Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Stay steady that’s the rule of the book. You will not get wavered, but follow the scent of the swayed. I have a picture in my head of the wonderful days ahead, but they’re not. They’re not.

You can leave, you know? SFT will go on. There are some of us who are lifers. I think you need to see a therapist. That’s my suggestion.

Forgive the sins of the past, but don’t let them back to haunt you. So many presents in my insides, it’s so amazing. Yet all I’ve known is to disappoint them, and they do not take these presents lightly.

What have you got to show for? You’re out of college for most of it, and people don’t even seem to acknowledge all the time and effort you put into this group. What was the point of it all?

Do you make a purpose out of this life? Can you shape a cloud out of smoke and show them signs of desperation, euphoria and ennui? What gives and who takes?

But you know, there are some people in Parkdale who are white. So maybe we should consider that as well.

The alleys are dark and the pavement is slick with my desire dripping bit by bit. When it rains, it pours. When it burns, it burns. The sounds of the gutter will follow your footsteps into the unexplored and the unsteady.

Don’t tell me how to do my job for Tibet. If you haven’t burnt your finger in the movement, then please keep your thoughts to yourself.

We make hay out of the spoils of life. We make do with what we don’t. I own nothing. I belong only to your perception.

You don’t know how to garden? And you got hired?

There is a softness in here where you strike it feels like I’ve given into the force from underneath so that you can see me falling from all the way above.

When I tell you to do something, just fucking do it! Okay?!

Everyday feels like I have something to offer and something to take. But when I ask I have already refused your offer. Not because I’m humble but because I’m scared.

I think that Chinese lady is mentally handicapped. I tell her to do something and she just doesn’t listen to me. Is there anyone here who can speak Mandarin?

But I am a child, as are you, and as you fade so will my ignorance. I have bought a house by the cliff and the views are phenomenal. I just want to savour it before I bring it down to sea.

I disagree. I’d much rather engage people who can help this organization rather than the people who live in this community.

Hold the fort for the dead. Cry a slogan for you who passed away. Shed a tear for no one in particular. No one thinks of you in context anymore.

Who cares if we have a diverse board or not? It’s not like we’re going to put our pictures up online.

Do you carry the burden of those you care for? It’s a question that nobody does. It’s an act that everyone questions. The trick is not to question the unquestionable. The way is to answer it on your terms. We only love you. I’ve only known you for so long and so little.

I’m the boss here! Gelek listens to me. YOU listen to me!

I’m going to sleep because there is no seed inside the fruit inside the bowl. I’m going to sleep because I know you will be there for me.

We’ll start a group together, baby. We don’t need them.

Show a way. Be an example.

You’re okay, I guess.

Taking Back Our Losar 2009

I was visiting Phayul the other day and I noticed a link on the corner that proclaimed “Say No to Losar 2009″. Click the link and it takes you to a registration page with profile pictures of – Tenzin Tsundue, Lhadon Tethong etc., — the various leaders within the independence movement who have supposedly signed on to this appeal. I’ve had talks about this issue a number of times with friends and family. At first I tended to think that “Saying no to Losar” was a good idea, a way to release pent up anger in the lead-up to the 50-year anniversary of the first popular uprisings in Tibet. But the more that I’ve talked about this and thought about it, the clearer it has become: Losar must not be affected because of the significance of 2009.

The reasoning behind the growing call for saying “NO to LOSAR” (which, by the way, makes our new year sound as if it’s just some Canadian mining corporate in Tibet) is this: on the 50th anniversary of the uprising of March 10, 1959, Tibetans all around the world will mute their Losar celebrations, and hold prayers and vigils instead, in a sign of solidarity and in memory of those who have perished inside Tibet.

“No to Losar 2009” is being propagated as a show of respect. As a way of saying to the Tibetans in Tibet and the world beyond that we are capable of missing a few days of festivities, and that we have more pressing and urgent matters to deal with. There is an underlying subtext in the directives being issued by the Tibetan groups in India, and elsewhere, which equates celebrations to callousness.

A reminder that, lest we get too carried away, our brothers and sisters are still bearing the brunt of one of the most oppressive regimes on earth.

