Fire it up, boys!

Fire it up, boys! Make it steam and sizzle and spit. Stoke that flame, watch her blister and burn, choke and cough, turn to ashes and spill out of your fist like so many wasted nights and worthless pennies, only to be reborn and fly away somewhere out of reach.

January

I am mourning a loss.

The only problem is that I'm not sure exactly what it is that I've lost. Youth? Time? You?

On this planet in space, are we hurtling or drifting? Can we simultaneously hurtle and drift? (But, oh, let's not think too deeply about our place in the universe, not alone in the middle of the night in the dead of winter with the weight of imminent decay threatening to crush us like a gnat under my thumb.)

With all those organs crammed in there, all that bone, all that blood, how can there be such an emptiness? It's like looking at someone across the pillow and having them seem a million miles away.

I want to sleep like a cat, curled up into myself.

I want to force the moment to its climax. (I want to eat a peach.)

But instead I will watch the dull orange glow of the dying light bulb above my head fade, and mourn my shadowy loss.

 








    

Fuck the status quo.

While lying in bed tonight, I was thinking about traditions (and also styles of baseboard, but that isn't particularly relevant to the issue at hand), and I came to the conclusion that just because something is always done doesn't mean that it is wise, or useful, or good.

Take the big three: Christmas, Easter, and Valentine's Day, and then throw in weddings for good measure. People feel enormous amounts of pressure and spend enormous amounts of money for no reason other than the fact that there are certain things that are done (and therefore expected) on these days. The exchange of one $25 gift card for another, the flora struck down in its prime, the bland chicken dinners in return for the buying of toasters: none of these things make any sense to me, so I choose not to participate, or at least to participate as little as possible.

As a topical aside, a certain amount of Christmas gift giving is unavoidable when one's family members love the holiday. I do send cards, which is wildly hypocritical of me, I know. This year I refrained from digging the Christmas cone (my sparkly silver conical version of a tree) out from under the stairs, although I did place the Santa Grinch (a green-faced cloth Santa figurine that my mother gave me one year, which I love for his oddness) on display. But that is as much Christmas tradition as I will concede.

I think people should never do anything if the only reason for the behaviour is that they feel socially obligated to. There is too much passive acquiescence and not enough thoughtful rebellion in this world.

Cut down a tree and throw some shiny stuff on it in March if you like the look of pine trees covered in shiny stuff so much--people will probably think you've gone mental. Go mental, I say! Don't put up a tree at Christmas. (Hell, don't even put out the Christmas cone!)

Throw a party to celebrate summer because people don't get outside enough and the warm weather only lasts for so long.

Hang out with someone instead of buying them something (time is so much more valuable than things), but if you see something you know someone you care about will really like or could really use, buy it for them, just because it's Tuesday.

Don't get married--marriage was only useful when fathers needed to pass their daughter-objects on to another man and men needed to ensure a legitimate heir in order to maintain their property.

Splurge on some really good chocolate in a month other than February, April, or December.

Tell the people you love that you love them because you want to, not because you feel you have to.

Do what feels right for you (unless what feels right includes pedophilia or murder) and don't worry about what society will think of you. The less you care, the less powerful society becomes, and the more powerful YOU become in turn.

To sum up, because it is after 4 a.m. and my eyes are heavy and my brain is winding down, I urge you all to go bravely forward into this black wintry night, and fuck the status quo whenever you can, because it needs a good hard fucking, don't you agree?  


   

Organized religion is the goddamn worst.

I do not come from a religious background. My spiritual leanings lie decidedly in the agnostic camp. I think reincarnation is a nice idea, but find the goal of enlightenment incomprehensible, because what happens once we've self-actualized and the cycle ends? Does our consciousness just dissolve into the universe like Jello powder into boiling water? I also find it pretty unlikely that anything like your anthropomorphized god exists, and, if on the off chance some sort of grand creator actually is responsible for the existence of the universe, I am also fairly certain that it doesn't concern itself with the thoughts and actions of such lowly creatures as human beings on this insignificant hunk of rock spinning lazily in space.

I do, however, believe that we do not know all there is to know about the world and our reason for being, and that one day it might be possible to scientifically prove the existence of the soul. I can't help but believe that I have one, that this particular spark (to crib a metaphor from every philosopher ever) belongs to me and me alone, and that my particular particles somehow make me a part of something bigger. (A really intricate Jello mold?)  

