What weekends mean...

Another weekend down; actually the last weekend of November, which makes me think about how fast this year has passed.  Not a very pleasant thought.  I am in my own celibate hole, the work I am doing at the college is a form of performance art that is breaking my week up into different points of dullness (whatever that means), and I am still trying to prove things to myself.

 

Yes, I am still in my self-denial kick (am I setting a record yet?), so I decided to go out on Saturday night and do something I have not done in a long time: I had a drink.  Not monumental to most of the human race, but I often feel like the only reason to drink is to pretend that I like the people around me.  One mojito at one noisy bar before heading home was nothing special, but I was on my own. Not a smart move.  People can smell loneliness, I think.  But it was an important lesson in a series of lessons about me and the weekend.  Just do not need liquid courage to handle the problems in my life.

What else?  A good friend has, once again, figured me out.  I have an emotional barrier/shield/wall around me that keeps me from connecting with others (no wonder the whole celibacy deal is not such a big deal).  I have built it as a means of dealing with life and it has helped.  I may as well admit that there are things in my life that I could not have done if I was connected emotionally with others.  But, like anything that you indulge in far too often, it ruins you.  I sit in cafes alone with my notes and papers and music and wonder why I am repeating things in my life.  My own fault.  And that is enough. 

That good friend?  A good lady...  She has told me what is needed to connect with her camp if you are a guy; what to say, how to act.  My plan now is to add this to the self-improvements in my life (along with the gym, the language studies and guitar).  More challenges for me...

And what do weekends mean to me?  A time to reflect, think and maybe hope more often than I ever have before.

Down with Denial

From my last post, it may seem like I am still looking for pie-in-the-sky answers to questions in my life.  But I now realize that I have to seek things out on my own and come to my own judgements.

 

First, Cindy Gallop.  I really do not know who this women is and what she is trying to pull with her web site, but the whole concept of "MakeLoveNotPorn" is just a bad joke.  I wrote that I was selected for a beta group by her, but there is not much on the site to make me think that she is doing anything different than the other porn web sites.  People have been posting videos of themselves having sex with some commentary.  That's it.  It is not a forum for debate or discussion; I cannot find any part of the page that does not mention commerce or merchandising; and the members are far too confident in their sexuality to actually help someone like me who has given up on porn.  Miss Gallop could at least be honest about what she is trying to sell.

Back and leg are great.  Now, the problem is balance.  Dr. S. has me trying to steady my form with exercises that have me mimicking the actions of a rower.  Much harder to get that balance than I thought.  I have lost weight and enjoy my time at the gym, but the whole yogic control idea is still something that I have to work towards.  Time to get back to my own state of satori.

 

Now, the porn: yes, I am still watching it.  Just not participating in my usual responses to it.  I found out about the NoFap movement through This Magazine, and now it feels like a real test.  How long can I go before I have to go? What really interests me now is how I look at women and work.  More focus on both and more energy to be engaged in having a real life.  Not sure how long this will go on for, but I am in the running.

And all this on a Saturday morning...  Need breakfast and a couple of phone calls made right now...

A few things in my life...

I now have a good excuse for not being as committed to adding messages to this page: the modem in our place is out.  I have been lugging my laptop to cafes and libraries for the last few weeks and I am really fed up with it.  But there is more than just my complaint out access to wi-fi to fill up this space.

 A little injury at the gym led me to the very kind hands of a chiropractor.  Dr. Jocelyn Sicotte has been prodding the bones and muscles of my back twice a week for most of early November.  I admit that I was worried that I had done some damage, but now that things are getting better, I feel relaxed enough to talk about it.

A little information is a lot of strength. I am listening to Cindy Gallop, creator of Make Love Not Porn, discuss why she has created her web site.  I have been chosen as part of a beta group, meaning a limited number of people are a part of the team, and they are posting videos of their sexual acts...for a price.  Now this bothers me.  She claims that she is trying to deal with how porn influences the way we look at sex using the very tools that porn producers use to get us hooked.  And she admits that she is a fan of porn.  I am still not sure what to make of her message.  I have given up on porn (easy without a modem), but it is everywhere.  Maybe I really do need a girlfriend...  Maybe...

