Merry Christmas to one and all!

My dad got me a cook book from Ten Thousand Villages, so now I have one to call my own, and thus no excuse to not cook and bake as much as I'd like to. I want to be able to cook for a few reasons. I like to feel the pride of having made my own nutritious meal, something beyond mac and cheese. I'd rather not die of malnutrition or heart disease, thank you. It may get to a point where I have to fend for myself, so I think the More With Less Mennonite cook book is a good place to start on my road to culinary self-reliance. And besides, the ladies like a guy who can cook. I don't know why I'm so afraid of it. It's fairly straightforward as long as you follow the recipe. I guess it's a question of motivation.

Actually, it's something I've noticed pervades all aspects of my life. My love life, my writing, my acting, my spirituality. In all things, I've been living in my head. It's funny, it feels like only in the past month or so I've realized what it means to work. What it feels like to be growing. If I feel an immediate unwillingness to do something because I'm not in the mood for it or whatever excuse I have at the time, that usually means I ought to do it, and I never regret it. This is something I've touched on many times, because it's plagued me for so long. I feel a strong pull toward some power underlying the universe, quite possibly God, but I can never act on it. I'm too afraid to commit, so that feeling that draws me to the dark centre of the universe is still shapeless. I think I'm too clever, analytical, skeptical, to let myself surrender completely to a higher power. I'm worried about committing to someone, falling in love with someone for fear that they might actually *god forbid* know me. Or that if they were to know me, then they won't like what they see, and by then it'll be too late to get out unscathed. I think so low of myself that I don't feel deserving of the grace of someone's love. And is my opinion so low of the other person to doubt that they love me if indeed they do? For all my faults? I'm never the first to volunteer in my acting class, and only after class is over do I wish I did go first and took that risk and if need be, stumbled. Any idea I scribble down becomes detestable, and I lose faith in it so easily. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to do what's good for me, even if it means failure. I lack faith. I need the faith of a trapeze artist in freefall, or else this will never change.

Seriously now, I have a cookbook, and I will be writing every day of the New Year. In all seriousness. Now is the perfect opportunity, I'm working out a plan, and there's no time left for excuses.

P.S.
My dad also got me Tales From The Perilous Realm by Tolkien. I really appreciate him for this, as I've been looking for it for a year now and couldn't find it anywhere.

On Memory, Continued

I have no reason not to write. Yet I don't. And so here's my periodical self-flogging for it.

I just started reading Charlie Chaplin's autobiography, and it's raised a question in my mind that always surface when I read memoirs and autobiographies: how much of it is elaboration and how much of it is fact? And how is it possible to remember so far into the past about very specific details? It's made me think about the subject of memory, its extreme significance as a part of who we are, and especially as an element of our imagination. My mom pointed out that people used to be more literary; more people wrote in journals more than they do now. I don't know if I agree with her on this, but I have the feeling that both of our opinions are only anecdotal so there's little headway to be made there. All the same, it doesn't change the fact that things like journaling are an extremely valuable tool, to anybody, let alone writers. It sharpens our faculties, it can ward off mental deterioration in old age (or in youth!), since the mind is like a tool that needs constant sharpening to keep it in good use. I was thinking about the novel 1984, and how terribly easy it is to forget if you're not careful. To be erased from all records, and to be convinced by the authorities that any given person never existed, so your memory is in fact edited as is history. This is an extreme scenario, but then it makes you think about all the facts that weren't included by historians through the ages, and what facts were distorted to serve political or personal interests, and you realize it's not all that farfetched.

I was reflecting on my day and I nearly forgot what I had for breakfast. It's not something I'd ever need to know, but just the fact that it was only a few hours ago made it quite alarming. To be fair, the brain works like that, and it has a lot of information to process throughout the day that it's physically impossible to retain everything that happened to you in a day, all at once. But that's precisely why things like journaling is so useful. This practice has no immediate usefulness of course, but if nothing else it allows you to find the story in your existence. It focuses your attention to detail and it can simply amaze you at how rich and eventful even the most mundane of days has been. I did recall after the moment's panic, what I had for breakfast. I had pancakes and breakfast sausages made by my good friend Scott Whittaker. We had Mango Passionfruit green tea to go with it. It was a delicious one-in-the-afternoon breakfast.