Yesterday I had the distinctly tragic experience of attending a Catholic funeral in all its pomp and glory. (As an aside, the circumstances of the death still have me reeling, and if I think about it for too long - like, oh, say, two seconds - I get really, really angry and really, really sad. The hypocrisy of the Catholic church infuriates me, but that is a blog for another time, a time when the wound is not as fresh and I can express my thoughts without becoming overwhelmed by emotion.)

Revulsion for the Catholic church aside, I found the experience to be rather interesting from an anthropological point of view. All the sitting and standing and singing reminded me of kindergarten. There are colourful pictures to look at on the walls, and you get snacks if you are a good child of God. (Are the believers filled with the joy of the holy spirit when they consume the "blood" and "body" of old J.C., or do they simply enjoy the tasty little treat as they (humbly) sashay their way down the post-eucharist runway?) There is comfort in the repetition of the rituals and the words, the way small children ask to be told the same stories over and over again, and comfort in the priest's soothing voice, lulling the children to sleep, pacifying their grief, smoothing over their indignation and their fear.  

I rather enjoyed the heady perfume of the incense the priest used as a symbolic way of consecrating the air, the bible, the corpse in the casket in front of us, despite being pretty sure that incense was the medieval way to offset the stink of the unwashed masses before the advent of aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrate and Colgate, and therefore also feeling sort of insulted. I also enjoyed the acoustics and the choir of school children, although I think the hymns need an update and the hymn writers could probably use a rhyming dictionary and maybe a refresher course in melody. (Man, do those things drag.)

What goes through the minds of the faithful when they are asked to pray? Do they really give serious consideration to Christ and the promise of everlasting life, or do they remember to add fabric softener to the grocery list? And what's up with that inane practice of shaking your neighbour's hand? (I refused on lack of religious principle, although I felt like sort of a dick afterwards. I will respectfully sit and stand and sit and stand and sit and stand again, because I am in your house of worship and people I love are grief-stricken and shattered, but I will not otherwise participate in your cultish bleating and blind obeisance.)

Catholicism seems to me to be full of archaic customs and oversimplified sentiments that speak to that childish part of ourselves, that part that is afraid of the world and wants to be comforted and protected and assured that there are no monsters under the bed, if only we believe hard enough.

As much as I would like to believe otherwise, life in all probability is a complete accident, and therefore irrelevant except to those around us whose lives we impact because we all share in this extraordinary happenstance. So hide your head beneath the covers if you must, tuck those feet in and turn on the nightlight, bow your head in humility and recite the Lord's Prayer and beg to be forgiven for sins that mankind, not God, has created to keep you in line. 

But know that I think you are a moron and a coward with no trust in your own ability to behave with decency and respect to the people with whom you share this earthly world. Think of how much blood has been spilled and how much wealth has been spent glorifying gods throughout the ages when the Golden Rule is the only principle anyone really needs. Organized religion is the goddamn worst.   

Sad

I wish that all the people who were sad, all the people who had bad things happen to them that were out of their control, or all the people who just felt sad because of goofy chemical imbalances in their brains, and felt overwhelmed and ashamed of their sadness, understood, even through their sadness, that there were still people who loved them even though they were sad, people who would listen to them and not judge them and try to help them be a little less sad.

Because when sad people become so hopeless that they take their own lives to stop the sadness, the world becomes a sadder place, and the world is sad enough already.

So it is our duty as human beings sharing this planet with other human beings to try to make it a little less sad whenever we can. Tell the people you love that you love them, even when it's hard. Don't hold grudges, because years will go by and you'll eventually realize how much you miss that person. Help those in need whenever possible, through money or time or emotional support or whatever you have to give. Forgive people their trespasses, because they're just slogging through the best way they can. And be kind to each other, because life is not always kind. Thanks.

All the world's a stage

Life is a creative act. It's a piece of performance art that we create with the people around us, saying things, doing things, responding (or not responding) to their responses. The unpredictability of the other players means that even the most mapped out of moments, the most carefully crafted of events, ends up being largely improvised based on our thoughts and emotions and words and actions, and on the thoughts and emotions and words and actions of others, which are the mixed media we use to create this art, to varying degrees of effectiveness.

