we are supermodern we are retroactive we are automatons
we are individuals we are whispers we are all you hear.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Farewells Are Forgone.

The snow is falling once more. Winter seems to never give up here, by the ocean. The wind blows, the rain comes, washes the white away, but ever still the snow returns. It was pretty when it arrived and now it is a nuisance, a thorn in the boot. I can associate with that feeling.

There was a time when people actually liked having me around. They sought my time to spend together. I'm not sure what events transpired, but it feels as though I'm stuck eating the crumbs of everyone who have been long from this place. Do I emit such a low impact on the lives of those around me that they don't even register my absence? Rhetorical.

I'm leaving soon, from this eastern coast, and I don't think I'll be coming back. I've got enough self-pity to finish with this final statement: my departure will be marked with a blink and no whispers. I am the meteor causing no crater.

Monday, March 23, 2009

I May Be Young...

If there is any one thing I've learned from all the shit I've read, all the shit I've seen, all the shit I've been through, it's this: you only live once. Maybe you read this and are thinking "Great, another piece of shit teenager spitting out worthless nuggets of self-help bullshit," and you might be right in your judgement, and if you think you are you can probably fuck off right now. But if you're going to stick around, I want you to know that some of this might apply to you, and if it does I make no apologies.

You only live once. Don't hold a grudge unless you've got a goddamn good fucking reason. If your best friend sleeps with your guy or your girl, don't be a fucking fool. If they really are your best friend - and I'm not talking this bffl bullshit; I mean your real best friend, the one you'd would take a bullet for and they would you - then one guy or girl you happen to enjoy a regular fucking with is not worth losing them over. And most of the time, you need to tell people what they want to hear. They only live once, just like you, and there's no reason to make their life any worse than it already may be, no matter how many bags of shit you feel like.

Sometimes you need to stop and reevaluate your life. You need to stop and see your fuckups, the little drops of blood on your perfect white life. And you need to change. Always change. Change your life, change your style, change your habits, change your hobbies, change your friends. If you wake up in the morning and look at the girl or guy next to you and want to punch you or her in the face until teeth bite your knuckles and a tongue hits the bedsheets, maybe you need to leave. If you wake up in the morning and look at your surroundings and maybe want to burn it all down around you, leaving your charred remembrances behind as you shut the cindering door, maybe you need to leave. And if you want to rip out the throats of your friends so their irritating voices can't claw the walls of your skull anymore, maybe you need to leave.

I look at my life, and the pissed-off grimace I've taken to showing lately, and I realize this: I need to get out. I need to leave. I need to empty my soul and my room of my shit that is too heavy to carry and get out. I see the blood stains, I feel the weight of my bags of shit, and I need to wash them away and toss them in the garbage. And yeah, this is the third time this has happened, and I don't expect it to be the last. Constant change is a force of nature and my lifeforce.

You only live once, and no one lives very long. Get done what you want to get done. Don't fall into the trap that university or college and a spouse and two kids (one boy, one girl), and polo shirts and a membership to the golf club and owning a house and never really being free is the right thing for you. Maybe it is. But you won't know for sure unless you find out on your own. Think for yourself. See yourself in a dream and end up there alive. Be your shifting self.

And don't forget that you only get one chance. Game over.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

The Ocean Has Freshwater Dreams

Spring is the season of love. The birds are out, the squirrels are out, the people are out, and they're all fucking. Me, I'm watching low-quality videos of naked girls because being an antisocial piece of shit isn't such a prosperous occupation. Oh, the joy. Hear the birds singing: Springtime! Hear the fake moans from the girls on the computer screen: springtime.

Walking around with nowhere to go. Getting to a party late because it was a nice day and kissing in the park on the way was called for. Holding hands while the sun beats down, warm and gentle caresses in beams of light. Shine in the eyes of the girl who means the most. Laying in wet grass together. These are the things I miss, the things I wish I dreamt about. The things I don't remember having.

