so were cherished out of necessity. Now we growl less, we look less, we laugh less, and we talk more. But as this paradigm changes again, as our sonnets and ballads and orations fall the wayside to tweets likes and votes, it's worth wondering if we're paving roads or barriers.
Now the movie is over, I'm only herr typing this to you because my date is sending an important email from her blackberry that absolutely needs to get out before dinner. If there's one thing I dont miss about my old job...But this is exactly the debate of the day. On the one hand, we've just finished watching a movie that forced us to remember that in these days of modernity, we've forgotten how to listen. Only the innocent young mind, untarnished by modern values morals and logic could hear the simple plea of his wonderful dying old grandfather. It's true that in this age of noise, this age of more information and less words, we forget how to truly listen. We're too busy for listening. But maybe it's not so bad. I've lost nothing of my friendship with my date in the last 15 minutes; she is advancing her career and me my own quest. Sitting here shoulder to shoulder, phones in hand, she's discussing what she deems important and I the same. And by the looks.of it, she seems to be done, so perhaps now we'll compare notes the old fashioned way, verbally across a table of fried tofu and vietnamese pho. How wonderfully analog.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
TIFF Meditations - The Cowards Who Look To The Sky
I have many ideas about who you are just as you have many ideas about who I am. These ideas will always be about me, about you, until we have experienced one another.
Commonly I would have found this to be true in the light of rumours, hearsay, conjecture, biases and the sort. I would have committed to my moral code the decisions not to judge you based on these things. I would be an empathetic and caring person who reserves judgement until I have processed only my own observation. Freedom from prejudice and initial observation seemed to be fair enough cause for evaluation, but now I'm not so sure.
Do you know a person once you have met them? Did you know me from the start? Could you predict the words that would flow from me to you on the day we met? How about a few weeks later? How about today? You may have observed my effects but do you know my causes? Worse still, if I may presuppose a human spirit, are you in touch with that which lies between cause and effect? But I spare you the digression, because today I only wish to ponder lazily; how little observation is truly necessary for you to know me. Particularly me, a man who hopes to forever grow, forever change, forever dream, forever aspire; in short a man who never truly wishes to be known. Come to understand my past through that which you remember or have heard but tomorrow I could be someone brand new.
And aren't your tommorows made up of a thousand todays, each one undiscovered until it becomes a yesterday? I wish I could go back in time, back in your time, see the life story that brought you to today. Maybe then I could know you? I don't think I can know your past based solely on what you've told me of it, we all pick and choose which pages of our life story to reveal and which to tear free from its binding. But what still of your pages revealed? Can I know you simply from observing the words shared from or about you? If I sat down in a comfortable sofa with an empty open mind to watch the movie of your life story, would there not be scenes, long and important scenes, filled with a silence more important than any words in the script? Would the camera not pan in on you, sitting there with your head back pressed against against the wall, gazing towards something unseen, eyes filled with rage or perhaps tears, redefining your identity - your beliefs, character and goals - in a silence I will never hear? How often have you gone to this secret place, this place inside you too far for me to travel? How much of you is there, how much of you is here?
Who are you, really, to know me? Without being you, how can I ever truly understand you? You live in a world bent on categorizing me as different than you. I am male, you are not. You are white, I am not. My age, your wealth; your desires, my insecurities. Am I blind to the light of your soul for as long as I view it from my own lens? Or can you see me for who I am, if we callibrate? And how would this happen?
It would take something more than honesty, honesty is an obvious component. Lying obscures both what has been said and what is yet unsaid. But it would take more. To understand your causes you would have to speak to know effect, lest I mistake one for another. To absorb my yesterdays you would have to discard my tomorrows, lest you come to understand me backwards. If I am to be known I have to evaluate each word that I utter to you to make sure I am not guiding you away to understanding the man I aspire to be, rather than the man I am - the sum of men I once were. You need to tell me who you were as a result of the women you were before, not merely as a progression towards the women you hope to become. Such diligence, such shared meditation, such fearlessness is not always easy and not often desired. Facing ourselves is hard enough, but at least we already know what we will think; having someone else truly face us naked, without knowing how they may then perceive us is the true test.
When are we so brave? When do we finally tire of letting people have ideas about us, and rather let them touch us? To whom will we offer this experience? Or is that even our choice? How many people who have touched us were willed into our existence by a formal request?
