Sunday, November 28, 2010

Axioms, Adages?

"Success is being able to do what makes you happy."
- Ian

"...the failures of big ideas are more impressive than the successes of little ones."
- Joel Fisher

"Sometimes you have to jump out of the box to realize you were in it."
-Alexis McKenzie



Three movies, that collectively should be able to help you find your happiness, your passion, or simply contentment:

http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/randy_pausch_really_achieving_your_childhood_dreams.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/viktor_frankl_youth_in_search_of_meaning.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/srikumar_rao_plug_into_your_hard_wired_happiness.html

Apathetic fallacy

Yes, please water me
I need to grow
I’m not old enough to deal with all this death and sadness
It’s no wonder you cry for me
But do you really know
What it’s like
And that the same tears on my head
Fall on her
But she can’t feel them
And somehow
Neither can I

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Count to ten

I yell into the void of darkest night -
I cry and scream with all my might.

Angst rots my soul like trees cut down,
Etched in my face: the deepest frown.

Tears like rivers make soggy trails,
I am a siren, with salty wails.

Volcano contained, I will implode.
My sanity crushed under heavy load.

And though my rage is terrible,
The taste of it makes me feel full.

Fire bleeds out of every pore,
The flames create a soundless roar.

Despair creates a deep abyss,
Anger fills it with a hiss.

A thousand thankless days

All love ends in tragedy,
they say. And some never begins,
Like dawn without the day.

The light through yonder window breaks
- my heart, because the darkness in my soul
must start, each time I see you look upon my face.

And when you're near my eyes refuse to see
Looks of disdain,
or else distrust, that you bestow on me.

Although my heart does fly,
I am afraid - and so deny myself true joy,
No promenade for me tonight - I must be lone.

Your garden I avoid because
you're near; proximity to you increases fear,
that you should hate me more than yesterday.

I lock my heavy heart and hide the key -
Impossible to find; I make myself forget, I hardly feel
and do not mind.

Hideous in the eye of the rejector,
I've now become: the monster that you saw me as -
completely numb.

I kill the love and fill myself
with loathesome hate,
It slowly makes eternal pain abate.

The Curmudgeon's Lament

And I was made for more than this,
The listless talk and drinking piss.
The excrement of daily life,
The need for me to find a wife.

I am deep in the machine,
I know not where I have been.
But I know where I'd like to go,
and there are things I'd like to know.

This daily driving towards a goal,
throws me deeper into a hole -
The hole, my grave, seems closer now,
but how to quit? I'm not sure how.

I had dreams once, and passions too;
So many things I'd hoped to do.
But in the meadow of my days
I found a job, one that pays.

And now I'm in the winter-time,
Each day a little more a mime,
A dollar earned is no relief
from travesty, and sad belief:

The wealth I sit on isn't grand,
And Death has clutched me in his hand.
He squeezes out the life from me,
And only now may my eyes see:

All is nothing, without heart,
With love, you learn this from the start.
So too with goals, they need some flame,
They need passion, don't be tame!

Don't back down from destiny,
Don't imprison stuff that's free!
Let thoughts and dreams and goals go wild,
Maintain the wonder of a child!

Let yourself do better than me,
I'm old and rich and unhappy.
I woke up from my dreams too soon,
my life became a thankless tune.

Create great music - live your dreams!
Before you're splitting at the seams.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

End Tay Part II

When I'm moody, I'm a force to be reckoned with. Unresponsive, yet shooting death glares with my eyes. I'm too apathetic to move any other part of my body.

My body. They like it. I cheat on Jason all the time. My dealer, Dave, he'll give me stuff for free when I'm friendly with him. Sometimes all it takes is a handjob. If I'm really desperate I'll blow him - ha, sometimes I blow him for blow. I wonder if that's why they call it that. It certainly feels like a job.

I don't know how I've stayed in school this long. The art program is unique, in that I only have to be productive for short periods of time (as long as those periods are before the deadline). A great work of art can be created really quickly. Like John Cage's 4'33", sometimes all you need to be is a great bullshitter, and you can make something out of nothing. If you're really good, you can even make it seem substantial.

Once I handed in a blank canvas. I spun some story about how it was tabla rasa, all of human existence before experience. It was the feeling before life and after death. Blah blah blah. She totally bought it and I got an 'A'. This was too easy.

When I needed to come down and I couldn't get valium, I'd use alcohol to rock me to sleep. The hyperactive euphoria that comes with a buzz would soon be followed by the warm, fuzzy feeling that comes with mild inebriation. I'd wrap myself in layers of intoxication until I'd slip into sleep, thinking of nothing and enjoying the silence.