All of this is true. It’s true that we are about to begin yet another year reeling from the lies of the Chinese government. It’s true that the Chinese government is increasing its pressure on the Tibet freedom movement. It’s true that there are no signs of reprieve, and yet we’re constantly being told that we have to bide our time and hope that things speed up.

So we’re pissed off, and rightfully so. We’re angry about what has happened so far. We’ve bared ourselves on waves of hopelessness, disbelief, anticipation, and anger. And so, on the most festive period on our calendar, the “No to Losar 2009” advocates tell us to sacrifice our joy for the sake of those who suffer.

Or at least that’s what the Tibetan groups seem to be saying in their press releases. (If I’ve missed or misunderstood any part, I’m more than glad to be corrected.) How can we celebrate in the face of half a century of oppression? It’s a direct appeal to the heart and our conscience.

But what about our heads? Does this make sense tactically, strategically?

One of the most striking parallels throughout history, among the various regimes that have imperiled and attempted to eradicate a group of people, is their ways of trying to bind those in chains into a suffering so deep and pervasive that it sucks the life out of them. Oppressors try to rob the basic humanity of those who are being oppressed. If they succeed in making us inhuman, the crimes of genocide become sterilized and clinical.

So the thinking was in Nazi Germany, in history’s various imperialist and colonialist empires, and in the Chinese regime as well.

So how do we resist genocide? How do we resist the denial of our humanity? One way is to be happy. To be happy is to be human. Happiness is a force that buckles the steely reins of dictators and seeps effortlessly through the shackles and cloaks of oppression. It is a light that dims but never withers, a song that gathers spirits and resonates through the roof for the whole world to hear. It is a burst of colours, of the so many things that make us who we are.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that celebrating Losar every year, happily and profusely, is a victory for a small nation of people numbering less than 2 % of China’s total population.

It is an even greater victory for the smaller minority that lives abroad, in far flung diasporas. It is a sign of defiance and of unity; a blazing symbol and a blaring horn that shouts, “We have our own traditions, we have our own identity and we celebrate our own new year.”

“We do not belong to you.”

The Chinese government may have taken a lot from us, and they continue to, but they can’t take our identity from us. Before all this talk of boycotting Losar, let us not forget that it belongs to us. It is a piece as unique and integral to us as our language, religion and mountains. A part of us that we can hold up against any other country in the world, to let them marvel at our ingenuity; that a civilization spread across a vast plateau high up the Himalayas can devise an intricate calendar all their own. There aren’t a lot of UN countries that can boast that.

But we can. Because Losar is ours.

And sure, some might say, “So what? It’s just a bunch of old rituals and an excuse for a lot of people to throw their money around and act silly.” It is true. But there are some among us who believe in the significance of Losar, of what it means to us, what it means to our parents, and what it says to the Chinese leaders.

Why are we creating this argument around something – celebrating Losar – that means a lot to some Tibetans, and not a lot to some people? It would be fine if the many impassioned activists among us resolved to not celebrate Losar because we didn’t feel right about it. But why dictate your absolutist convictions on the wider community that is already straining from the pressures of maintaining the language and culture in a rapidly homogenizing environment for their children?

The discussions in itself isn’t a bad thing – it’s an example of engaged minds butting heads – but when the debate boils down to accusing those that disagree of being “unpatriotic”, “uncaring” or “unsupportive”, that’s when you have to reconsider sending out mass appeals that have implications beyond just a call for political awareness.

Imagine if those at the helm of all of this issued a joint statement calling everyone to observe a moment of silence in memory of the so many that had perished and continue to suffer. Wouldn’t it be so much more engaging, inclusive and constructive to create programs and actions during Losar celebrations that use the energy of the people that have gathered, to have our various leaders speak out and raise the awareness and fervour of the crowd? Wouldn’t it be wiser and more prudent to use Losar as a high launching point for our campaigns in 2009? What better way to start the New Year off on a powerful note rather than with depressing notes about our state of exile?

Why begin the new year with a whimper?

And yet, because Tibetans inside Tibet have begun this movement, we are told of stories of this bizarre turnaround where Chinese authorities are now doling out cash and trying to force Tibetans to be joyous and happy. How much more absurd can this get?