Finally, work: Just one day a week of teaching at the college, along with some private students who entertain me.  This is good for certain reasons (more gym and reading time), but not so good for other things (gym and reading makes me think of everything else I am missing).  I feel like there is some sort of lesson that I never learned and never will learn when it comes to relationships.

So, there is a lot to think about and make my way through this month.  Will keep you informed...

Suburban Thoughts (Part 1)

Just back from a week in my hometown.  This means a week with the family in suburbia and all the little delights of such places.

Okay, I will be honest.  I am glad that I saw my nephew and niece and that my brother and sister-in-law could tolerate me for so long, but I wonder why anyone would live there.  Yes, they have children, and their neighbours have children to make friends with each other, ride the bus, stay out late, and run up phone bills.  Maybe they need this place more than I could ever do.  But I am glad to be away.

I thought about a few possible entries for the blog and now I have an idea for the next set of entries: a list of reasons why I (and not just me, perhaps) should stay away from the suburbs.  I took no notes as I stayed there this last week, but a lot of intriguing facts have settled on my mind as I came up with this blog idea.  First:

1.  Suburbia makes you fat

There is already enough in the news about this to prevent me from dealing with this problem here, but I now understand why this is so.  I had to fight very hard the other night not to wolf down too much of the vegetarian lasagna my sis-in-law made for me.  But I knew why I had to fight the good fight: there was not much else to do.  As my brother cleverly stated once, when asked why he ate so much: Because it is there.  I cannot count the number of fast-food stops and variety stores near his place as we drove past.  There was a locale to cover ever spice palette.  Not a bad thing; just a very tempting one.  And very few people walked anywhere.  I always feel that I am trespassing when I go for a walk or a run in such places, like I am breaking a rule that I never knew existed.  A deadly combo?

Bad Vibes at the End of a Semester

I am very grateful for my job.  It allows me to make many mistakes with my schedules and course plans, feel dread at the prospect of seeing certain faces in my classes (more than once a week, sometimes), and combat the narrow thoughts of other teachers who make my comments feel like timid dancers in a verbal minefield.  These are very rare gifts, and the fact that I am paid for all of these privileges is sugar thrown on honey.  A part of me knows that I do not deserve any of it, but I cannot stay away.  I need the benefits.

Now that another semester is over, I will have to make more mistakes with lesson plans (even the ones I have used before), forget the names of my students until the last weeks of the course, and ponder what I gave up by leaving Japan.  Yes, three years of teaching in the land of the rising yen do not just escape one's thoughts.  Any teaching that I do now is influenced by what I learned there.  It matters.

This is on my mind, of course, because of money.  I have saved up some of it to a certain limit in different bank accounts, and there is very little reason for me to stay where I am.  Teaching has all of the benefits that I have stated, but it is still not enough for me (I have become greedy for more).  I need more than just an understanding of how limited my knowledge is.  Perhaps another job is out there for me, and I just need to seek it out before signing another contract.

And it is not the money, per se, that I care about.  I will not be shy about saying how little I care about money.  We are living in a time when people are more embarrassed by not talking about their incomes.  Instead, I feel some shyness about how strong and powerful money can be.  Spirits lift; greyness grows into colour; the day can seem lighter and more pleasant.  And these are serious problems.  

No one who wants to create and be remembered for their work should be too comfortable with their circumstances.  I never believed that starving in a studio apartment or garret was the best thing for any artist, but I understand the temptation.  I have managed to live on handouts and very little income at important moments in my life, and now that fun is over.  I am now a respectable adult with an income, money in the bank, a recovering credit rating and the means to move on.

There has to be a waking up to some other identity; something not yet tasted or felt.  I have been heading back to the rough drafts and old stories and putting them in some shape on the page, but there must be more.

A lot to contemplate before the end of another summer...

Is my bike trying to kill me?

