Crest

To take the work to hold the hand
the hand that left me for dead.

I see the lines of a smaller man
and the deeds that hide the greater plan.

The better the life the stronger the death
the further the climb the harder the press.

And, smell the sweat that ruined the dress
smell the sound of a great distress.

Hold the hand of the man to impress
hold his hand and do not forget.

A body with a mind all its own

Illness usually is my body's way of saying, 'put the brakes on!'

I get sick during times of high emotional traffic, where I am processing a great deal of thoughts and feelings; also when I am busy and things like seven-hour sleeps and three squares become luxuries.

"Strep" (my mother's, and almost my doctor's diagnosis) is such a malady. It's the freaking summer, and I've not done much to distance myself fully from work or what I'll have to do in school.

Being sick makes me miss things to heal myself. While this sucks, there is always a reason for everything. Maybe tonight is for rest.

Yeah, sure.

(A Monologue)

Let's try not to get petty, shall we?

It isn't as if I've pretended to like you for the benefit of your feelings, so don't go assuming that my honesty means rejection. It doesn't. I like you. I just would rather not be around you.

I've been struggling lately. I've been hanging on to the basic tenants of life: sleep, coffee, and film. Anything else is icing. If the garbage makes it out the door, I'm considering that the event of the day. Dressing is a feat for the record books.

On occasions such as these where I make myself useful by contemplating my uselessness, I find myself wondering why I won't just open my front door, walk those four blocks to a bus stop and go talk to you. Well, I could talk to anyone, but for the purposes of repairing our fragile friendship, let's make it you. I'd tell you that I feel like a lame, stupid lump with tatty hair and even tattier shoes. You'd tell me that I'm great, and that my hair is fashionable. I could pour my heart out to you, and you'd catch it and swivel it around until all the irrationality fell to the bottom. And then we'd watch Goodbye, Lenin for the umpteenth time.

Why the hell don't I do this? Well, if you haven't noticed, I'm clever but not at all smart. Smart people see the wrongs and know to right them by means of rational solution. Clever people see the wrongs, ask why they are so wrong, begin an internal moral debate that sends them into a shame spiral and then can't be arsed to do anything about it. I'm so clever, sometimes I skip right to the end.

So, I've been asking myself why I've sent you on this lovely emotional mystery tour of my mind. Partly as an explanation of why I have the personality of a used sandwich bag at times. Partly, because I love to talk about myself. But most importantly, to serve to you as a reminder that I see how wonderful everything is about you, and how I could be defenselessly in love with you. We could both be happy. Until I saw the wrongs. And let's not get started on that, shall we?

If you understood me better, you'd see that I am too clever for my own good. And that makes me very, very proud. You don't want to have to deal with that.

You're too smart for me.

(This has been a semi-fictitious rant from the perspective a man, maybe. I have no idea yet)

It's Music!

I wanted to throw out what I've been listening to recently. I've rediscovered my love for Joel Plaskett, and dropped about twenty dollars on 'Three'. Worth every damn penny.


It is at times kind of bumpkiny and folksy. Which is lovely and indulges that prarie girl inside of me. I also really like how the entire album follows the triad theme. Mr. Plaskett is good people.

I also came across Dionysos, completely by accident. And they are great. Kind of like the Arcade Fire (mixed-gender harmonies and duets, megaphones ...), I'm liking the live stuff better than the recorded. It is also nice to hear things in the language I'm losing. This is from Taratata.



I have my friend Andrew to thank for this next one. Since he showed this to me (about a half-dozen times in one evening), I've been looking up what both of them have done. This is about as fun as it gets. I really like the video for the costumes, camera work, and especially the movement and choreography. It's messy. It's a little lazy. It's great.




... And that is it for now.

So, I blame this one on Liam. Or, Stone. Or, Pebble. Whoever you are, you've got me thinking.

I really feel Canadian, and yet I'm not quite sure what that means. At work, when I'm given American money, I'm a little proud about how much prettier ours is. I love the people I've met here, the family I have in this country, our arts communities and Rick Mercer. Especially Rick Mercer.

But, and this is a biggun, I remember being in school and being told we would be reading a Canadian novel, watching a Canadian film or having to do a project on Canadian history. I think every person who went through those classes with me sometimes felt like we were being beaten with a huge maple leaf-shaped mallet:
CA - NA - DA! CA - NA - DA! CA - NA -DA!

A friend remarked once, "It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't try to sell it to us like, Can Con is good for you. It didn't work for spinach." And it is true. In school, at least, it seemed like showing us work by Canadians was the stuff you had to get to before dessert.

I don't feel the same way now. I listen to the CBC, read from Canadian papers, and am happy to discover new novels with a Canadian pedigree. Just as long as it isn't trying to be something it isn't, or if it is trying too hard. Both really rub me the wrong way. Whatever art is, it should be genuine. If there is so much intellectual scaffolding, the truth of the art can get lost. And it just becomes obnoxious.

I am on a time crunch at the moment, so I'll just finish this briefly: let's try and be ourselves. Whatever the hell that is. As soon as something gets to be really forced or deliberate, then it loses something. I know there are a lot of holes in what I've just written, and Possible Reader, if you see fit to stick something in one of them, go right ahead.

A Non-Poetic Update

Obviously, the multiple words in the title (as well as the title itself) should be a quick giveaway to you, my very hypothetical reader, that this isn't the usual beat poetry, crunchy fare.



Having plodded through the past ten months, six of which I have spent in a romantic relationship (five in one, one in another), I've decided it is time to make some changes.



The end of the spring was fairly dramatic for me, considering what happened to my academic life. The consequences have really forced me to think about if I am in the place I can be happiest, where I can learn the most ... hell, if theatre is what I want to do. It has really made me think about why I am studying this, and can I be happy and healthy doing that? My health has been an excellent measure of how good a particular situation is for me.



Anyway, going back to what I mentioned about relationships: for the next while, I am going to actively avoid a new romance. I'm not going to pledge celibacy or anything, because that's a very big promise to keep.



I've used romance as a distraction. I've had a few relationships where there was a lot of passion to begin with, but towards the end, lots of problems. Sure, it's great to be told that you're beautiful, to have someone to spend time with ... all that. But after awhile, it can become a Linus-and-blanket situation. And that's unhealthy. Besides, I will be living with Sarah next year, rehearsing and performing a show, and possibly working. I will have no shortage of distractions.



I think it is time for my ego to stop giving rude gestures to that sage little voice inside me that warns me against things like this. If it says, "I know you want to tear into a bag of chips and watch YouTube videos. But you'll feel better if you go to the gym", I need to listen to it. If it says, "You know you're great. Why do you need a guy to tell you that?" I need to not let my ego respond with, "UP YOURS!"



Moral of this self-indulgent diatribe: I want to flourish, not only survive. And until romance becomes a energy source and not a drain, I will abstain from it. I have been lucky enough to date men who I want to be friends with afterward, one who I can talk to about pretty much anything, so I can be more than happy with friendship. I want to learn to repair myself, because I've left a lot of broken parts laying around. And I want to learn to love what will be there despite whoever or whatever I end up spending time with.



Phew. OK, so MAYBE this means I will start blogging for real, now. Hmmm.