I finally feel well enough to write this, so here it is.
2007 was a year that started out well, but wasted no time in taking the express route into the abyss. No small part of that was due to my seemingly excellent career choice, which to date has been responsible for a lot of unnecessary stress, hardship, and illness. Not to mention the disappearance of a large portion of my savings.
It was a year that put a hole in my heart and made me look at some things that I had thought to take for granted.
Truth be told, a lot of it was so horrible that I spent equal amounts of time in a drunken stupor, trying to forget about it. Or trying to cope. I can never be sure which. I watched a lot of things fall apart over the course of the year. My health was the worst hit, and today I still have a weight in my chest. If it acts up again, I'll probably end up going in to be checked for lung cancer. I'm not so pessimistic to believe it may actually be the case, but you know, after what happened this year, I wouldn't be surprised if I got saddled with some unforeseen legacy.
Of course, there were a few good parts of the year too, and I'll try my best to remember them. First thing that comes to mind was meeting the guys the first time in the Superstore parking lot. We all didn't say a lot, but there was power in that meeting, which also may have been the first, last, and only time all four of us were in the same spot together. Thinking back to it now, I'm surprised the world didn't split in half or something. Same with meeting the folks from the MG community.
I also broke the provincial barrier and experienced Eastern Canada for the first time in my life. Montreal was a fun experience, and my grasp of French is improving for my next trip there - hopefully sometime in the upcoming spring or summer.
2007 was also the year I met a particular artist, who painted a particular painting, and whom I'm hoping to see more of in the new year, regardless of distance.
I'm going to break tradition and not to a best/worst of 2007, lest I devolve into a three-page rant about all that was wrong with the year. There were a lot of good games, good music, and just generally good shit to be had, but just as well, there was equally bad shit.
There, I think that about covered all my bases. I'm not making any plans or expecting anything huge to happen in 2008. Like the rest of you, I'm now just going where life takes me, as any kind of long term plans I've laid have all come crashing down. And that, in the end, could end up being a very good thing.
Anyway, I hope you all had a decent new year's celebration. I'm going to lie down again, as my head has begun swimming again. I suppose I can make one new resolution - avoid zombies. Both the drink and the dead kind.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Klaus, you drive like my mother
I hope you all enjoyed my little mini-stories over the last few weeks. I really didn't have anything to write about, but it's never good to just stop writing. So I threw those together to just ramble through some things on my mind.
But anyway, onto a more serious note.
It's the Christmas season. And I'm working the front-lines in retail.
Notice how I didn't say it's Christmas. Because Christmas is a day that marks the simultaneous orgasm of nearly a month and a half of continuous marketing orgies.
I could go on about capitalist pigs, bullshit marketing, the phony holiday spirit, blah blah blah. It's the same shit every year. You were probably bored of it last year, let alone three years ago, so I'll spare you the diatribe.
I'll just say that I'm not pleased with the season. With the people. Or with their attempts to be godawfully cheap. You know the type of people. They're cutting corners, for whatever reason, and expect frivolous discounts. At the cost of my ever-increasing tic in my right eye. You know the one.
On the positive side, after the Christmas madness is over, I've got my eye on some tasty new videogames. Lately I've been playing some Hellgate: London. It's kind of a half-finished title at the moment, so I'd recommend holding off on it a while longer, but I've found it a much less infuriating alternative to the endless (and pointless) grinding in WoW.
Also, a friend of mine hooked me up with a Wilco album, insisting that I'd probably like it. I must say, after listening to it front to back to front, he couldn't have been more wrong. Where's the Mogwai, please?
But anyway, onto a more serious note.
It's the Christmas season. And I'm working the front-lines in retail.
Notice how I didn't say it's Christmas. Because Christmas is a day that marks the simultaneous orgasm of nearly a month and a half of continuous marketing orgies.
I could go on about capitalist pigs, bullshit marketing, the phony holiday spirit, blah blah blah. It's the same shit every year. You were probably bored of it last year, let alone three years ago, so I'll spare you the diatribe.
I'll just say that I'm not pleased with the season. With the people. Or with their attempts to be godawfully cheap. You know the type of people. They're cutting corners, for whatever reason, and expect frivolous discounts. At the cost of my ever-increasing tic in my right eye. You know the one.
On the positive side, after the Christmas madness is over, I've got my eye on some tasty new videogames. Lately I've been playing some Hellgate: London. It's kind of a half-finished title at the moment, so I'd recommend holding off on it a while longer, but I've found it a much less infuriating alternative to the endless (and pointless) grinding in WoW.