Okay, everyone.  A few changes since my last entry:

1) I have a new group of roommates who are even less hygienic than the previous group (how is that even possible?)
2) I am working all summer without a real break.  Plenty of money in the bank; nowhere to spend it wisely (buying my own private island in the South Pacific would be a good investment now).
3) I have a bike.

Now, that last point needs some clarifying.  A private student's ex-husband mentioned an old bike that he was no longer using.  He let me pick it up at their last session for free and I have spent much time and some money fixing it up to some sort of standard of use.  New chain, seat, gear wires, tires, tubes, derailleurs and the like have helped.  But there was one thing that I did not count on: I need to (re)train myself to learn how to ride the thing.

I do know how to ride a bike, but I think that it is a skill that you can develop beyond a certain point (there must be some reason why people in Europe would actually take part in a six-day race).  And the tired simile about how certain things in life are so easy that they resemble riding a bike just does not work.  I found the seat too high, yet it cannot be lowered without cutting the tubes about two inches; the helmet I bought is ugly enough and ventilated enough to allow the air to pretend to cool my head (all the other head protection out there made me resemble a soldier about to invade Poland or Super Mario Land); and the lock is a production in itself (another expense that is tempting fate).

I say all of this after a long night-ride on a bike trail from my place on the Plateau to the mountain that gave MTL its name.  Still hoping that I will feel things below the waist before I wake up in the morning.  I have discovered that it is also a workout worthy of any run I have made in any park or track.  No complaints, but I have another skill to relearn.

More to come after another tour of the city.  This could be a theme...

The Yawning Years

Again, my apologies.  I had planned to put plenty of comments here about recent events, but those recent events have now become history and I can barely keep up with what I see around me in this lovely land of ours.  Quebec is having its strikes, charismatic killers, corruption, weird weather and general summertime blues.  I am having extra work at the college, a growing bank account (should that be plural), and raw plans to finally find my own place.  And yet, I feel stuck, trapped in my own groove, and wondering what to do next.
Yeah, I should not complain.  Money is its own reward (ha, ha) and I am doing well with my students (at least, that is what their evaluations are revealing to me).  I could do without certain colleagues and daily annoyances that comes with a Montreal summer (construction; return of more squeegee kids), but those are expected problems that I can handle.  I just feel, though, that I may have missed a good amount of what life should be.
I value my solitude, but how valuable is it?  I may not have written a note here or in any of my notebooks and files if I had spent so much time focused on developing a relationship with someone else beyond roommates and casual friendships (thank you, Facebook), but how do I know this?  I did not have many role models for relationships.  As a child, I knew that most of the marriages around me were out of convenience and old lust turned to indifference.  No one around me was a romantic; there was no active pursuing of another in a way that Hollywood would recognize.  I understood why this was so; I just did not want to be a part of it.  And there is the problem.
Okay, you may be wondering about the photo: protest panda meets student squirrel during the recent protests.  It is a nice and amusing pic, but also quite telling.  When people, or costumed entities, are destined to meet, they will meet.  And I know that I am not alone (certain blogs and talk shows have proven my point).  I just wonder when I am going to meet that special squirrel (I mean, someone)...
Back to work...

Another Friday night...

Back home from work, I took a nap from after 6 to about 10:30 in the evening, woke up, had something to eat, and now I find that I am tapping away once again, listening to Lewis Black on YouTube, and wondering when I am going to fall asleep again...

Yes, the weekend is here.  And the long spring break is about to begin.  I should try to go out and do something that will not make my whole nine-odd days a waste of time.  As I have said too many times here, I have a lot of notes in a lot of books and the knowledge that I actually enjoy what comes from my own sloppy brain nonsense.

A quote from Mark Twain: "Drag your thoughts away from your troubles...by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it."  Thank you, desktop calendar.  Should be my mantra for the rest of the year.  And I think I can do it.  One of the big plans I have for the upcoming week is a new apartment:

Should not be too hard, but it seems like a lot of work for a week when I should be doing nothing.  The money is there and I am paying off my bills with some regularity.  No girlfriend - at least in this city - to drain the wallet.  Only other distractions are the gym, museums, shopping, texting, guitar-playing and maybe some movie and TV-watching.