Green is the colour of spring. Green is the colour of sickness. These are connected. Rain is the weather of spring. Rain is a pathetic fallacy of the way I feel when I see couples in spring. These, too, are connected. Brown, dirty snow mars the streets and lawns right now. When it all washes away, things will turn green quickly thereafter. I will join them.

Loneliness isn't the most appealing virtue in a guy. It makes him seem like he's too clingy or needy or lacking self-confidence. It's too bad, because everyone is pretty lonely. They just don't admit it because they don't want to let their shield down. Well, here you go. You hear that? That's my armour falling to the ground. I give up defending myself, fighting to keep that most real feeling from showing through the cracks. I am naked and all I have are my dreams to keep me from freezing.

Superfluous, melodramatic, self-indulgent narcissist. Hello, my name is. Oh, I didn't see you there, gazing at these words from your desk. I hope your chair is more comfortable than mine. This one gives me poor posture and digs into my back. How is the weather where you are? Is it rainy? Do you ever feel just a little bit alone? Because you are. But you don't have to be. Look around. You can tell it in their eyes, they want to be a part of you. To take a part of you with them when they're no longer around. And not in a "sociopath's trophy" way. They want your stories and the singular experience of experiencing your experience to take with them. They want you.

So do I. So take a chance. Take my hand. Take a walk. Take your time. While I figure out if this is all directed at you, or if it's at me.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Dust to dust, she said.

I've been more cheerful than normal the last few days and I can't figure out why. Nothing in my life has changed, really, except that I've accepted failing English. I don't really know what is going on around me anymore. I feel like I become more and more withdrawn as the hours pass. I used to socialize with everyone on my floor as often as I could but now I just want to get away from them, most of the time. It happened in my old residence too; I just withdrew myself from everyone and turned into some sort of rare legendary Pokémon, the ones that change location every time you look them up in your Pokédex. Except I'm always here. Right here, in this uncomfortable chair. With my eyes on the screen and my hands on plastic. I just backspaced what I put here.

I went out last night, to a bar I've never been before. Gus's Pub is a real place. It exists, yeah, but it doesn't hold up the same pretense as the Lower Deck and the Seahorse. Gus's feels like a place you can sit and nurse your whiskey straight and no one with look at you, thinking "WHY ISN'T HE HAVING A GOOD TIME LIKE ME???" And there's a glassed-in area with slot machines. I saw an amazing old lady wearing all fur and one of those tall cylinder hats leave at one point during the night, I think just after they turned the machines off.

It was Indie Pop Night and I had so much fun. Almost everyone there was dancing, on the stage, on the dance floor, on the carpeted areas around the dance floor. There was one guy there, a jolly fellow with an amazing moustache, who I didn't like at first because he was a clapper. You know, the guy who occasionally claps to the beat for a bit, but he's the only one doing it. I'm not really a fan of clappers, but he was hilarious. I complimented his moustache and he gave me a gigantic jovial, shy smile and thanked me for it. It reversed my opinion of him instantly. I met a girl from the messageboard I take part on, and saw another girl I met last week at the Palace (which I am not going to again for an undisclosed amount of time because it sucks). I saw the stock manager, one of the guys who interviewed me, from American Apparel and I hope he remembers me and gets the other manager to call me for a job. There was a girl there with amazing black hair and gorgeous eyes who I wanted to talk to but for some reason I always want eye contact before I say anything. I don't regret mistakes, but I do feel that way for missed opportunities. At least you try if you make a mistake. The friends I went with all had fun, I had a lot of fun, it was good. I also met a friend from my Spanish tutorial and, after all my friends left, we hung out for the rest of the night.

After we got her very drunk friend a cab, we started to walk to the downtown region and she asked me what my favourite word was, in terms of both sound and meaning, together. This was really difficult. I had no idea (have no idea?) what that is, so I said cavalier, first. Then chivalry. Her's is robust, which made me think of a very busty robot and I told her that. She didn't seem to appreciate the imagery. I told her about the film I am planning to make for my NSCAD portfolio and she asked me what the whole thing meant. I had to think about it for a bit, but I guess it really just means that no matter what you do in life, it doesn't amount to anything substantial because it all goes away the moment your eyes see white for the last time. Ashes to ashes, I said. Dust to dust, she said.