Also, a friend of mine hooked me up with a Wilco album, insisting that I'd probably like it. I must say, after listening to it front to back to front, he couldn't have been more wrong. Where's the Mogwai, please?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Thoughts in Repeat
The doctors thought it was narcolepsy, but like all angsty teenagers, Jim thought otherwise. He had been through hell, and worse, he didn't make it through. Not in one piece anyway. Jim was a special child. His mother had fled in the middle of the night with his older sister, leaving him to the clutches of his alcoholic father. Jim's dad was, by day, a well respected journalist, but like all in his trade, he could only manage by drowning his life in alcohol when it wasn't absolutely necessary to be sober.
And when he was drunk, he tended to vent. Violently.
And so for his entire childhood, Jim alternated between having the snot beat out of him at school, and having the snot beat out of him at home. Violence was the answer, and inevitably, it wore Jim down to the breaking point. Something happened, though Jim always says he can't remember what. In the end, it doesn't matter anyway. The next time Jim woke up, he was halfway across the country in an airport terminal that smelled of stale curry and rubbing alcohol.
Jim adjusted well to his new surroundings. He was put in foster care - a relative angel compared to what his foster parents called the "usual raff." Still, Jim regularly slipped into melacholic trances. He would lie for hours, staring at the ceiling. Barely breathing. His body wouldn't move, but in his mind, Jim was a million miles away.
Insect wars and petty ambitions. Shaky diplomacy and a stiff backhand. A life spent for a life gained. Stars in my hands and a moon at my feet. I don't feel anything anymore, and I can't explain why. It's so hard to face, and there's so little to say. The answer to everything is death. Destruction. No amount of diplomacy can face against this thing. No amount of love can fix this, as it was love that bred it. Grass, subtly slipping by under wing. A safe place to rest for a moment. Death and the defiance of it, the life that continued to burn. One could go and not be missed. Many more have gone and not be missed, so what is but one? One person. One moon. One sun. One life.
To Jim, a normal life was a completely alien concept. His brief relationships always ended in awkward disappointment, when interested parties would find that his brooding and aloof personality wasn't a cover. In fact, he had no personality, and was perfectly content to stare at his ceiling. He sought no companionship and felt no loneliness. To many, it was a state to be pitied, and many hoped it could be remedied. But for Jim, it was nothing. A triviality. Many find him pleasant to be around, and even liked him. But in Jim's mind, they liked the pieces of him. The pieces that had held through the torture that had broken the rest of him. In essence - in his own mind - he wasn't a person. Just merely some parts of one attempting to hold itself together.
Not that even that would matter. One day, Jim got a splitting pain in his head while he was in the midst of one of his trances. He was seeing the future, when suddenly, the vision was consumed by fire and noise - a cacophony that left him nearly blind out of one eye for the next few hours. He had saw something terrible. But life went on. Life itself was often times terrible, and he thought nothing of it.
The next day at school, while sitting in class, Jim fell into another trance. In it, he watched as a fellow student stepped into the classroom brandishing a rifle. He swept the class with gunfire, but most were saved because they ducked under their desks. Most, except for Jim. Who remained in his desk, stuck in a trance-like state.
The coroner said he probably died a painless death. But like all angsty teens, Jim knew better. He knew that he had already died long ago, probably not long after his mother had abandoned him. In his final trance, time seemed to move backwards, like a film reel in reverse. In it, Jim watched his life, what passed for it, flick by. All the things he missed, he gleaned. Up to the point of his birth, where everything became hazy. All the pieces he was missing were there. At the point where his life ended, his life also began.
---
It was the year of children. Twenty deaths. All younger than twenty. Where was the sense?
And when he was drunk, he tended to vent. Violently.
And so for his entire childhood, Jim alternated between having the snot beat out of him at school, and having the snot beat out of him at home. Violence was the answer, and inevitably, it wore Jim down to the breaking point. Something happened, though Jim always says he can't remember what. In the end, it doesn't matter anyway. The next time Jim woke up, he was halfway across the country in an airport terminal that smelled of stale curry and rubbing alcohol.
Jim adjusted well to his new surroundings. He was put in foster care - a relative angel compared to what his foster parents called the "usual raff." Still, Jim regularly slipped into melacholic trances. He would lie for hours, staring at the ceiling. Barely breathing. His body wouldn't move, but in his mind, Jim was a million miles away.