Do we really choose the life that we lead?
Commonly I would have found this to be true in the light of rumours, hearsay, conjecture, biases and the sort. I would have committed to my moral code the decisions not to judge you based on these things. I would be an empathetic and caring person who reserves judgement until I have processed only my own observation. Freedom from prejudice and initial observation seemed to be fair enough cause for evaluation, but now I'm not so sure.
Do you know a person once you have met them? Did you know me from the start? Could you predict the words that would flow from me to you on the day we met? How about a few weeks later? How about today? You may have observed my effects but do you know my causes? Worse still, if I may presuppose a human spirit, are you in touch with that which lies between cause and effect? But I spare you the digression, because today I only wish to ponder lazily; how little observation is truly necessary for you to know me. Particularly me, a man who hopes to forever grow, forever change, forever dream, forever aspire; in short a man who never truly wishes to be known. Come to understand my past through that which you remember or have heard but tomorrow I could be someone brand new.
And aren't your tommorows made up of a thousand todays, each one undiscovered until it becomes a yesterday? I wish I could go back in time, back in your time, see the life story that brought you to today. Maybe then I could know you? I don't think I can know your past based solely on what you've told me of it, we all pick and choose which pages of our life story to reveal and which to tear free from its binding. But what still of your pages revealed? Can I know you simply from observing the words shared from or about you? If I sat down in a comfortable sofa with an empty open mind to watch the movie of your life story, would there not be scenes, long and important scenes, filled with a silence more important than any words in the script? Would the camera not pan in on you, sitting there with your head back pressed against against the wall, gazing towards something unseen, eyes filled with rage or perhaps tears, redefining your identity - your beliefs, character and goals - in a silence I will never hear? How often have you gone to this secret place, this place inside you too far for me to travel? How much of you is there, how much of you is here?
Who are you, really, to know me? Without being you, how can I ever truly understand you? You live in a world bent on categorizing me as different than you. I am male, you are not. You are white, I am not. My age, your wealth; your desires, my insecurities. Am I blind to the light of your soul for as long as I view it from my own lens? Or can you see me for who I am, if we callibrate? And how would this happen?
It would take something more than honesty, honesty is an obvious component. Lying obscures both what has been said and what is yet unsaid. But it would take more. To understand your causes you would have to speak to know effect, lest I mistake one for another. To absorb my yesterdays you would have to discard my tomorrows, lest you come to understand me backwards. If I am to be known I have to evaluate each word that I utter to you to make sure I am not guiding you away to understanding the man I aspire to be, rather than the man I am - the sum of men I once were. You need to tell me who you were as a result of the women you were before, not merely as a progression towards the women you hope to become. Such diligence, such shared meditation, such fearlessness is not always easy and not often desired. Facing ourselves is hard enough, but at least we already know what we will think; having someone else truly face us naked, without knowing how they may then perceive us is the true test.
When are we so brave? When do we finally tire of letting people have ideas about us, and rather let them touch us? To whom will we offer this experience? Or is that even our choice? How many people who have touched us were willed into our existence by a formal request?
Do we really choose the life that we lead?
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
TIFF Meditations - Great Expectations
Are there heights to which we were never meant to ascend? Are there the depths to which we were never meant to sink?
I think about free will a whole lot more than I act upon it, but when I do I wonder if there are moments in my life that were meant to happen whether I wanted them to or not. It's not altogether a bad feeling. It's one thing to have an idea of what happiness might be and another to know it. The same goes for pain, and I think a great life needs both. My dad used to say life is like fruit punch, the best ones are not too sweet and not too sour, but altogether more sweet than sour. But in a less general sense, because I think we all will find a way to experience pain and pleasure - if we have two much of one we will search for the other - perhaps I'm going through all of this because I was meant to? The heartache, the unemployment and debt, the frustration, the physical injury, all at once.