Have we lost sight of the diversity of our community? Are we to believe that we should feel guilty and ashamed about celebrating something that is a significant part of who we are? Saying “NO to Losar” in 2009 makes as much sense as boycotting tsampa and butter tea because some Chinese company started manufacturing them.

Is there not a better, more articulate way of mobilizing the Tibetans other than telling us “it’s just a few days, get over it”?

Here’s an idea: let us have a day of Losar (either the first day or the third Sangsol day) as a remembrance day by holding a day of fast which not only symbolizes the shared suffering of Tibetans inside and out of Tibet, but also pays respect to those who have perished. We can use Losar as an example to educate people about the distinct features of Tibetan Losar; why Tibetans have a new year based on its own Tibetan Calendar for centuries and why we never consult the Chinese one. This would increase awareness, garner support and raise funds for further actions to serve the Tibetan cause.

Promoting our movement in a positive way will always succeed over issuing fragmented dictates that amplify the insularity of political groups, and subsequently disenchants the wider population that wants less and less to have anything to do with “politics”. The monopolistic and didactic approach defeats the purpose of what the Tibetan groups intended to accomplish with this campaign.

One of the more inspired actions during the brouhaha of the Beijing Olympics last year was when we created our own Tibet games. Did we hang our heads and turn the TV off during the 2008 games? No. We organized street rallies. We enlisted our own athletes and had them apply for visas to China so that they could participate in the Olympics and represent Tibet.

We didn’t even call for a mass boycott of the games, even though we had all the rights and reasons to. So we’re willing to be considerate towards foreign athletes but not to our own traditions?

If our goal is to help our brothers and sisters inside Tibet, then we have to think more strategically before making bold proclamations of what does or doesn’t help the cause. What helps our struggle is to make our presence felt wherever we live. What helps is sending articles to the general public about our upcoming Losar. What helps is inviting local dignitaries and media personalities to our New Year’s celebrations and to let them know that the Tibetans are holding special campaigns around the 50th anniversary of the Chinese occupation. What helps is finding creative ways to celebrate Losar meaningfully in the context of our history, issues and people.

What doesn’t help is alienating a large portion of the community and creating friction over the matter of whether we should or shouldn’t be having fun.

What doesn’t help is singling out a part of your identity and carelessly flicking it off in some misguided attempt to alleviate the suffering of those inside Tibet.

What doesn’t help is having knee-jerk reactions and thinking that they are an answer to our bigger problems.

What doesn’t help is trying to simplify your arguments by comparing the two different realities of Tibetans who live inside and out of Tibet.

What doesn’t help is calling people out to sacrifice something that ultimately turns out to be purposeless. So that, at the end of it all, not only do we have nothing to show for (except for resentment), but we also took away the chance for others to enjoy and have a good time in spite, and because, of the hard times.

And that last point is important. It is especially in times like these, when our outlook is bleakest, that we search and fight for the reasons that make us engaged, energized and alive.

Aren’t the joys of celebrating our identity something worth fighting for?

I certainly think it ranks up there somewhere between our right to self determination and our desire to have an independent Tibet.

We know that there is a lot of grief and anger over the recent crackdowns in Tibet. We know every time we wake up in Canada, and elsewhere, that we are spared from the grim reality of what our brothers and sisters face in Tibet. We know all of that and we must always resolve to change the situation for the better. But we ought to know how to do it in a way that promotes and strengthens our community, rather than polarizing it.

We must also know that Losar is the biggest event in our calendar. We know that Tibetan families everywhere prepare months in advance for this. We know about it from our own childhood: when we wouldn’t be able to sleep on the eve of Losar because of the sheer anticipation of eating khap sey, getting a year’s worth of pocket money, and slipping into new sets of clothes. We know of our visits to the temples, of offering our respects to our ancestors. We know of the so many merchants and shopkeepers who rely on Losar to start their year profitably. And so on, and so forth.

It is all of that.