And for all those people who feel sad that Davy Jones is gone: Are you really that high?  Just a thought...

Caving In...

Maybe it is the exhausting weekend I have just had (Nuit Blanche in Montreal; Academy Awards disappointing me often and again, etc.), but I have decided to resubmit my work to an old web site that once published my weird and wonderful work, until I had a serious falling out with the publisher's misunderstanding of my blogging.  All is forgiven, but I am still am wondering whether I made the right choice. 

I do love to write.  I have piles of notes in my books and I carry a notebook whenever I think I will have the urge (a cheap dollar store hardback works well on many subway/bus rides).  But there is a sort of fear that creeps in when I put my work out there and I start to get comments.  Yeah, a childish fear, but one that has not gone away. 

I still have to review a lot of the material promised to this particular web site, but I am going to review and hope that things do work out again without any sort of conflict between me and the publisher.

Oh, and Christopher Plummer is still kicking and winning...  What a great night!

Toews against the Machine...

Okay, dear friends and frenemies....
Those of you outside of Soviet Canuckistan have probably not heard a single thing about one of our very dear Conservative MPs and the plans he has for our Internet.  Vic Toews, MP for Cloud-Cukooland, is the very fine Minister of Public Safety who has suggested a law that would give the police more power to search our searches online.  When his plan was criticized by privacy advocates, the general public and anyone who wants the government to mind its own business, Toews suggested that anyone who opposed his plans was supporting child pornographers (a logic statement that I am not going to pursue here; fill in your own blank).

Yes, I am shocked without the necessary awe.  I expected that when this government finally got their sticky paws on the levers of power, something like this would happen.  I have just read that Toews is going to back down from his plans, but I would like to encourage those of us who are not that forgetful to harrass him out of any position of power (guess I am going to be interrogated and numbered for that one).

Look folks: the Internet really is the Wild West, and it should remain that way.  I write this and other pieces online without any expectation that I going to keep things private.  And I am fine with that.  I think that you should be too and let any so-called authority out there know that we are all big boys and girls - well, most of us are - and we are just fine with the big ole world of the World Wide Web.

Oh, I am not alone with these ideas.  Read this out.

Where I Am At...

In about one hour, it will be Valentine's Day (or St. Valentine's Day - take your pick), which seems like a good moment to begin tapping my thoughts out here once again.

Still in the same box; still dreaming of bigger things.  I have to admit to my own laziness with the idea of moving on.  I am in a neighborhood with easy access to a park, a gym, shopping and a general air of leisure that I love.  If I do find another place, it will have to be in serious competition with everything that I have been spoiled with over the last five years.

Yes, five years...  Five years with at least three other roommates sharing my space.  Five years in a windowless room that provides no soundproofing against the happier noises in the other rooms (both on this floor and above).  Five years thinking about where my life went...

Okay, the five years will actually be up by the end of June, but I am looking at the calendar and dreaming of the summer and how this province has a synchronized moving date and the chance to obtain a lot of unwanted furniture.  And there has been another change in my situation: I have money and I am actually saving my pennies much better than before.  And with the debts that I have been paying back, my credit rating may get to the point that I will not be laughed out of an apartment once the landlord checks my background.

I have to thank one of those roommates for this.  It is amazing how someone can point out the obvious when you think you have been noticing a particular truth all along.  I want to move, as does she, and we both have plans for a new space.

But if anyone reading this (all four followers) knows of a place in Montreal, please let me know.

Okay, I am back!  Much easier to get the words down on this new Blogger/Google thing.  Much more fun to type and less exhausting than surfing for porn.

Expect more to follow...

Oh, and for no reason whatsoever, here is a picture of a young Helen Mirren in the nude.  Enjoy!

20 Years Already? I Neverminded...: or how an album that came out one day before my 18th birthday changed things...

Is it significant that my iPod froze the moment I found a copy of “Nevermind”?

It seems like a good point for jumping onto the 20th anniversary of an album that we only half-remember now. I knew that this particular date was coming up, but I was hoping that it would be much quieter than it was in the press. And then I realized that in a hemisphere where there are still people who think that Elvis Presley is still alive, this would not happen.