Before it seemed I was dealt the absolute worst hand with these five cards in front of me, but poker is a man's sport and when you're on your last few chips and it's looking bad at the flop, go all in and wait for the turn - you'll either bluff or luck your way out of it. So maybe I was meant to touch ground, once again. Maybe the usefulness of my past fortunes have served their purpose. I was meant to know power, for no great man should live his whole life in the shadows, but now my kingdom stretches further than those walls. I was meant to know love, completely, from all angles; just as a man wishes to know his woman, and as we wish love to know us. I was meant to know debt so that I would know the true value of what I was paying for. What truer currency is there than payback hours? The value of money will swing to and fro with interest rates enough to keep the majority of the public on the treadmill, but when you're paying stuck interest you know what is worth the exercise and what isn't. Frustration is beautiful; only when you face that which you do not understand do you come to understand it. I've reached a certain age where the only remaining growing pains are mental. Which isn't so bad, because physical pain just sucks. I could do without this ankle injury, full stop.
So here I am in life in those building scenes before the climax, where secrets of the past are beginning to unfold and hard lessons of the current day are remolding me, and while I'm now rather convinced that I was meant to endure these hardships, I'm still left wondering why. To what end, or more positively to what new beginnings? This movie and my life's movie has me looking for a little bit more closure. When life has you facing more than you ever thought you would or could all at once, you start to wonder what else there. But this is not the time to wonder. I'm free from all the hardships of yesterday which is God's way of giving me the pen to write tomorrow's triumph. I can feel the pen here in my left hand, I dare not insult God further by trembling and fearing what I should write. It's time to just write. It's time to just write. I have time to just write. It's time to just write.
Time is our best friend and worst enemy. Our short lives spare us from enduring all of the world's hardships but prevent us from experiencing all of its bounty. Beyond that, there's enough time to experience the highest heights and lowest lows, as long as we use it all. Make the most of time and time will make the most of you.
I think about free will a whole lot more than I act upon it, but when I do I wonder if there are moments in my life that were meant to happen whether I wanted them to or not. It's not altogether a bad feeling. It's one thing to have an idea of what happiness might be and another to know it. The same goes for pain, and I think a great life needs both. My dad used to say life is like fruit punch, the best ones are not too sweet and not too sour, but altogether more sweet than sour. But in a less general sense, because I think we all will find a way to experience pain and pleasure - if we have two much of one we will search for the other - perhaps I'm going through all of this because I was meant to? The heartache, the unemployment and debt, the frustration, the physical injury, all at once.
Before it seemed I was dealt the absolute worst hand with these five cards in front of me, but poker is a man's sport and when you're on your last few chips and it's looking bad at the flop, go all in and wait for the turn - you'll either bluff or luck your way out of it. So maybe I was meant to touch ground, once again. Maybe the usefulness of my past fortunes have served their purpose. I was meant to know power, for no great man should live his whole life in the shadows, but now my kingdom stretches further than those walls. I was meant to know love, completely, from all angles; just as a man wishes to know his woman, and as we wish love to know us. I was meant to know debt so that I would know the true value of what I was paying for. What truer currency is there than payback hours? The value of money will swing to and fro with interest rates enough to keep the majority of the public on the treadmill, but when you're paying stuck interest you know what is worth the exercise and what isn't. Frustration is beautiful; only when you face that which you do not understand do you come to understand it. I've reached a certain age where the only remaining growing pains are mental. Which isn't so bad, because physical pain just sucks. I could do without this ankle injury, full stop.
So here I am in life in those building scenes before the climax, where secrets of the past are beginning to unfold and hard lessons of the current day are remolding me, and while I'm now rather convinced that I was meant to endure these hardships, I'm still left wondering why. To what end, or more positively to what new beginnings? This movie and my life's movie has me looking for a little bit more closure. When life has you facing more than you ever thought you would or could all at once, you start to wonder what else there. But this is not the time to wonder. I'm free from all the hardships of yesterday which is God's way of giving me the pen to write tomorrow's triumph. I can feel the pen here in my left hand, I dare not insult God further by trembling and fearing what I should write. It's time to just write. It's time to just write. I have time to just write. It's time to just write.
Time is our best friend and worst enemy. Our short lives spare us from enduring all of the world's hardships but prevent us from experiencing all of its bounty. Beyond that, there's enough time to experience the highest heights and lowest lows, as long as we use it all. Make the most of time and time will make the most of you.
TIFF Meditations - Detroit Unleaded
Where talent meets hard work a higher power intervenes. A story that needs to be told will be told, and only the story teller knows from whence it came, but if he does not tell this story, if he keeps it for himself and does not share, a higher power intervenes.