And it has been that way for centuries. It’s a set of weeks that starts with a series of dances for getting rid of bad karma from the previous year. And it ends with prayers for peace and prosperity for all beings in the coming year. It is a humbling and beautiful way of harmonizing our resolve for peace, our need of festivities, and our commitment to our culture, traditions and language flourishing so that we can hold our heads up high in the face of an empire as oppressive as China.

Sometimes, like they say, you gotta make best of what you got.

And the best way, I believe, for us to help the Tibetans in Tibet and ourselves, is to show China and the rest of the world that we are a nation of free and united people, proud and alive – as emphatically as possible.

Therefore, in response to the call to say “No to Losar”, I offer a humble “No thanks” and a hearty “Tashi Delek.”

[I would be remiss not to thank my partner, Kalsang, for her initial idea about writing this piece, and for encouraging me along the process with her passion for her culture and country, and her quick wit as well.

And also to my friend and mentor Derek, for his advice and fine-tuning of my message.]

I got no words

no words

all I’ve got is pebbles pebbles pebbles marbles pebbles

I just finished listening to a documentary about activist burnout, which aired on CBC radio’s “the Sunday Edition” program, last Sunday, Sept. 12. The reporter and producer of that episode was Frank Faulk, and he interviewed me among a bunch of other activists.

The title of the episode: Burning Bright. (It’s on the second hour.)

I hesitated telling people about this documentary, partly because I felt like it would be some self-flagellating way to talk about myself, and another because a lot of things happened after the interview that reflected and, in some cases, went against what I had talked about during my conversations with Frank.

And now after I listened to it — on CD because Frank so generously sent a copy to me — I still hesitate to talk about it because I sound like I’m talking with my nose pinched so out of touch … so presumptuous and naive.

Allow me to put some context to where I was at the time and where I was coming from:

At the time that Frank was interviewing me, it was in the heat of the Olympic build-up. It was the spring of 2008, which now seems so distant but was actually just a few months ago. Tibetans had just recently risen up openly against the Chinese occupation. News of monks being killed and protests happening all over the world were fresh in every morning news reports. Toronto was abuzz: we had just a couple of weeks ago staged massive protests not only in Toronto, the largest Tibetan settlement outside of Asia, but also in places like Vancouver and Ottawa. I was in the thick of organizing dozens of school buses packed to the doors with Tibetans from Toronto heading to Ottawa to protest on the Parliament Hill. It was unprecedented.

There was a lot of excitement, moments of despair and panic, relief and anger, uncertainty and hope. It was a time when a committee of five fairly disparate organizations came together under one committee in a show of solidarity to collectively meet the challenges and opportunities presented by the summer olympic spectacle.

And it was during these intense periods of organizing and strategizing that punctuated the stress that I was dealing with and which eventually led to a burnout; which was gradual, but which took a while for me to register. For the most part, when you’re in the middle of a storm, you don’t really have the time to take stock of what’s being tossed around.

But that’s not to say that everything was a constant moment of discombobulation or some burgeoning heap of responsibility that was put on me in an unfair or unsustainable manner. I mean, parts of it do bear some truth in retrospect, but there were also times when I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. There is a sense of camaraderie in a dizzyingly uncontrollable situation that makes you come alive. We weren’t quite in the trenches like I’m making it sound, but we did have daily meetings with a healthy dose of shoutings and fist-banging and briefings all thrown in the mix while the rest of the community pricked their ears on every action we were planning.

For me, it was unprecedented and a tad crazy.

And this would all have been fine — in a youthful, activist frame of mind. Every person who feels passionate about something must be willing to step into the heat of it. But then there are those details: those intimate, boring, annoying details of life that invariably seep into your existence and stick out not because they’re there but because they have to.

Like the fact that you have a full-time job. Like the fact that you work in an office and having the phone ring every few minutes because a reporter would like to speak with you is not a fair use of the office phone or space.

And how asking to temporarily put your work on hold while you deal with more pressing matters (and expecting your co-workers to understand) isn’t realistic nor okay.

Like the fact that you’re sleeping only a couple of hours every night for almost weeks on end and how caffeine isn’t the solution to a mild narcoleptic like me.

Like the fact that you have family matters to deal with, documents to apply and mail, and a whole stack of “to-dos” that just piles and piles.