Now I believe I am some form of negative realist-nihilist fusion wherein nothing means anything except how it pertains to Actual Reality and thinking anything else is just altering your state of Personal Reality. I'll think I'll keep the explanation for that until tomorrow.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

The Hitman Dream

Sometimes I want to be a hitman. My life as a hitman would be fantastic. I would drink classy things like expensive white wines and sip vodka no-ices. I would eat pure vegetarian meals (after all, if I killed humans for money, I wouldn't need to kill animals for food) consisting primarily of organic, locally grown produce. And I would use light vinegarette dressing.
I would be classy as fuck.

I'd be the guy who spends a lot of time alone, never letting his few friends know his dire secret - he is a trained assassin. I would be proficient in so many kinds of munitions and ways to make things look like an accident. And my modus operandi would be to inflict as little pain as possible. No one needs to get hurt, just killed. You know. Because I'd be a hitman, and that's what we do. Kill and swoon ladies. And there would be much swooning.

I wouldn't be a suit-and-tie hitman. That's so passé. I'd be a fashionably conscious hitman and on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings I would read fashion blogs to get up-to-date information. Then I would go to thrift stores and places that sell slick looking threads and I would look real good. Except when I was on the job. Then my wardrobe would be different depending on the circumstances. If I had to kill a man who was a football watcher and I could only get him at the stadium, I would wear a jersey for the team he liked and offer to buy him a drink. Then I would kill him. Death by hotdog. And I would think in my head "Should have watched your cholesterol." But I would not say it. Witty remarks when you're killing someone is too tacky for me, the super-hip hitman.

I think in my spare time, when I'm not at the shooting range or practicing my martial arts and close-quarters-combat, I would probably pick up a hobby of perhaps writing down novels based on my exploits. Or maybe a comic series. I can see that going over well. The title of the first issue could be The Hitman Buys a Sweet Vintage Leather Jacket and Kills a Man With a Shower Curtain. And I would have my equally-hip-but-not-a-hitman friend hand-draw/paint/sculpt every panel. And we would make it available on the internet for everyone to read.

I see that getting much attention. Would you read it? I know you know that you might.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Four Part Epic: Miniscule Features of the Universe

I'm gonna be honest, my life is pretty fucked right now.
WARNING: everyone needs to complain, and isn't that what blogs are for?

Wasting a year (and $15000) of my life in a school I don't dig seems like a pretty shitty move. The concept of regular university just destroys me. I can't handle the variations in the teaching styles, the complete lack of one-on-one. The professors don't give a shit about the students (save my Spanish teacher; she's a sweet deal) and it generally feels like they want everyone to fail, and if I have to rip off my arms and legs to pay for this shit, I want some fucking empathy.

That's why I don't care that I'm failing my English class. I was going to major in that, but what can you do with a BA in English besides watch porn and masturbate over old books all day.

I need out of this, but I gotta stick around until the end. Nothing like a big black mark on your transcript AND your bank account to really fuck you over.

An apartment is the ultimate freedom. You move in, make it yours with art and decoration and your personal layout of belongings, and then spruce it up even more with some empty Chinese food containers and greasy pizza boxes. The more beer you spill on your floor, the more it feels like a home.
I miss having a home.

I want a job. This city is so hard to get a job in. Fucking recession. How can we pay for our school if we can't get a job? Oh, wait, we need schooling to get a job? Well, fuck you cycle.

I've been waiting for American Apparel to call me back for almost two weeks now. I don't know if that means I wasn't hired or what the fuck, but getting this job would/will change my life. Any job would be nice, but this one would leave me coming in my pants all the way down to my Nike high tops that hurt my right foot (it chafes or something, makes my baby toe go asleep and I wonder if it's going to fall off).

I want a (fake) leather jacket.
I want a pair of (unnecessarily) large (fake) glasses.
I want a (real) beard.
And lots of scarves.

Then, after I get those (except the beard: that could take years), I can work on my tattoos. But that's for another day.

There's a party tonight. See you there.