Today I watched what I would call a grassroots production, so much so that the actors and production staff were afflicted with a distinguishable and distinguished air of humility. Lined up after the movie they were severely interested in having discussions with each of us. The lead actress despite her immeasurable beauty was almost annoyingly shy, the type of person I would have turned away in a job interview. The lead actors eyes were backwards - typically during a Q&A I find the lead actors eyes to be faced only inwards, only on delivering to us the great untold story within him. Yet today our noble knight wished only to comment on my sweater and his other external observations. But today we wanted to know them, not ourselves, they do not yet know how important they are, it hasn't hit them to understand that they have not paid $20 to see us! Perhaps when the movie gets distribution and they see more revenue, this will drive home the point.
But this inspires me. What separates the artist from the super artist? It's quite simple, it is not merely the talent, and not only the hard work. The super artist fixates no longer on what is out there, but rather on what is inside him. He delivers to us what we all paid to see; a glimpse inwards, to that place where a higher power has intervened. That is all I have to do now.
Monday, September 10, 2012
TIFF Meditations - The Sessions
A writer's life is always so complex, and yet a writer's work in borne from simplicity. While the writer may himself be dealing with a depth of emotion beyond that of the average Joe, the very nature of his duty as a writer is to translate this convoluted esoteric dissonance into simple words that we can all get in touch with. To take that which is unknown to us, either by our ignorance or by our fear, and serve it to us in a way we either could not or dare not refuse.
The true writer, furthermore, does not simply write with this process, he lives it. He lives through his tropical depression and delivers to us summer rain. He suffers through the flurry of words sketched in the sky and sets the most important ones down against the ground as we know it He carries through bliss and anguish, relationships and solitude, frustration and clarity, dotting each 'i' and crossing each 't', with only one pen, his soul. The true writer has no identity separate from his pen, lives in no world separate from his parchment; he and they are one. And when his soul is revealed through these words shared, received and sent, who amongst you readers could deny such humble beauty, such defiant devotion? Who amongst you would prefer to live as beasts do, without words, without the writer's soul in your life?
The true writer, furthermore, does not simply write with this process, he lives it. He lives through his tropical depression and delivers to us summer rain. He suffers through the flurry of words sketched in the sky and sets the most important ones down against the ground as we know it He carries through bliss and anguish, relationships and solitude, frustration and clarity, dotting each 'i' and crossing each 't', with only one pen, his soul. The true writer has no identity separate from his pen, lives in no world separate from his parchment; he and they are one. And when his soul is revealed through these words shared, received and sent, who amongst you readers could deny such humble beauty, such defiant devotion? Who amongst you would prefer to live as beasts do, without words, without the writer's soul in your life?
TIFF Meditations - Writers
To be in love. It used to be the most serious concept in the world. It used to mean everything, and make everything else mean nothing as a result. The circumstances that precede it, the possible life to follow, the life we live outside of it, all were nought - just give me love and I will be full. Remove from me love, and I will be empty. What a strange thing, love.
To be in love. It used to be the most overrated thing in the world. What a stupendous lie, this idea of love. To suggest we could be completed by someone else is hardly different or better than suggesting we could be completed by something else. What despair, this festering hole inside us, left unfilled until a mysterious foreign object attempts to change or destroy us. To which other virus would we bestow such honour? To which other plague would we hope for such a populace infestation? To which other cancer would we hope for such growth, despite knowing it requires such intense treatment? What a strange thing, love.
Love is only strange when it is not familiar. Love is only unfamiliar when it is not a part of us. When we are apart from love, we lose ourselves in an obsession to posess it. To reposess that which never rejected us. Love only asks of us a simple favour and reminds us when we forget. Love asks us to live with it. More correctly love asks if it can live in each of us. Love isn't satisfied living in our office, our our dogs, or in the other objects of our desires. Love does not want to be apart from us, it painfully begs us to love ourselves, to trap it there, ironically, to give it shelter. Love wants to share the same house, we just have to set the table and invite it for dinner. After that, love will give you everything you've been waiting for. Let love be in you and you will be in love. Oh, to be in love.
To be in love. It used to be the most overrated thing in the world. What a stupendous lie, this idea of love. To suggest we could be completed by someone else is hardly different or better than suggesting we could be completed by something else. What despair, this festering hole inside us, left unfilled until a mysterious foreign object attempts to change or destroy us. To which other virus would we bestow such honour? To which other plague would we hope for such a populace infestation? To which other cancer would we hope for such growth, despite knowing it requires such intense treatment? What a strange thing, love.