Or like the fact that you may have your own personal inhibitions and doubts and insecurities and manifold other feelings that you feel must be swept aside for the good of the whole. And how it eats you from the inside to have these “feelings”, and you don’t know who to share them with, and you feel like your shoulder’s been burdened beyond what it can hold.

Because, of course, everything around me will have to revolve around MY perspective. And regardless of how you admonish yourself to think more selflessly, it just won’t do and you’re stuck in a swirl of existential and moral dugouts that don’t appear to have any opening in those moments.

And it’s just my long way of coming to my point: no matter how entrenched you may be in a movement, or how passionate you feel about something, there are those things that need to be addressed to, in addition to this big explosion of actions, that will sometimes throw a wench into your plans and mess it all up.

There are obviously a plethora of great people who have managed to succeed by sacrificing some aspect of their personal lives or mindset, but to a lesser moral like me, that was just one detail too many.

That was something which was so sad and humanizing about Frank’s documentary. It’s the stories of individuals who plunge into these waves of events and actions and attempt to shape the chaos around them into something less burdening and more beautiful for others. And sometimes they succeed and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes they fight on in spite of what the outcomes are, and sometimes we just crash and fold.

Or sometimes we just tell ourselves that we need a break and then repeat the cycle again.

But that’s the other thing: this all makes it sound like I was some weather-beaten, grizzled activist subsisting on caffeine and living in a community all by itself. Which isn’t the case at all, and which again bears a point about how I was initially unsure about even talking to Frank and later, talking to people about it.

There are people I know personally who have sacrificed far more, on a much deeper level, and they seem to be carrying on just fine. No one, of course, knows what goes on inside. But that’s not the point. The point is that there are way active people in the Tibetan community and beyond who’ve accomplished a whole lot more, and here you have this seemingly solemn, young kid waxing poignant about how tough he had it and how he’s contemplating about taking a reprieve and all of that shit.

You see where I’m coming from, right? If you’ve stuck with this posting so far, you’ll get a sense of how I’m always in the frame of catching myself. It’s a perpetual series of me trying to snap a picture of myself as I trip myself on a rock.

There are a lot of points that should ideally be addressed in a more meaningful and forthright way. But I suppose today is not the time and maybe I’m not the right person.

It’s a fascinating thing, this to do with self-consciousness and awareness. You weave this orb of thoughts and conceptions that at one point totally grew beyond your control, and now you are, for better or worse, feeding it while futilely attempting to make sense of it all.

It just grows on, and keeps on full steam. And sometimes when the orb’s brightest, you just burn out.

And you put yourself on hold, because issues always come up, personality clashes occur, and at some point you realize that not everything you do will be under your control. Or have anything to do with what you think is right. It hits you in the nose like you just walked into a glass door.

We have questions many, but consolations few.

N.B. Frank did a wonderful job with the conversations and the subject he dealt with. The stories are told in a heartrendingly personal way that sheds an illuminating light on activism and the lives of activists and the people they affect. I believe part of that reflects the warm way in which Frank conducted his interviews. It was personal without being overly sentimental. And it was brutally straightforward and honest. Something I aspire to capture if and when I plan to trudge behind storytelling such as his.

P.S. Not that it matters in any meaningful way, but at the time of the interview, it was outdoors and quite brisk. I was cold, had a cold, and midway through the interview, I was really holding my bladder. Again — not that it matters … mjussayin yknow.

Is your mouth really the portal into your mind? Or have you cursed its easy impulses?

The way your jaws clench and your tongue beats against the roof of the mouth.

Has there ever been any thing that escaped the crushing swipe of your sniveling lips?

The smack of your neurons as they light your mind in ways that sometimes seem beyond your control.

Are they in spite of you or are they intrinsic?

The orifice … the holy, the sticky, the life and pus.

Flow out your mouth, don’t tempt them with spit.

For what is the heft of consequence, but your earth-shattering indifference?

And what curls up, do they wish of malice or embarassment?

They speak of a loneliness that stretches through abandoned warehouses and decaying apartments.

They sing of songs that rocks have forgotten, of mountains young and trees nubile.