I need to journal and document my life and the world for fear of forgetting who I am, and in time, who I was. As the Buddha said, if you want to understand the present, look at the past. What better way to understand who I am and where I am going, by observing where I came from. I feel confident enough in my memory right now in my life that I won't be forgetting these things any time soon, but that alone won't ever explain to me why some details are more significant than others, unless I actually process my experiences, slow down and really think about them, and for me the best way of doing that is sitting down and seeing what my thoughts look like in words. But that's not the only way either. Through photographs and art and newspaper clippings, old book reports, music, etc. you can trace an unbroken line through your life, and see more clearly where you where that line is leading you, like a golden thread out of a labyrinth.

Quote from my Voice Teacher:

"You're a lazy slob."

Dispatches From Limbo.

Hey everybody. So, I'm back in Victoria, and I haven't been posting on here for a week or so because it's been so HECTIC! I've been very busy with moving in and starting classes; I simply haven't had time to really sit down to write on here. I'm not even fully settled yet, so it's still very difficult. I shouldn't be on here right now, I should be sleeping. But I'm on here anyway to continuously reaffirm my commitment to my blog, and to exercise my writing. Like anything else, it takes consistency and discipline. However, I would like to mention two people who made my transition a lot more comfortable. Those two people are Kathleen's parents, Tim and Diane Mather (I'm sorry if I spelt any of those incorrectly!) They took it upon themselves to assist me in making my room-to-be more habitable. They took me curtain-shopping, carpet shopping, and they even bought insulation for me to reduce noise and keep in warmth. These people were a godsend, and I can't express in words how grateful and indebted I am to them, and how blest I feel to have met them. They made me very optimistic about my room, and with their help it will be far better than I could have hoped. So I'm still waiting on my furniture, which won't arrive for another week, but once it does arrive, I'm comforted to know that I'll be fully equipped, and comfortable. Thank you, both.

Fuck man, shit's crazy, you know?

In Praise of Nerd-dom

Star Trek is awesome. My dad and I have been watching a few of the old Star Trek movies; we watched the Wrath of Khan, the Search for Spock, and the Voyage Home, and now we're looking for the other ones. We also watched Generations and First Contact. AND we went to the town Vulcan, which is probably the Star Trek capital of this side of the universe, or at least Alberta. Watching them all and this trip has revived my love for this franchise. And seeing them now after not having seen them for many years has made me appreciate them that much more, and made me realise how mature of a show it was. It was well-written, and the idea behind it is something I really like. The concept of a time where humans have all united and in a way evolved morally and turned their efforts to exploring the universe and reaching out to new races is quite literally ahead of its time, and something that we should all aspire to. Yes, bold words for what started as basically fun sci-fi TV show. But Gene Rodenberry was on to something, I think. It's mostly entertainment and fantasy, but beneath the funky alien makeup, phasers and tri-corders, and best of all the cheesy special effects (well in the TV show, anyway. The movies were pretty up to par), there's something more than mere escapism. It's a vision of optimism for our planet and for all life. So make fun of it all you like; it's still not such a bad idea to boldly go where no one has gone before. And if nothing else, it's just plain fun.


On a related note, I've revived my inner nerd, and I couldn't be happier about it. I recently purchased Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, which is apparently pretty good, according to my friends, and it won the Hugo and Nebula Awards, which is a big deal in sci-fi circles. I want to get my hands on 2001: A Space Odyssey and read it before I see the movie. And this is all an effort to delve into science fiction, which is a genre I've long neglected. I've also been told by some people that Battlestar Galactica is an awesome show, so I shall have to look into that, too. I've also started buying comic books again. I recently bought issue 500 of the Uncanny X-Men, trying to get back on track (the last one I got was 461, and before that, somewhere in the 380's. I'm a bit out of the loop, you see.) I also plan on reading Spawn again, because he's just wicked. And finally, I really want to read the Watchmen graphic novel, which I've only heard good things about. A few months ago Geoff recommended I read them, and now that I see the trailer for it, I think I have to. It's a sign. It's also the only comic to have won the Hugo Award, which is pretty cool. Anyway, this is all good for the young pre-teen in me. So if nothing else, that's what this summer has given me. A renaissance of the geekiest kind.