Love is only strange when it is not familiar. Love is only unfamiliar when it is not a part of us. When we are apart from love, we lose ourselves in an obsession to posess it. To reposess that which never rejected us. Love only asks of us a simple favour and reminds us when we forget. Love asks us to live with it. More correctly love asks if it can live in each of us. Love isn't satisfied living in our office, our our dogs, or in the other objects of our desires. Love does not want to be apart from us, it painfully begs us to love ourselves, to trap it there, ironically, to give it shelter. Love wants to share the same house, we just have to set the table and invite it for dinner. After that, love will give you everything you've been waiting for. Let love be in you and you will be in love. Oh, to be in love.
TIFF Meditations - Dangerous Liaisons
It's not hard to believe that we were always like this. Growing up I left it to the scientists and Stephen Spielberg to tell me what the dinosaurs looked like, left it to Gene Roddenberry and my science teacher to teach me about the stars and galaxies. There's so much about mankind, our history and our place in the universe, that I can only chalk up to assumptions that my story tellers are telling the truth. But if you listen closely to enough stories you start to find out the inalienable truths about our people. And so, I have to repeat that it's not hard to believe that we were always like this.
Evil, we were always evil. I'm trying to find proof that we were not. I can find evidence that some of us weren't, that most of us wish not to be, that a few of us don't know how to be; but evil has always been in us. We have always had greed, always had deception, always had jealousy, always rage despite obvious regret, in our hearts. That's where it is, in our hearts. I'm trying so hard to find refuge from this belief but I cannot. Indirectly, I see it everywhere. Don't you? Don't you see it everywhere? Don't you see it in our history books and in every depiction of Rome? Can you tell the tales of our great empires of the past without evil? Don't you see it in our most beautiful poetry? Can Shakespeare be as mighty without Othello's Iago? Don't you see it in our newspapers, our magazines, our great novels, our every printed word? Can you point me to the religion where man's evil need not have been addressed? God himself has had to put words towards our evil, can you imagine? He begs us not to cheat lie and murder, begs that we deny ourselves these ever natural impulses.
But a hungry man will slay, and a hungry hypocrite will at least let die and feast all the same. Then he will pacify himself in justification for his own sustenance. That I might live by your death, gain by your loss, have joy by your suffering, feast by your toiling, because this is simply the way it should be. This we are all guilty of, and to this we lose ourselves in the aimless debate: Is man essentially evil? What a gloriously unimportant question. If this is the case, and there is free will, than we can change our essence; if this is case, and there is no free will, than the answer is yes, but somehow we can still do good. The change from evil to good is in either case easier and for the most part less expensive than a change in sex, and the words we put around nature versus nurture are in both cases pointless. The question to ask of ourselves is not whether humans are essentially evil, the question to ask is whether evil is essentially human. Make no mistake, we are not alone in this - hyenas will have to answer to God for their thefts, Lions for their pride, Praying Mantis' for their cannibalism, pigs for their gluttony, and so on. But as we have evolved to embody every aspect of evil we can think of, can this change? Can we disembody ourselves from this evil, or have we been formed by it? Our societies, our economies, but also each of us in our days. Can each of us identify in ourselves the evils we possess and dispose of them thus? Or do we hold on to them just as we hold on our limbs, and for the same reason? Who are we without the evil within us? Who are you when all of your evil is gone?
Evil, we were always evil. I'm trying to find proof that we were not. I can find evidence that some of us weren't, that most of us wish not to be, that a few of us don't know how to be; but evil has always been in us. We have always had greed, always had deception, always had jealousy, always rage despite obvious regret, in our hearts. That's where it is, in our hearts. I'm trying so hard to find refuge from this belief but I cannot. Indirectly, I see it everywhere. Don't you? Don't you see it everywhere? Don't you see it in our history books and in every depiction of Rome? Can you tell the tales of our great empires of the past without evil? Don't you see it in our most beautiful poetry? Can Shakespeare be as mighty without Othello's Iago? Don't you see it in our newspapers, our magazines, our great novels, our every printed word? Can you point me to the religion where man's evil need not have been addressed? God himself has had to put words towards our evil, can you imagine? He begs us not to cheat lie and murder, begs that we deny ourselves these ever natural impulses.