Spin Magazine has reminded us that a guy who was not even from Seattle and his two buddies changed everything on September 24th, 1991, with the release of an album with a baby bobbing for money on its cover, and songs about rape and drugging inside. It was a record that let the indie kids feel that they did matter, that there was someone else out there who did feel as fucked up as they felt and that they were no longer going to be just stuck trawling alone through secondhand clothing and record stores in vain. It was a real triumph of its time and we are still dealing with its many aftershocks.

I do remember the first time I heard that song: I was at home, in our front room, and the video was played on a national video channel (insert whatever name you want here). There was that guy screaming about being entertained in the dark after loading up on drugs (or was that guns?) and I liked it. I really did. And along with that reaction was one where I thought that no one else would care about these guys. I had already listened to Husker Du, the Pixies, Bad Religion and the best years of the late, great R.E.M. all by my lonesome. How could I possibly believe that things were going to change now?

No one ever said, “I told you so”. They would not have said it to me, and the people who deserved to hear it would have beaten you up. The few other friends I had who were indie fans were in – okay, I’ll say it – their own particular Nirvana. In a sea of people devoted to Bon Jovi, Poison, Def Leppard and Samantha Fox, this mattered. I lived down so many interests for so long that I forgot it was possible to like something popular.

Oh, wait, I forgot why I started this: my iPod. Never saw it coming in ’91. I did not even have a Discman. My own Walkman played only tapes and that was the copy of the album I kept in my collection. But it took me a long time to get to it. Over a year, actually. Remember: I was an indie kid. I was not supposed to listen to the same music fans of Depeche Mode and New Kids on the Block. I was not supposed to see our hallways filled up with plaid and polyester on our free civvies day (we had uniforms in high school). We were few and I thought that it would stay that way. And suddenly we were it. I never bought a Nirvana t-shirt, but people knew I was a fan. For us, the looking glass had turned inside out. It was a moment that seemed to be ours. And, of course, it was not meant to last.

Yeah, my iPod froze. I was looking for a CD of the album to get me in the mood. And they actually had it. Not even a scratch on the under surface and all the memories kept flooding back. And then my music device became useless for the first time. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, but it seemed like an appropriate omen. Listening to my old Husker Du or Replacements favorites on an expensive toy is an almost out-of-body thing to do. It really makes no sense..at all. And that stayed with me as I made more notes for this piece and wondered where I would begin.

I had rebelled against the rebels. I had had enough of being right while the world thought I was so wrong about the music I listened to and I never really accepted that the Northwest’s best threesome could be so big in a world that considered Pearl Jam and Soundgarden punk or even that word (which I refuse to use here).

So, they came and went. Kurt is gone… Krist is an activist of some sort (should look into this). And Dave is a lead singer for a group that rarely held my interest after their first album These things happen. And here we are, living in an age where spandex and hair metal have no hold on the charts anymore, Blink-182 is considered punk rock and Green Day can work with U2 and not be called sellouts. I just wonder sometimes.

Oh, and my iPod is just fine now. Off to ruin my ears again.

What, Me Scribble?

There are certain moments when I know that I should just stick my big nose into it and see what happens. 

A friend of mine - a freelance writer, playwright, mother and fellow scribbler - send me a link over Facebook about the demise of the writing profession.  This time we can blame it on technology (too much free stuff out there).  After reading the piece, I was accused by the same friend of not actually reading it carefully.  Then I sent back a quote from the article which I will share with you here:

I ask you to take the long view, to look a generation beyond where we are now, and to express concern for the future of the book. I ask you to vote that the end of "the book" as written by professional writers, is imminent; and not to be placated with short-term projections and enthusiasms intended to reduce fear in a confused market. I ask you to leave this place troubled, and to ask yourself and as many others as you can, what you can do if you truly value the work of the people formerly known as writers.

I figured it would look better larger and bolder than my own thoughts.  And I have just gotten over the sense of deja vu which has haunted me since I have read it.