After a night like that, there was a good chance I'd wake up feeling like hell. My mouth tasting like garbage and my head being sliced apart by sharp knives, I'd down a few advil (or T3's, if I had them) and hide under the covers until they kicked in. Sometimes I was in my own bed; other times I'd spent that time covertly trying to figure out where I was. Guys are too easy - they're always willing to bring you home. This is supposed to reflect poorly upon the girl, but I think that it says a lot about the standards of most guys. Today was a situation of the latter variety. I consider phoning the stud's mother. I think better of it. I consider hurling on his carpet. I refrain. Soon I am well enough to scrape myself off of his bed, and shuffle home to shower. I might be fucked up, but I make a conscious effort to not be dirty. I don't like the feeling of filth. I'm corrupt enough on the outside, I don't need to look like it too.

End Tay

It's always unexpected. One minute I'm on top of the world, I can do anything, follow my passions, multi-tasking, taking on new jobs, making new friends, I can do it all. My brain is whirring so fast and I'm positively exhilarated. Feet firmly on the ground, but I'm flying.

The next is stasis. I'm trapped. Stuck within my own inability to function. A lump on a log. I am a human blob on the face of the planet. A waste of space.

The ebb and flow of my mood is inconvenient, to say the least. Caffeine brings me up, makes me alert, full of energy, and ready to take on the world. Over-eating slowly immerses me into a coma of self-loathing and numbness, my brain over-loaded with serotonin.

The uppers make my mind explode with fireworks - pretty, fiery, explosive. Happiness in all its colours. Valium brings me down, makes the world move more slowly - I'm wading through life like I'm up to my eyeballs in pool.

I don't even know what I want anymore. It used to be happiness; now, sometimes all I crave is clarity. Respite from the fogginess that permeates my existence. More recently I've thought wistfully of death. Lusted after it. The quiet. The peace. But I know it's not the answer.

Popping a few friends into my mouth, I swallow breakfast. I can function fairly normally off of ecstasy, and it's a great way to start the morning. I feel alive.

I've lost 20 pounds since starting this deadly regimen. My clothes hang on me like my body is a coat hanger. My hair comes out more quickly than I'd like to admit. But my stomach is flat as a board (concave sometimes) and I'm managing to get everything done. I've never been so creative. My art is prospering - my professors are noticing, and the feedback is good. They're talking about art galleries. On a good day I listen, and nod enthusiastically (yet modestly). Other days I'm a typical artist; completely out of it, immersed in my work.

Jason (my boyfriend) is supportive, but not in the way you would think. He likes 'em thin, and he is a child of the 80's at heart. He shares drugs with me, we do them together. Instead of roses he brings me acid. What a sweetheart. We trip out together, and watch the colours of a sunset bleed into the trees below. We watch the trees dance in all the light.

I stop eating. It's not intentional. I'm just so busy, and really, what with all the appetite suppressants I'm ingesting, it's not surprising. When I can't get real uppers I combine pseudoephedrine (a decongestant in cold pills) with coffee, and I feel pretty ok. I consume liquids and pills; food is incidental, serendipitous, or the result of the munchies on the rare occasion that I smoke pot. Sometimes my roommate slips me a vitamin pill. She's a sweetheart, but I can't help but think: What's the point? No pill can undo the damage I've done.

I'm careful though. I never use needles - I don't want to bother speeding up this process by catching AIDS or a festering wound that turns into gangrene. That doesn't sound like my idea of a good time. Cocaine, now that sounds like a good time. It feels clean, and it doesn't leave much of a mess, except for when I sneeze blood.

Jason's a tool, and when he drinks we have fights that are high volume, high velocity. It always ends with some E and some intensely hard make-up sex. Rough. Like I want him to beat the love into me. Fierce. Make me feel something, even if it hurts.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Burning at Both Ends

I was some sort of sadist, holding my plants hostage, letting them get nearer and nearer to death before bringing them back from the edge with a much needed drink of water. It wasn't intentional - I just tended to forget they were there. Besides, I was much more accustomed to plants of the cactus variety.

It was an unusual place to live, what with no bathroom of my own and the holes in the floor that really got you when you stumbled home drunk. The walls were thin, but nothing a sleeping bag under your covers couldn't fix.

I was learning how to become a candle maker. No, I'm not from the 18th century - although that would make slightly more sense - but I do make candles. I work for some hoity toity home decor store, and the handmade candles sell for a bargain.

Sometimes I make them out of crayons. It doesn't make the candle smell good (unless you enjoy smells that are reminiscent of kindergarten) but by dipping the wick into a variety of colours, you can make a very rainbow-rific taper. I enjoyed it.

Until I met her.

Cecilia came into my life like virus. Maybe it would lie dormant, or maybe it would rise up against you and destroy the self you thought you knew. Regardless, she entered my life rather quietly, but I should have seen the portents of disasters to come.