Setting plays a big role, of course. The time of day or night, the season, the geographic location, the confines of a room or the expanse of the wild: all these factors dictate meaning and mood. Lighting, too, is important for the overall effect, as are the objects around us that we use as props, the cigarette lighters and bottles of beer, the books and cars and cell phones and packs of gum.

A piece that would otherwise be poignant and personal when performed for a single audience member plays differently in front of a large crowd.

Moments of regret are artistic failures. Those times you try to connect with your audience and everything falls flat. Sometimes the plot is convoluted and unclear. Sometimes the dialogue, despite your best intentions, is overwrought and clichéd. Sometimes the character you're playing doesn't suit you (blame it on bad casting). Sometimes you walk your way through the lines others have scripted for you (it's never convincing). And sometimes you find yourself at the mercy of someone else's directorial choices, wondering why on earth you accepted this role, and trying to find a way out of the contract you've agreed to by the mere act of existing in a world where we are all simultaneously the protagonists and each other's bit parts.

There are, however, also moments of uncategorical success. Those pieces that come together, either effortlessly or painstakingly (or a paradoxical combination of both), in a pure, perfect moment of brilliance, when the setting and the lighting and the props and all your thoughts and emotions and words and actions coincide so harmoniously with the thoughts and emotions and words and actions of the other members of your company that you look at each other, and you look out at the audience, and you all know with no uncertainty that this will be remembered for years to come.

And that is why we continue to wake up every day from those plays we create for ourselves alone (that are ultimately of no interest to anyone else), the dreams we dream at night that subconsciously colour our performances that day. Life is practice, and sometimes it is dull, marred by rote line readings and generic role playing. But sometimes it is unexpectedly beautiful and brilliant.

Ah well, and riot on.
   

That's life (in 1988)!

The following bit of writing appeared on page 75 of my Grade 10 English class personal journal. It was handwritten in a large cursive script in black pen. A lot of ink was wasted in this adolescent journal pining and being petty and insecure about things that time has, thankfully, largely erased from my memory, but I'm glad I dedicated at least a couple of pages to recording some positive moments from that awkward and uncharitable period of my life. Being a teenager is mostly the goddamn worst, but it can also be, even if only for the briefest of moments, the best. (If you were stumbling along with me in 1988, thank you. It's cool to see how far we've come. And thank fuck we don't have to do it again.)

As an aside, my fifteen-year-old self had already discovered what was to become my governing life philosophy by ending a fair number of entries with the phrase "C'est la vie!", the slightly more exotic version of the title of this blog. A lot of observations in this journal made me cringe, but that recognition made me smile.



This is my last gifted year. I’m really sad about it. We had such good times together. I can’t think of very many bad times. Here’s a trip down memory lane...

My fainting in English/History class in grade 9, 60th anniversary. God, remember that? My dress and the 50’s room which was the cool hangout. Cheap pop, too!

And our walk through the streets on Friday evening. Holding Jason and Markus’s hands. And Jason lent me his sweater because I was cold.

Math class with Mrs. Fowler. She’s a great teacher, if a little strict.

Grade 10, my birthday present. An overhead which I still have, and a truffle shaped in an Egyptian’s head. The truffle was in about a hundred boxes. It was so sweet. Ryan gave it to me.

Ryan’s “babysitting.” God was I upset!

The trip to the zoo when Ryan gave me my monkey that he so sweetly stole for me.

Going to ROM. God was that ever great!

“Yourgus, Argle L.” instead of “Yourgle, Argus L.”

Our plays. When Norwood screwed up the lights and Jason M. and I were supposed to kiss. And Tazy forgot her violin and messed up our action scene.

Shuman singing the theme from “Mr. Rogers neighbourhood.”

Jeremy’s “Stroker” game.

Win Lose or Draw in Mr. Moir’s geography room.

Mike McRoberts and my 9-er friends.

Dancing close with Ryan.

Hugging everyone good-bye on Christmas.

Passing notes in biology.

Greg Oh snapping my bra straps.

Canada’s Wonderland.

Becoming Vicki’s best friend.

Tuesday morning at the Movies.

Going out with Markus.

Jason Menard asking me out.

Norwood writing me a poem.

Seeing the dead tree.


I love these people!!!