But a hungry man will slay, and a hungry hypocrite will at least let die and feast all the same. Then he will pacify himself in justification for his own sustenance. That I might live by your death, gain by your loss, have joy by your suffering, feast by your toiling, because this is simply the way it should be. This we are all guilty of, and to this we lose ourselves in the aimless debate: Is man essentially evil? What a gloriously unimportant question. If this is the case, and there is free will, than we can change our essence; if this is case, and there is no free will, than the answer is yes, but somehow we can still do good. The change from evil to good is in either case easier and for the most part less expensive than a change in sex, and the words we put around nature versus nurture are in both cases pointless. The question to ask of ourselves is not whether humans are essentially evil, the question to ask is whether evil is essentially human. Make no mistake, we are not alone in this - hyenas will have to answer to God for their thefts, Lions for their pride, Praying Mantis' for their cannibalism, pigs for their gluttony, and so on. But as we have evolved to embody every aspect of evil we can think of, can this change? Can we disembody ourselves from this evil, or have we been formed by it? Our societies, our economies, but also each of us in our days. Can each of us identify in ourselves the evils we possess and dispose of them thus? Or do we hold on to them just as we hold on our limbs, and for the same reason? Who are we without the evil within us? Who are you when all of your evil is gone?
Sunday, September 09, 2012
TIFF Meditations - Differently, Molussia
Concepts are overly subject to their common definitions. We try so hard to formalize our understanding of things, put boxes around what they mean so that we can be sure about where they are in our mind - we forget that everything is interconnected and our definitions only limit our understanding.
When something is caused, all and everything before it was its cause.
We wrap our thoughts in these packages and to keep them in order we give them values: Good and bad, right and wrong, for or against me, worth it or not. But isn't the large majority of our confusions and frustrations based on our inability to free our thoughts and feelings from these packages? It's not worth it for me to convince you if this is true, think back.
Proving does not prove anything at all.
But what if we were to live life with our thoughts flowing freely from these packages? How ever would we deal with the chaos? How ever could we teach our kids right from wrong without such labels, or know where to focus our attention without the values worth it and not? Well, I can only begin that exploration here, I shouldn't say more about what this may entail until I have experienced what this will indeed mean. But might I at least start by suggesting that the answer is exactly in my example?
Perhaps, just as with children, where we spend their early years curbing their actions around concrete directions, until we feel they are at a level of maturity where we can learn to deal with grey decisons with broad values and morals, like the golden rule; perhaps when adults reach a level of maturity, where golden rules and shoulds and shoulds not no longer satisfy us intellectually, this is when we need a more personal approach. Perhaps at this point we have to finally not be lazy, and live our lives considering each case, each example, in its very uniqueness, and prescribe not an out the box solution to our gloom, not a doctrine handed to us from the ancients, not values and morals handed to us from our friends and inner circles, but perhaps all of these things together. Perhaps we have to approach our day to day lives with the totality of human knowledge rather than small convenient segments.
When we are free from binding our life problems with mere values, we'll be free from binding our life solutions with mere values. Anyway, that would be a start.
When something is caused, all and everything before it was its cause.
We wrap our thoughts in these packages and to keep them in order we give them values: Good and bad, right and wrong, for or against me, worth it or not. But isn't the large majority of our confusions and frustrations based on our inability to free our thoughts and feelings from these packages? It's not worth it for me to convince you if this is true, think back.
Proving does not prove anything at all.
But what if we were to live life with our thoughts flowing freely from these packages? How ever would we deal with the chaos? How ever could we teach our kids right from wrong without such labels, or know where to focus our attention without the values worth it and not? Well, I can only begin that exploration here, I shouldn't say more about what this may entail until I have experienced what this will indeed mean. But might I at least start by suggesting that the answer is exactly in my example?
Perhaps, just as with children, where we spend their early years curbing their actions around concrete directions, until we feel they are at a level of maturity where we can learn to deal with grey decisons with broad values and morals, like the golden rule; perhaps when adults reach a level of maturity, where golden rules and shoulds and shoulds not no longer satisfy us intellectually, this is when we need a more personal approach. Perhaps at this point we have to finally not be lazy, and live our lives considering each case, each example, in its very uniqueness, and prescribe not an out the box solution to our gloom, not a doctrine handed to us from the ancients, not values and morals handed to us from our friends and inner circles, but perhaps all of these things together. Perhaps we have to approach our day to day lives with the totality of human knowledge rather than small convenient segments.
