Seabass

Humans are funny things.

I sometimes wonder if the all the white supremacists, the jingoists, and the elite nationalists ever think about their beliefs, about how organized hate is a massive maw that can only end up eating itself. When the world runs out of blacks, hispanics, asians, and all manner of undesireables, and the bloodlines are at last purified, what will be left? When the borders are closed and the walls built high enough that only "us" can live here, and not "them," what will we have?

I'm often locked up in my own head, and that's just one thing that passed me by today. What would really happen? Utopia or dystopia? Has anyone really figured it through all the way? It doesn't take a lot, and as a rule of thumb, any agenda that reaches its goals through the systematic displacement, destruction, or harm to another person or place is doomed to fail, as the populations of the world only accept good neighbors, and only tolerate bad ones for so long.

Some would see that as a reason to be an aggressor, to take things by force. Again, a failing notion, as the population of would-be tyrants, punks, and shit-disturbers in this world is vastly outnumbered by the number of people who care only enough to "thump 'yo ass back to the stone-age," and then carry on their lives as per normal.

Xenophobia is just about as bad. It irks me like it irks a lot of people that a difference of appearance, language, or belief is enough to warrant mistrust and hostility. It's an excuse, is what it is. An excuse born of laziness, because a lot of people are lazy. Too lazy to understand another group, another demographic, and instead just figure they're creepy and should stay away.

Of course, me ranting about this stuff is about as effective as the stuff I rant about. The next generation is going to be worse than the last, and if people's understanding of history and our common roots is any example, I can safely bet that we've got many more decades of ignorant folk banding together with pitchforks and fire to look forward to.

Reasoning this shit is giving me a headache. Perhaps an indication that I shouldn't be trying to reason it.

We flew overhead while you sat in bed, watching

A pleasant midnight dream where the sun comes up, a brilliant blue and white. The grasses are damp and almost as tall as my neck when I sit cross-legged, I feel like I'm a lopsided soccer ball floating on a sea of waving, drifting green.

As I stand up, the breeze shifts slightly. Chilly, but not cold enough to draw a shiver. It's an odd mix of the sun's warm, lambent rays, and the invisible eddies of the twilight air. I'm an old sack of bones in a weathered leather case, but even a rattling old sack like me remembers how to fly. Joints pop and fingers creak as I lift my arms, and suddenly I'm drifting like a frond on a river-bend.

And of course, as I drift, I dream of sleeping. Water lapping on shorelines, and - of course - that one feeling that permeates the universe. The feeling of being absolutely, completely, and utterly alone. And, for this short nap within a short nap, being absolutely alright with that.

Before I know it, I'm an arrow, cutting a path through the grass. The smell of green and damp is everywhere, and I can't feel my face, it's so cold. But I'm exhilarated. All I want to do is go faster and faster. In some sleep-groggy crease in my brain, I imagine that if I go fast enough, I'll break through into the real world, flight and all. Before too long its just a giant green and blue blur, hypnotizing in its beauty. Of course, before too long, it all becomes wearying, like I'm running but can't remember why. Somewhere, thunder claps, and I begin to spiral down, through the grass, through the dirt, through the very earth itself.

As I descend, it's night-time. I can see the lights below, still very distant. I can imagine which ones are yours, and which ones are mine. I'm curious, and I'd like to see each one up close. But not yet.

It's winter now, and before anything, I'm standing in the park. The sky is pink with biting frost, and even the snow on the ground would shiver if it could. I'm standing here trying to remember why I'm here. And then it's all very clear.

This was the beginning.

Another clap of thunder and then I'm awake. A gibbering of languages is in my head, before resolving itself to the sound of a desk fan, speaking self-importantly.

Strangers spare no love

There's a decline coming. Did you know that? One bank has already closed, with rumors that numerous more are falling from the wings. While this one bank was nowhere near me, I'm not so stupid to think that the ripples from one will never reach my shores.

I've been considering going back to school, but in this province of oil and money and not much else, there really doesn't seem to be any opportunities for me, a prodigy of the written language and an anti-social intellectual. Courses are available, but I may as well throw my money in a hole for the return.

I've been looking out of province as well, and some results have been a bit more promising. I just don't know if I have the required means to make it happen. I've no love for student debt, and so far I've avoided it. I just want to make sure I get the right course, or else I'll very likely be stuck in limbo forever, with no funds to go back to school, and no documentation to secure a reasonable job.

That would mean I'd be freelancing for the rest of my life, and while exciting, I've had enough already with companies trying to negotiate contracts - as though I'm being frivolous with my charging, when indeed, this is how I'm making the bulk of my living. Given the difference between eating breakfast and not, I'm sorry, but I'd very much like to.

I am 1986

I can't really tell you. I can't whisper in your ear and explain what's been running through my head. It's a combination of not knowing what to say, and you not wanting to hear it when I finally say it.

I'm not well. Not in the head. Not in the heart. Unlike "normal" people, I can't go to a doctor and figure out what's wrong. Their solutions are theoretical at best. How can anyone, even a professional, know for sure what the problem is? How can I go through the rest of my life taking some pill I'm not sure is working? It's not like an infection. Despite what was said, it's not going to spread if you read it or hear it. It's not life threatening unless I make it so, and it's not chronic in the traditional sense that it's here forever. Some mornings, I wake up and it's gone like the mist. But that doesn't really matter because everyone will still treat me like I'm sick.