On Memory, History, and Truth

Memory is a funny thing. When people recount something tend to exaggerate, if nothing else to make a good story of that event. I have to wonder how much of that has gone into history books. I mean, eye-witnesses are still flawed human beings and History isn't an exact science. So how flexible is history, if everything recorded is at the discretion of those who write it down? Surely a few details can be tweaked to add colour and flavour to the telling, but how much freedom should they have? How much fact can be sacrificed without sacrificing the truth? Nothing's ever going to be remembered exactly as it was. Those things will be enlarged or down-sized depending on their opinions of those things, those events, people and places of the past, and people will remember the event for the story, how it remained imprinted in their minds. In an historical battle, if books say so-and-so killed this many people, when really he only killed a couple, is it really going to matter in the long run? The point is we know who won the battle and where it got us, and we got a good story out of it too, from the worm's-eye view. So there's no problem, right? But then I think of memoir writers and autobiographies, and I think: those people couldn't have possibly remembered every detail from their past, exactly what people said and how. There's no way, unless they were thinking "I'm going to write about this 30 years from now, so I'd better pay attention". Surely they stretched the truth a little. Otherwise, only people with photographic memories can write autobiographies and memoir. At any rate, perhaps it's the memory matters more than the details.

An Ecclesiastical Rant

Why do I feel the need to defend a belief system which I don't even really believe in? Every time people make fun of or criticise Catholicism I take it personally. I mean, I am Catholic, but I openly criticise it too, so what's the big deal? Is it one of those things where you can only diss it if you're a part of it or something? Like how it's somehow only appropriate for black people to say the n-word? I don't know. I just find it strange that I still identify, at a superficial level anyway, with the Catholic faith. Even though I believe the Church is way too powerful and the Pope is not the infallible messenger of God just because some smoke came out of a chimney a certain colour, and furthermore I don't even completely believe in the basic tenets of Christianity, like the resurrection and the virgin birth and all that. And yet still, I hate it when people who don't know anything about Catholicism talk trash about it. Maybe that's it. Ignorance. It's not so much me identifying with Catholicism so much as it is people saying ignorant things. I can't tell you how many times I've gotten into arguments over whether Catholicism is a denomination of Christianity. People seem to think that only Protestant denominations count as Christianity. Christianity is by definition the religion based on the teachings and life of Jesus Christ. Period. Catholicism does fall under that definition, so how does it not count? Sure it's way more muddled with ritual and it picked up the flavours of local customs as it spread over the world, so to some it may seem almost paganistic. But what idea doesn't morph as it travels? Zen Buddhism and Tibetan Buddhism are so radically different, if you set both up beside each other you wouldn't be able to tell they are under the same religion. And yet you don't hear people saying anything different about them. The basic idea behind Catholicism is the same as Lutheranism, Protestantism, Presbyterianism, the United Church, etc. It's funny because I'm certain that there are things from these other schools of thought that I agree with more than tenets of Catholic faith as far as what I believe Christianity ought to "look like", and yet here I am, getting all riled up. Or maybe there are strands of Catholic in me yet. Who knows? Jack Kerouac of all people converted back to Catholicism in his final years. Anyway my point is....well I don't really know what my point is. I guess it's part-me wishing people would do their homework about peoples' belief systems, and part-me worrying about my identity, which is important to me, especially when there isn't an easy way to define it.

Yarn Fragments

These are two exercises I did in Writing class last year. I just thought I'd put them on here and see what you guys think. They're very very brief bits of narrative. Not even stories, really. More like snapshots. Enjoy!

1.Wrapped in her shawl, she stands out on the porch. She stands out there for almost an hour, while every now and then some brisk couple goes along the sidewalk with their dog. She hears a car go by on Maple Street—some cocky young creature speeding down like a comet in his Porsche. The faint current of downtown traffic is audible, like static in the air.
The nights are crisp, and the sky, clear and confessional. Every detail is sharp in crisp air. The constellations glitter like salt: Gemini. Taurus. The Big Dipper. She memorised them all when she was a little girl. Casseiopea. Orion. She would list them off to her parents at the dinner table, over uneaten peas and casserole. But now she can only point out a few; it was so long ago. The harder she looks, the more they appear like stars, and less like old stories. The older she got the less she looked up. But for nights like this, she would’ve forgotten the sky was there.
She remembers Cygnus, the swan. It was really Zeus in disguise, trying to deceive a girl in order get in her pants. She tries to imagine being knocked up by a constellation. The poor child would be stuck in one position for eternity, but it would be adored by everybody, her most of all. Any company would do, really. Any old swan. She had a Greek god of her own once, her own personal Apollo. But now the gods file for divorce like everybody else, and so here she is near the end of her life, twice married and childless. At her age, when the dark and confessional sky starts looking just like itself, unpopulated and endless, looking up is the most sensible thing to do. Look for a signal. To hurl a bottled message straight up, up, up through the ozone layer.