When reflections scatter, and ripples disappear…

In its place remains the very essence,

Of what you are not what you thought of.

And what you won’t be when you get there.

So just be.

A word is born

In my head;

It trails after your being

Breathlessly following crashing falling endlessly

Your scent & descent

Condense with the imprints of your silence.

Of the drinks we swallowed and the problems that we drank,

Of cocktails and hallucinogens that disappear

With passing neurons, that free and imprison us listlessly

but as true as night is dark and as devious are fawning remarks — my word will remain conceived sheltered cosseted and cradled

forever unspoken

But Always There.

Of commentaries, it must be said that I always imagined a peppery and prim British gentleman holed up somewhere in the dank recesses of my brain, with a black umbrella over his head (who knows why) and being insufferably prone to having fascinations with the most sterile of things and events.

“… and when that street car rolls to a stop, its brief momentum slightly undulating it forward in spite of the halt, and the passengers spill out listlessly from the doors, only subconsciously looking to their right for any overzealous bike couriers or depth-perception impaired drivers …”

And so on. I could probably attribute this rather idiosyncratic trait of mine (hooey – off the rails with the perceived quirks, this one) to having grown up being mesmerized by nature shows that showed slow motion films of cheetahs closing in on gazelles as a matter-of-fact British accent cavorted in easy symphony with the musical score. Having studied in a small, retrospectively adorable, prim and private English school helps too, although I should admit that not too many of my peers shared in my enthusiasm for sounding properly foreign and insufferably elitist. 

Which is to say that I must have been a conceited yet amusing-in-a-sad-sort-of-way kid from way back then, which probably explains why I didn’t have a lot of friends. not that I’m getting any better at that presently.

So what is the point of this entry? Further: what was the point of my blog all along? If it was conceived under a very generous assumption of keeping people abreast of my undoings, well then, firstly, you should check out the visitor stats on my site; one word comes to mind: ouch!

And secondly, the whole point of going through the trouble of regaling some perceived audience of stories is that you have a story in the first place. Or opinions. Anything that can make someone go “oh yeah…” or “hmm … that certainly wasn’t two minutes I wasted on some thoroughly self-indulgent tripe.”

And if the reason I maintain this blog is to hone my writing skills, well then, like that irascible John McCain says so endearingly so often ‘my friends’, I have totally derailed that objective of mine too. OK, maybe not “totally”. But damn near close.

An old, senile degenerate could have churned out more words than I’ve managed to recently — no disrespect, John.

So what is it then? What is this apparently morose and mindless conception of mine still hanging on the interweb like some sad, abandoned miner settlement on googlemap?

I’ve probably touched on this subject before, like a pathetic scab that constantly needs reaffirmation of its wretchedness by being picked at. And then I do pick at it and nothing comes out of it, which doesn’t help the “situation” and nor does it quell the incessant caterwauling.

Abject laziness could be one factor. It most certainly is the belching, drunk elephant in the cocktail party of my consciousness. And my, what a party it is. 

This one time -

It — my apathetic tendency towards this blog and life on the creative side in general — also, I should point out, eviscerates that erratic and coke-addled chipmunk in me that is my aptitude for distraction.

If life were a series of power ranger episodes, then mine would’ve ended at the beginning with all those epilepsy inducing strobe light intros.

A side-note: I totally dived into that last analogy with no idea whatsoever where it was headed, but I think I made a reasonably proper game out of it.

Anyway, for proof of this trait of mine, I only have to offer my present state of writing, on this very entry, at this very moment, randomly switching among different tabs of irrelevant websites. It is actually quite confounding and distressing to be aware of this and yet unable to rein it in. Its almost like I’m trying to play sudoku while riding a rodeo bull and also trying to reason with the animal.

And you know what I just did? I just went to youtube and typed in “rodeo bull sudoku puzzles”.

This fucking this is going to take way longer than necessary to complete.

- outside – I take a few minutes to stretch my legs and breathe in some wayfaring breeze. It carries it with a low hum of change, of seasons that must move on and leaves that must transform. This has been an unseasonably mild summer by all accounts, and the onset of fall has been deliberate but relatively less abrasive. It seems to almost be seeping in, like a reasonable suggestion — all cardigans and argyle socks.