She phoned me up, out of the blue. That was how we met. Cecilia loved my candles, and wanted to know who made them. She tracked me down from some bumblehead at the home decor store, and before I knew it I was talking to her on the phone and she was asking if she could buy me a cup of coffee while I told her about the candles. I was so busy feeling important and flattered, that I didn't stop to think about why a regular young woman could have any interested in candles, of all things.

I met up with her at the Starbucks on Granville Street. There was some debate as to which Starbucks we would be meeting at (seeing as how there are multiple Starbucks' across from one another, or on the same street) but ultimately we met up. I had taken for granted that I would know who she was - but fortunately I was spared the embarrassment of asking strangers because a tall blonde woman tapped me on the shoulder and, "Excuse me, are you the candle-stick-maker?" and I smiled and replied that I was.

How's this for poetic? Cecilia was a Baker. All we needed now was a Butcher. She spoke animatedly about cupcakes and croissants, flans, and loaves, custards and brownies. The woman loved to bake. But she was extremely interested in candles, and begged me to tell her how I made them, what helped me to choose the exact specifications that made each one unique. I was only too happy to oblige.

We soon picked up our conversation and took it from Starbucks to The Warehouse. Extremely close by, but the atmosphere was radically different. Instead of yuppie housewives on their way to yoga requesting a tall half-calf skinny latte with one and a half pumps of sugar-free vanilla, we had people scrunched down in booths, mowing down burgers and fries amidst an atmosphere of inebriation and noise. I wondered how old Cecilia was. At 28, I figured I could risk it and be interested in her.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Sometimes we do stupid things. There are only a few that can't be undone.

Death is pretty hard to undo.

Amputation (death of a limb).

And then there's the grey area; relationships can be killed, but every once in a while a resurrection is possible.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Chapter 1

Her body was littered with tattoos, and she was littered on the ground - strewn on the side of the street like yesterday's trash. Piercings punctuated her skin, like an exclamation mark. Nothing too extreme, unless you thought that piercing both sides of the nose was over-kill.

Long, thick blond hair fell down her slumped shoulders; dirty blond, in more ways than one.

Next to her, an open book. November (her name, not the month) had fallen asleep while pouring over her textbook. She was sitting at the entrance to a park, up against the chain-link fence. Fall was easy, because it was warm out and she could sleep just about anywhere. Winter would take a little more cunning, but she knew how to survive. She hadn't had a "home" in 2 years, and had figured out how to manage. She did pretty well for herself. When it got cold she would rotate between the library, McDonald's, and movie theaters. Luckily winter coincided with term finals, and the libraries tended to stay open for 24 hours.

November was a wild child. She called herself Nova, and it was a very suitable nickname. A nova is a cataclysmic nuclear explosion that occurs in space, essentially, an exploding star. This sums up Nova much better than "November" ever could.

So much about Nova was not from this planet; she often felt very far apart and different from the earthlings surrounding her. Also, the universe above is part of the reason Nova didn't mind sleeping outside.

The word "nova" also means "new", and Nova was obsessed with new experiences and learning. Every day was a new day, and she started them off right by embodying the uniqueness of varied experience.

When she craved the feeling of a bed or needed a shower, she went to Shopper's Drug Mart or Sephora and used their make-up to paint on her beauty: shiny and fake. That was the sort of look that appealed to most guys. She'd go to bars and get friendly with men that she knew wouldn't push for sex - they might settle for making out, or sometimes even just talking. Regardless she'd end up at their house, and this beautiful, witty, adventurous girl would sleep in their bed. In the morning, she'd shower and scrub off accumulated filth. Then, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, Nova would politely say goodbye and venture out.

She was a very bright girl. Nova loved to learn and spent her days reading - always absorbing knowledge from tomes of words. She devoured new words, rolling them on her tongue and enjoying the satisfying taste of "Spackle" and "aplomb". She immersed herself in concepts - trigonometry, relativity, and metaphysics. Music was a little harder, because it wasn't realistic to carry around a lot - but slowly she was improving on the harmonica. Life was too short, but Nova intended to spend it learning.

Sitting in McDonald's, salt raining down on her already salty fries, Nova considered her options. There was a speaker presenting at the University in the afternoon, but that would mean leaving the free yoga-in-the-park half-way through the session.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Rules

These are the rules.

- Whenever possible, you cannot hurt others.

- You must avoid that which will cause irrevocable harm to yourself.

- Be free. Do as you will, and refrain from doing that which you would not like to do.

- Be creative. Find a way to live your life successfully. Assess your wants. Re-evaluate your needs.

- Repeat.

This is very radical thinking, and it is lovely. It sounds great.

It will be isolating. It will be illuminating. It will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

At least, it was for me.