Insect wars and petty ambitions. Shaky diplomacy and a stiff backhand. A life spent for a life gained. Stars in my hands and a moon at my feet. I don't feel anything anymore, and I can't explain why. It's so hard to face, and there's so little to say. The answer to everything is death. Destruction. No amount of diplomacy can face against this thing. No amount of love can fix this, as it was love that bred it. Grass, subtly slipping by under wing. A safe place to rest for a moment. Death and the defiance of it, the life that continued to burn. One could go and not be missed. Many more have gone and not be missed, so what is but one? One person. One moon. One sun. One life.
To Jim, a normal life was a completely alien concept. His brief relationships always ended in awkward disappointment, when interested parties would find that his brooding and aloof personality wasn't a cover. In fact, he had no personality, and was perfectly content to stare at his ceiling. He sought no companionship and felt no loneliness. To many, it was a state to be pitied, and many hoped it could be remedied. But for Jim, it was nothing. A triviality. Many find him pleasant to be around, and even liked him. But in Jim's mind, they liked the pieces of him. The pieces that had held through the torture that had broken the rest of him. In essence - in his own mind - he wasn't a person. Just merely some parts of one attempting to hold itself together.
Not that even that would matter. One day, Jim got a splitting pain in his head while he was in the midst of one of his trances. He was seeing the future, when suddenly, the vision was consumed by fire and noise - a cacophony that left him nearly blind out of one eye for the next few hours. He had saw something terrible. But life went on. Life itself was often times terrible, and he thought nothing of it.
The next day at school, while sitting in class, Jim fell into another trance. In it, he watched as a fellow student stepped into the classroom brandishing a rifle. He swept the class with gunfire, but most were saved because they ducked under their desks. Most, except for Jim. Who remained in his desk, stuck in a trance-like state.
The coroner said he probably died a painless death. But like all angsty teens, Jim knew better. He knew that he had already died long ago, probably not long after his mother had abandoned him. In his final trance, time seemed to move backwards, like a film reel in reverse. In it, Jim watched his life, what passed for it, flick by. All the things he missed, he gleaned. Up to the point of his birth, where everything became hazy. All the pieces he was missing were there. At the point where his life ended, his life also began.
---
It was the year of children. Twenty deaths. All younger than twenty. Where was the sense?
Monday, December 03, 2007
Treble .45
My world was vertical, the orange sherbet horizon cutting through my vision like a hazy thunderbolt. I was on my side, and that's all I could really discern. My thoughts swam drunkenly between hazy reality and vivid daydream meanderings. Hallucinations really. I imagined in some remote part of my brain that they were brought on by blood loss. I could feel the warm tide creeping up my ribs. An image of frost clotting my blood swam lazily through my mind. Maybe I would make it. Maybe the frost and snow would save me. Pfeh. Whatever to keep me calm.
I had no idea how long I'd been lying there before somebody called for help. An hour? Two hours? Ten hours? It didn't matter. My hands had long since lost all feeling. Attempting to wiggle my pinkies, I found that they still moved - stiffly - though I couldn't be sure they were actually moving at all. When the paramedics did arrive, they turned me on my back. The sky was bright orange from the city lights reflecting off fluffy clouds, and snowflakes fluttered down lazily on whispers of a breeze. Some caught in my eyelashes, and I was amused at their attempts to escape before their inevitable demise. A few more moments of life. A few more moments. Some escaped. Some didn't.
The paramedics were asking questions. I couldn't hear anything they were saying. It was all gibberish. I could feel my brows furrowing in frustration. As if to say, I'm dying here. Could you at least keep it down while I'm slipping away?
Of course, paramedics are never the best at reading body language. They hoisted me onto a stretcher and hauled me into the ambulance. It was warm. Presently. It was actually burning.
---
She was the third in a week. A black body bag was no place for her.
I had no idea how long I'd been lying there before somebody called for help. An hour? Two hours? Ten hours? It didn't matter. My hands had long since lost all feeling. Attempting to wiggle my pinkies, I found that they still moved - stiffly - though I couldn't be sure they were actually moving at all. When the paramedics did arrive, they turned me on my back. The sky was bright orange from the city lights reflecting off fluffy clouds, and snowflakes fluttered down lazily on whispers of a breeze. Some caught in my eyelashes, and I was amused at their attempts to escape before their inevitable demise. A few more moments of life. A few more moments. Some escaped. Some didn't.
The paramedics were asking questions. I couldn't hear anything they were saying. It was all gibberish. I could feel my brows furrowing in frustration. As if to say, I'm dying here. Could you at least keep it down while I'm slipping away?
Of course, paramedics are never the best at reading body language. They hoisted me onto a stretcher and hauled me into the ambulance. It was warm. Presently. It was actually burning.
---
She was the third in a week. A black body bag was no place for her.
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