Night shrouds the city, the cloudless sky faintly illuminated by the lazy orange haze of city lights. The breeze seems to be picking its intensity up every now and then. Leaves and branches sway; litter dances on the street, our urban tumbleweeds. I wish I could say I exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it trail after the wisps of dust and trickles of rain. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I don’t smoke. 

Tomorrows are bright yet far from lucid. Semper semper semper fidelis is my mind to its recollections. How it paints and changes the tunes to best cosset its frail being. 

It really is fucking hard to stay on a point sometimes.

“… and as he latches on to yet another non sequitur, in a pathetic attempt to dissuade people of his lack of originality or creativity, our tired writer slowly reaches for the finality of the ‘x’. He leans back on his chair, scrutinizes his brief ‘work’ for the evening, and clicking his tongue a few times, as if trying to pull himself out of his lull in the most effortless of ways, he picks himself up. The absurd attempt of writing about himself outside of himself in spite of himself isn’t fully lost on him, and as he yet again digs deep into the formidable tar pit that is his hubris, he parts with a fleeting admonition for his lack of inspiration and drive…”

And so on and so forth.

Ech. That was one supremely melodramatic entry laced with a gratuitous shower of “woe-unto-me” navel-gazing.

I thought I could write more, but I’m suddenly reminded of tempting to my jezebel excuse of a testosterone  fodder and release.

The beauty of the disciplined and singularly mindless violent spectacle.

Of centuries-old craft soaked with history and cheap beer and screaming miscreants.

I’m talkin about UFC.

Spider Silva ready to pounce on yet another luckless lump of meat.

Yeah! War! Silva! Or something like that.

Excuse me as I watch two sweaty men mount, grapple and generally get really close to each other in the most intimate of ways.

Of course you would feel that way.

It’s obvious what’s wrong here.

A million billion galaxies out there, but your mind has a far more immense universe.

A brilliant burst of colours that sprinkle and glow and cascade around and within you, but you’d sooner latch on to the grey.

The lifeless.

The inanimate angles and the blurry static.

A wisp of smoke curling around your neck would suffocate you.

And all you point at is you.

You.

Me.

I.

I.

The drop in the gut.

That pinch in the throat.

A wave of regret.

And a chorus of blame.

That smooth talker inside your brain that always gets stuck the minute the bus hits.

And a fabulous movie that plays afterwards.

That rights all the wrongs, and oozes with effects.

The one that gets snipped at all the convenient frames.

And creates a menagerie of stills that suck your breath away.

Of course I would feel that way.

There’s a world out there, but my sand manages to crawl into every wheel.

Every word that comes out of my mouth — burnished with a slick of deceit, a coating of pride and a scent of doubt — drips mid-way; frozen in the vast ice sheets that dance in ever-so-mesmerizing swirls.

A massive layer of thoughts: at once unstable and tectonic. It bursts and erupts.

Oh see how the smoke trails.

See how deep the crater lies.

Feel the vertigo as you peer into this black-hole of delusion and self-centredness.

Do I feel the suck?

Do I feel the times that have slipped away; the chances that I missed and the dreams that I have conquered?

Do I know the Consequence?

Or has it passed me by; it’s mail now long lost in the maelstrom of confusion and suffering?

This abiding pain. This impression of hurt.

This canvas of nothing framed with a facade of sincerity.

This joke that stings without mirth.

The sick, demented laughter that slips from a corner of my mind as it tortures itself mindless.

Of course I would feel that way.

I think that way.

A river gushes nearby, a spring stream that echoes the arrival of plenty and laughter. And of course I’d pine for the cold.

That comforting cave that shields me from the reality of what isn’t.

That blocks out all those awkward times, all those unspoken thoughts and all those rich fantasies.

But I insist.

I insist.

I must trudge on.

Because what isn’t is what seems to me to be alive.

What does not materialize is what has already happened.

What I dare to hope is a wish that is best left untouched.

Because this gazelle is a beauty best seen undisturbed.

Because the side of the antelope that faces me is innocent and aloof.

But I can smell the rot on the other half.