People will try to tell you that it isn’t possible, that it can’t be done. Everyone has do to things they don’t want to do, they’ll say. It’s part of life.

They were wrong. Trapped within the prescribed lives that were fed to them, these people simply did not know.

---

3 years ago, I lived in residence at McGill.

I was in the final year of my Master’s Degree in Library Science. A lesser-known but rather respectable degree, I was on the right track (so to speak) and would likely get a decent job upon graduation. With the prospect of a 9-5 Mon-Fri career looming on the horizon, I had a little melt-down.

It all started with the inspirational videos.

---

I didn’t like library school. I found it boring, tedious, and easy. The monotony and dullness of it all was something I spent much of my time seeking to escape – enter inspirational videos.

Watching Gossip Girl is not productive. Watching Gossip Girl is a “waste of time” and probably turns my brain into mush. However, if one must watch some form of visual entertainment, inspiring videos are just the ticket!

Enter Randy Paush.

Randy is one of the many genius individuals that gives absolutely wonderful talks. He was a professor (as many of these geniuses are) but the Amazon guy, the Apple guy, and Bill Gates left the world of academia and followed their own path. Common link: They become wildly successful. Other common link: These men emphasize the importance of following your dreams! “Do what you love!” is a common refrain. Find a way to do it! If you’re passionate enough, you’ll find a way.

It’s sentiments like these that turned that snowballed my musings into a snowman with a jaunty hat. I was hooked.

---

As I was saying, I was nearing graduation. Having been in school since the age of 5, the prospect of beginning a career was… unsettling. Would it mean the end of learning? Would it mean settling down, stability, responsibility? Would it mean lots of money and no time to spend it? Or would I find that elusive balance, and master the work/play dichotomy?

Rather than facing these interesting yet daunting questions, I chose to be unemployed.

---

Enter “The Rules”.

I devised the rules one night when I was up late from having a shot of coffee 14 hours earlier. My caffeine sensitivity combined with a newly-cracked-open-Nietzsche book created a monster – one with a desire to learn! And do! And make every second of my life count.

“The term “free spirit” cannot have any other meaning here, but that it is liberated, a spirit that took control of itself once again.” – Nietzsche

I sought to liberate my spirit, my soul, my intangible sense of being. Watching Randy (a dying man) explain the importance of time made it seem URGENT to seize the day (carpe diem!) and free myself now. A part of me had waited for this moment, and waited years.

And finally, with school nearly over, and no children, pets, or ailing parents to care for, I was free. The world was my oyster. I would be a pearl.

This took some plotting.

---

Unsurprisingly, as a student, I did not have a huge amount of savings. So as I suffered through the remnants of my final term, I concocted some money-making schemes:

I sold everything I could bear to part with.

I sold the regular stuff, like furniture and appliances - the easily replaceable big stuff that didn’t really have that much sentimental value anyways. I sold clothes I hadn’t worn in years, CDs and DVDs that could be accessed virtually anywhere (they’ll be outdated soon anyways, if they aren’t already), I sold technology (laptops, ipods, phones) and jewelry from old boyfriends. I sold my blood plasma.

(I kept the accordion.)

When I had tricked other people into spending their hard-earned money on my useless possessions (root “possess” because they end up owning you) – I had provided for myself a nice little budget of about $8000. This had the potential to be a lot of money. I felt rich! Flush and fat with money, I dreamt of the things I could buy, but they were no longer the things I was “taught” to buy.

I wanted more than material things. I wanted adventure.

---

I brought a knapsack with me to graduation. I stretched the truth by telling my parents I was going back-packing in Europe (who knows? I could end up there). I was going to cross the stage, grab my exorbitantly expensive piece of paper – and hit the road like a ton of bricks on roller skates.

I had with me what I deemed to be the bare essentials (and I soon learned that there was much more I could do without):

- 7 pairs of underwear
- 7 pairs of socks
- 1 pair of skinny jeans, not too tight
- 5 shirts of varying colour, thickness, material, length, and design
- 2 bras
- Toothbrush and floss
- Deodorant
- Little curved nail scissors
- Chapstick
- Pen, pencil, notebook
- $200 cash and a bank card
- My library card

I wore sweatpants and a t-shirt (and the appropriate underthings), a hair-tie in my hair, a silver necklace that was a dragon pressed into molten silver, 2 friendship rings and a watch.

For the first time in 5 years I would be parading around the world without make-up.

---

Make-up is a very interesting thing.

- guys don’t and/or can’t wear it
- we all look better with it
- it can cost a fortune
- it’s damned heavy
- sometimes tested on animals, sometimes causes eye or skin infections
- really a fucked up idea with polarized consequences

Bottom line: it’s heavy.