And some days it comes back unexpectedly. But I deal with it. I really don't have the option not to.

I'm never going to vouch for my illness. I'm never going to try and "raise awareness." I figure enough awareness has been raised in the last 10 years that people should know by now. Or at least, know better. I am who I am, and that's a very strange and complex thing. I am also what I am, which second to who I am, and is also very complex. The two things are linked, but are also very independent. No amount of willpower can change DNA, and likewise, no amount of genetics can determine the quality of a character.

Mental illness is funny like that. It's a separate condition from the personality, but it affects it, so many just assume that it's a mental phenomenon, and therefore, must be at the whim of the person affected. Few are willing to openly say so these days, but it's common-thought. Many still believe that mental illness is just in a person's head, and could go away if someone tried hard enough.

It's not that simple, but thanks for the support anyway. There are many times when I'm anxious. When I'm depressed. When I'm angry. Many times it's a perfectly natural passing phase, but I've got a history*.
*To be read with an ominous tone, foretelling of doom and misery.

Sometimes it's not just a passing phase. I'm prepared for that. Sometimes the fallout of that coping process ends up on this blog. Sometimes it ends up in a sketchbook beside my desk. Sometimes nothing happens. I just sleep on it for a couple of nights and wake up eventually feeling a bit more normal. Sometimes I talk to people about it, but that's a rare thing now, since it seems that people are still idiots when it comes to dealing with someone who's having a mental moment. I'm not suicidal. I've never been, and never will be. I'm also not homicidal. Likewise, I never will be. I'm anxious, I'm depressed and sometimes, I'm angry.

I'm also relatively intelligent (I can figure out how to get my foot out of my mouth on occasion), gainfully employed, and somewhat ambitious. I enjoy laughter, friends, no small amount of alcohol, and also traveling. I worry about my future and I think about past loves. I write and play instruments, and just generally try to make life a little bit better for people.

Just reading that last part, it'd be easy to believe that I'm a normal person. I'm not, but nor would I ask to be. I didn't ask to be depressed either, but as a very wise person (and no stranger to her own particularly harrowing hardships) once told me (since I can't remember the whole quote): "Write On." And there was something about adversity in there as well, but I can't remember, and I can't find the original post.

But tangent aside, it's been sound advice for years, and so I'll keep heeding it. Even if what I write doesn't always turn out.

Smile

Hey kids.

Just doing some renovations. Don't mind anything if you see some colours change or some broken pictures.

I may also be drafting some entries, and by that, I mean you will no longer be able to read some of them. It's alright. They were shit anyway.

ps - yes. This will be the first post on my blog that doesn't allow comments.

Oh those cheeky lads

I suppose I'm a little late in posting this, but in all honesty, none of this is even newsworthy anymore anyway.

I guess I'll say it right here. The pictures I shot didn't really turn out for one reason or another. Well, actually, I'm being polite. I had a lot of decent shots. But they were all marred by some fucking ham-brained idiot that couldn't keep herself in the seated position, about ten feet in front of us. All of my good pictures have a huge, blurry, crassly shaven head right in the middle that utterly ruins it. So thanks to you, random stranger. I sincerely hope that you had a bad case of hemorrhoids that kept you from sitting, or at least standing out of the way.

Otherwise, it was good to see the gang again, however brief the visit may have been. It is unfortunate that the camping side of things didn't work out. I wasn't really too keen on packing everything up, trucking it two hours out of the city, and then turning around and hauling back into the city for the show. The cost of gas is... prohibitive for such endeavors, hence why I was hoping to hit the road after the Mogwai concert. That way, I wouldn't be driving around in circles, burning all my gas and thus my money, which would be better spent on things like food and beer.

But anyway.




Humorous aside, we were standing for a while, waiting for the band, when some random chick just sidles up beside Dan and starts lighting up a cigarette. Took her about 15 seconds to realize - oh hey, I don't know these people. It was pretty funny. Slightly awkward, but still pretty funny.

Also, speaking of bands, when we got there, it was another London band up to play, not Mogwai as the original itinerary stated. I guess these guys went by the name of Wire, and Dan was mentioning they're pretty big overseas. I can't imagine how though. Listening to them, I'm given great (if perhaps false) hope that I might one day be able to make it big as a musician. If a band of three guitars can belt out the same three ill-tuned chords, over and over, with minute variations between songs, while simultaneously yelling unintelligibly into a microphone (and no, it wasn't just the accent), and still be considered anything even remotely reminiscent of music, then the horizon is indeed very bright, the water-mark, very very low.

Perhaps its not their fault. They are delivering a product, however unpalatable to me, and it is being consumed by... err... consumers.

But anyway. Mogwai was fucking awesome. And that's about all that needs to be said on the topic. We were sitting probably 20-30 feet from the stage, and I was still deaf by night's end.



And there you have it folks. A chop-bit synopsis of the Debacle of Awesomeness '08.