When we are free from binding our life problems with mere values, we'll be free from binding our life solutions with mere values. Anyway, that would be a start.
Century Room
Everyone is beautiful. Most of us are sexy. The music is enormous. The dresses are short. The emotions are long. Worlds unlived. Conversations not had. Mundanity avoided but along with the thrill. I am in the zone. I am in my own zone. It's confortable here save the sweat, save the smoke, save the spilled drinks. It's comfortable here in this booth. What was his name again? This bass is the only thing heavy enough for me. It has taken me away. Good bye.
Saturday, September 08, 2012
On the brink
Oh yes I see, I see how you are Earth
You don't want me here
The summer party has finished
You want me to take a cue
Your ground doesn't want me here
It now lashes back at my every step, punishing my knees
Your sky doesn't want me here
It now sweeps me into small caves with its icy cold winds
Your livestock doesn't want me here
It punishes my organs as I feast on their flesh
Your humans do not want me here
Not one of them look at me with satisfied eyes
Yes, but you will see, Earth, how I am
I don't need you or them
This world here was just a start for me
I only stayed for the open bar
When I come back
When I come back
You'll see my face
You'll squint and stare at me
You'll ask my name
I will remind you
You will ask me where I've been
When I come back
I'll see your face
I'll notice you've forgotten me
I'll tell you, knowing I shouldn't
Your face will sink as you remember
I shouldn't have brought you back
When I come back
You'll admonish my past
You'll tell me what could have been
You'll remind me it was my fault
I left you just when you were ready
You never could trust me
When I come back
I'll resent the scolding
I'll roll my eyes at more passed possibilities
I'll concede your summation
You were always better at conclusions
I just never wanted them
When I come back
You'll be happy
You'll have found peace in simplicity
You'll finally be able to tell me you made the right choice
I was never going to be yours
You just wanted to be mine
When I come back
I'll be upset
I'll wonder why you never searched for me
I'll finally be able to realize
You never wanted to leave the beach
I was beneath an ocean of despair
You'll see my face
You'll squint and stare at me
You'll ask my name
I will remind you
You will ask me where I've been
When I come back
I'll see your face
I'll notice you've forgotten me
I'll tell you, knowing I shouldn't
Your face will sink as you remember
I shouldn't have brought you back
When I come back
You'll admonish my past
You'll tell me what could have been
You'll remind me it was my fault
I left you just when you were ready
You never could trust me
When I come back
I'll resent the scolding
I'll roll my eyes at more passed possibilities
I'll concede your summation
You were always better at conclusions
I just never wanted them
When I come back
You'll be happy
You'll have found peace in simplicity
You'll finally be able to tell me you made the right choice
I was never going to be yours
You just wanted to be mine
When I come back
I'll be upset
I'll wonder why you never searched for me
I'll finally be able to realize
You never wanted to leave the beach
I was beneath an ocean of despair
A new course
Hey Tiger. There's a whole world out there, you know. You keep searching within yourself, and I get why you would, there's a pretty great world inside of you too. You've got all this passion, all these interwoven stories, a bit of mystery behind a humble transparancy. You've become an awesome guy, but there's more to be had. You keep giving what's inside of you because you're afraid to take what's out there. You've made this awesome stew and you think any added ingredients will mess up the recipe, and you're right. The stew is finished, take it off the burner, stop stewing. Make something new. Make something brand new, not just a side dish. Make yourself a whole new dish. Do it today, while the stew is still simmering make something new that will go great after it. Something sweet, treat yourself, but not too sweet, don't spoil yourself. Enjoy this meal and everything you've prepared by the sweat of your brow. But you're a good enough chef to make more than one course. Set a new course.
Friday, September 07, 2012
We don't cry
We men don't cry. We come back hard.
We harden our hearts. We harden them with bad food and bad drink.
We harden our minds. We harden them with bad advice and bad plans.
We harden our bodies. We harden them with good workouts and good women.
We harden our egos. We harden them with good memories and good compliments.