The disease that is slowly creeping into its joints and eating it out from inside.

And so I stand back.

I let it forage in what seems like a peaceful and tranquil state.

I’ll keep the earpods to myself.

Because what I don’t want to hear…

Is an echo of a loud bang that has long resonated through my hollowed detritus.

There is nothing to say. I’m a little worried about my state of tepidity. The week has been grey and sullen, as if we somehow forgot to invite it to a party that everyone in the cooler next day was excitedly talking about. And now it has brought everyone else down with its dreary jive.

A brief hullabaloo about the TTC strike on the weekend made things a little interesting, but then Monday came and suddenly everyone was reminded about their spilling workload. Days came and went, sprinkling a dismissive shower here and there, going on and on and on and on.

My video project grant application got rejected. I suppose that’s partly to blame for my inordinately glum blog entry. The people behind the donor explained that they had to siphon the grant money to “Toronto priority projects”. My first disappointment of the year. Imagine a volcano caving unto itself. A tire deflating, a pyramid of leaves collapsing and eventually scattered by the wind.

I’ve got nothing to say but I felt like I needed to post something. I’m actually not as depressed as I’m making it out to be, quite melodramatically you could add. I’m just teetering on glib jadedness and a steady vacuum of inspiration. My D-SLR is despondently staring at me through its 14-45mm wide lens; I can’t call it accusing, more like disappointed. My surroundings are implacably sterile; there could be green organic matter oozing out from the walls right now, and all I would’ve noticed was its lack of urgency.

A bomb could go off next door and I’d instantly notice the loosening hinges of the door. OK, maybe that was a little insincere. I probably would’ve scampered underneath my bed if I heard a bang. But I still would’ve commented on the sagging underpinnings.

I’ve got nothing to say and all I can think about are my drooping shoulders. I can’t argue, my greetings are forced and my voice is as dejected as a twelve-year old who gets a pack of new socks for his birthday gift.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve got nothing to say. I had dinner — it was OK. Watching Jon Stewart online and I realize that he’s a comic genius, nonpareil, of our times. And all I can muster is a half-hearted chuckle. It’s Thursday night and suddenly I wish I was out drinking instead. It’s Thursday night: chilly, quiet and funereal.

It’s Thursday night, I’m as fit as I’ve ever been lately, and man — I’ve got nothing to say. I could enthrall you with my activist work, my nomination as the Chairperson of something, my conversations with interesting people, my romantic failures, my work and my plays, my highs and my lows…instead I’ve got nothing to say.

The tunes on my ipod scatter the distortions in my head, but like a school of fish huddling back after the dust settles down, I’m as blank and unresponsive as before. I crack my fingers and nothing still happens. My brother cracks a joke and nothing. A stranger with a tight pair of jeans, silhouetted deliciously against the glare of the streetcar lights, and nothing. Compared to me right now, even the traffic lights seem to change with more enthusiasm.

You say: bah! chin up already. You’re young, relatively debt-free, working in a great office with an even greater mentor. Your bills are paid (well, some of it), your health is sound (except for that slightly recent ache in the back), your moral fibers are firm (most of the times), you’re starting to get a foot into the talk of the community, you’re not all that dumb or bad-looking. So chin the fuck up, dude.

And I guess I agree. I have nothing to be so humdrum about. If my existence is so ordinary, it should be something to be grateful about. Compared to the many who live in constant fear and real poverty, I am a spoiled duke. A flat tire is my main concern while people out there actually have bullets to dodge. I live in a bustling city, and I work in a fantastic community. No exposed, tin roofs letting in the piercing cold rain.

I’ve got nothing to say, but in the course of an hour, I’ve managed to spool off quite a few threads of my recent discomfiture. Funny how some of my entries seem to take a life of its own, albeit a zombie-like state in this instance. I suppose I could put this into my “organic” category. Ha ha. Bloody zinger.

Its an hour to midnight, sleep is slowly creeping up my bones, I’ve got nothing else to say but end this note with a fascinating video that my friend Derek sent my way.

I hope you’ve had a much more meaningful state of affairs. If you like, you can regale me with it, but be warned: all I could probably muster is a distracted “meh”.

Good night.