Yes, I understand.  Being a writer is very hard work that does not always pay well.  But when has that not been the case?  Ancient Rome or Greece?  Elizabethan or Victorian England?  The simple answer is always.  And some of the greatest books and articles ever written were created without the promise of any type of financial reward.  John Milton only received five pounds for "Paradise Lost".  Samuel Johnson, creator of one of the first great English dictionaries  - a decade of labour with very little help - did not receive a pension for his work until he was much older and frailer.  And history is full of such people who did great things with less to show for it (see William Blake or John Keats).

Now, the issue of technology.  This much I do understand.  But I will not become a Luddite just because there is a way to put words in front of a reader that is not the same method used by the greats of the past.  And would somebody please pose the question as to whether or not it is in a company's best interest to create a computer device that can carry books on it in a very portable and convenient method?  Why would they even think about books when they could be selling music or video games?  I am no fan of the Ereaders I have seen (yet), but if I hear that kids are now trading illegal downloads of Shakespeare and Dickens, I will cry happy tears.

So, keep writing if you want to write; keep reading if you want to read.  I have barely made a single penny from this blog, but I cannot stop. 

A sign that I am a true writer?  Anyone?

What to do with what they did...

“A Terrible Beauty is Born” – W.B. Yeats (“Easter 1916”)

I have been watching the payback over the riots in England and wondering to myself if the British understand the concept of real justice.  Yes, I know, people want to punish the ones who have burned and destroyed whole sections of their towns and cities.  I would not be too happy if I had to clean up the site that used to be the store I spent a lifetime creating and operating because it is now an ash heap of burnt timber and broken bricks and glass.  But I am becoming more and more disturbed by the reaction of the current government to the uprising.

Yes, I have personal reasons for caring about what happens in Merrie Olde: I visited the country when I was about 14 and spent six weeks visiting family, seeing the sights that I saw, but also traveling on my own.  The best moments were the ones where I did get lost and found things that I never expected to see.  And I am not surprised that rioting could take place in such a country.  There was plenty of racist graffiti, ugly scenes of conflict on the street and in the general mood of certain people, and I did stay for part of the vacation in the East End of London (Plaistow): I was enough of a city kid to know that I did not want to leave the apartment after a certain level of darkness hit those streets and blind corners.

I just received an email from a relative who works on one of the city’s fine councils as an advisor, and she told me that the conflict was no surprise to her.   She had plenty of time to see what the cuts made by the government would lead to and that any incident could have sparked the anger she felt from young people who really believed they had no future and nowhere to go.  I know that there was a shooting, but it could have been any type of friction between the police and the faceless youth they were outflanked and outfought by over a long and violent week.

Final notes: I went to work yesterday and had to listen to people share their delight in seeing Will and Kate in the flesh and how wonderful things are now that they are married and seem to be such a delightful couple.  Not a word about the riots or what that delightful couple cost the country in financial and emotional costs. I made a point of leaving the office without saying a word.

 

England will have to reconsider their own ironies…                                                                                

What a life...

Dear people who still bother to read this:

Another summer is about to end and I am exactly where I was almost four years ago and moved into this place and thought that it would just be a temporary stop between things.  Still on my own, except for a relationship I developed through Alikewise.  Still dehydrating in this room as I type and it is an endless struggle to get things printed up on my laptop when ever the mood to put something on my blog strikes me.  Only real news is the fact that the summer semester is almost over and I will have fewer classes for the fall.  Not complaining...  Just more time to write (I think that I am sensing a theme)...

The guitar is still a partner in crime, and I have had some inspiration this past week.  I went to see a free show in the local park  (Montreal's own So-Called - look him ), and I then noticed someone walking up the side stairwell.  Not making much of this, I kept sitting down and finished my drink...and then he returned.  He was Win Butler of Arcade Fire.  I really did not want to disturb him - I let an overeager fan sitting next to me do that- but I did shake his hand, get that autograph, and left the place floating.  I also remembered that the group practiced in Parc LaFontaine when getting started and that there will be a free show on the 22nd of September for Pop Montreal.

So, I guess the summer is not an entire loss...