We men don't cry. We come back hard.
Fresh out the kiln we come out reformed; harder, stiffer, more rigid, harder to bend but easier to break. When we were boys we could cry. We could absorb things like soft things do. Pain was one of them. All the pain seemed to find itself drowning beneath our tears and washed away. But now we are men, we are hard, things either bounce off us or break us into pieces.
I find myself today unable to cry. I've come back hard.
Unable to bend, you will not hear from me offers to compromise.
Unable to soften, you will not hear from me offers of soft words.
Unable to absorb, you will not see me taking in any more gestures.
Unable to fall, you will not see me taking any more plunges.
Life is not fair
Life is not fair.
At times it is amazingly bright, dazzling to the soul and majestic to the spirit; other times it is insufferably dark, gloomy to the eye and aweful to the heart.
Life may be bright or dark but never just fair.
Life is not fair.
At times, life will be stacked in your favour, you'll feel as though nothing can hold you down; other times life is a notorious trickster, you'll know that it only waited for you to reach your highest to pop your bubble.
Life can be favourable or unkind, but never just fair.
Life is not fair.
At times you'll feel as though you're the best equipped to face the challenges in your life, you control your destiny; other times you'll approach the racing blocks only to find out that others have been given a headstart that overshadow your fine qualities.
Life may be a cheat for you or a cheat against you, but never just fair.
Life is not fair.
At times, to be human may feel to be the most sexy concept of existence, life is filled with joy and adventure; other times, life is an ugly exchange of utterances that achieve nothing but partial delay from inevitable passings-on.
Life can be beautiful or horrid, but never just fair.
Life is not fair.
To be fair is to be apart from life. In other words fairness is death - just as it feels. Why then should I be fair?
I can be unfair for good or for bad, but I can never just lay down and accept life has passed.
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
Living Calls - Next morning edit
The air is calm. It passes through the open window beside me and seeps through the logs of this cabin like a kind thief, wishing for me not to wake but allowing me no sleep with its presence. Laying here on this bed my eyes are open and my ears are fixed on the commotion beyond these walls.
Outside the crickets' commotion is at crescendo. There must be thousands of them. In a few hours it will be morning and they will have missed their chance. It's been hours already, hours of calling out for a mate. Asking to be heard, to be noticed, to be chosen. If this doesn't happen now it may never for them; all of the frantic commotion heard in these final hours of the night are an instinctive reminder to each of them that tomorrow they may meet their final hour. Life is hard but for this they are lucky, these crickets. Every night they create this commotion, they sing and they dance with all that they have on the line, because there is never any reason to save, there is no reason to hold back. Only the deeply religious have been promised a life after this one where they can try again, but even they are not promised more than tomorrow in this life. So they reason: If we don't find what we need in our lives tonight, if tonight we are not heard, not sought after, not found, then what is it all for? Crickets remember what we spend our whole lives trying to forget.
Every night is an opportunity to either spend life or die saving. We love our possessions, so we try to posses and save even life itself. Tomorrow I'll live, spend life living, but today I'm going to save up, put life away somewhere safe with all the other lives I haven't lived. Yes, on a rainy day I'll go back to the vault of my past desires and finally start spending life happily. Only on rainy days do we ever seem to remember what we would do if it were sunny.
I suppose we're not so different from crickets. We wait until the dark to appreciate the light, they wait until the possible end to finally start. After all, crickets seem to do a lot of hoping and praying as well, just listen to them out there with those mating calls. I wonder though, if they truly are aware of how silly all of this waiting is. If they were, they would know that while we are no better than them, they are no better than us, with those mating calls. Mating calls are just active wishing, and wishing is not trying. Wishing is not living. Someone has to make a move to make it happen. Mating calls are for the inert, for those who wish to die, I will spend my life making living calls.
4am draft
Layong in this bed, on a summer's night in the cottage, feeling outside with the shelter of inside. Hearing how things have changed from silence to activity - knowing the crickets and grasshoppers have now become aggressive. There are only a few hours left. Each night is like a death because each day may become one. They starve for meaning now. What is this all worth if not for tonight, if we won't have tonight our who lives may be worth nothing. They know this every night and so I envy them. We forget this.
Written in the calm of night but with.a tired heart. No patience. What will I write in the day? No patience needed. See you soon.
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