2.The three kids stormed the beach, bellowing made-up war cries. Their sprint turned into tiptoeing, as grass gave way to slippery pebbles, followed by cigarette butts buried in coarse sand. The other side of the lake hid behind an impregnable wall of rain that carried across the water, and the waves ravaged the shoreline. The wind chilled their half-naked bodies, but nothing would stop the charge of this light brigade.
Alistair led the way, followed by Eddie and then Darcy, and the waves rejected their early teen bodies. It toppled them over; Eddie lost his balance, who grabbed Alistair’s leg and dragged him down into the briny underworld, turning his war cry into a war gurgle. Darcy was still above the surface, arms akimbo. He gave a hearty laugh, imitating a brawny cartoon superhero. Soon after the other two burst up behind him and shoved him under the cold waves. His arms thrashed about like slippery fish, while Alistair and Eddie held down his head. They let him go and he shot up and tried to punch the boys.
“You almost killed me, you assholes!”
“Watch your mouth, Darcy! You should wash it out.” said Eddie, slapping the water in Darcy’s face. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
Darcy scowled. “I don’t kiss my mom, Eddie, that’s sick.”
“‘Cause I sure kissed your mom. So did Alistair. We shared her.”
“I’ll kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” Darcy lunged for Eddie, who disappeared under the water and tackled him.
Darcy was the smallest of their troupe. Always catching up to them, his voice had not yet plummeted like the others, but he could make up for it in other ways. He was the most brazen, ploughing through the rain, which now flogged their faces—and he hollered the loudest war cries. A young blonde bull, he would always be challenging older, bigger kids in wrestling matches and mercy fights. It always ended in hot stinging tears for him, but he never backed down. He was a fighter, in the sense that he was always looking for a fight. In another life he would have been storming the beaches of Normandy, rather than the beaches of western Alberta in blue nylon trunks.

At the South Country Fair I saw a lot of very talented performers and poets. I wanted to take in everything they said and just appreciate all the hard work they put into their creations. But at the back of my mind--who am I kidding? It was continuously in the foreground of my thoughts--I wish I could write something that good. It was thrilling and inspiring to be around all these artists, and simultaneously depressing as hell. I started to tear up at one point today. Not because the poetry was beautiful I'm sorry to say. It was, I'll have you know, but I was so selfish and self-judging that I couldn't shake these thoughts off. I couldn't hear a whole lot beyond what was going on in the space between my ears.

I do think that I have talent as a writer, and what I'm concerned about won't always be what I'm concerned about. But I haven't really written anything in a few months now, and I'd like to express how that feels, and I'm sure most of you can relate. I don't think I write because I think I'm any good as a writer. If I am any good, it's purely incidental, the bonus all writers hope for. I write however, because it is a kind of salvation for me. Call that extreme, but it's true. If I don't write for a long period it depresses me, of course, because like anyone it makes me doubt if I have anything left in me, which is terrible enough as it is. It's one of the few ways I can actually make sense of my own thoughts, and with any luck, one of the few ways people can actually understand me. I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to, which both a cause of the problem and a result. And because I so seldom show what I do write, I feel like there's a lot about me that the people in my life, the ones I love, don't know about. Literally. This includes my family. There's a lot they don't know about me. Not so much what I do with my time, but what's in my head. I've spent most of my life in my head. Believe me, I'm trying really hard to break out. Especially with my family. But it's not easy. So I write. It's one of the few ways I can actually make sense. Again, I don't write purely because it's something I want to get good at and be recognised for. My motives run deeper than that. I write to survive. To keep myself from becoming a total stranger to my loved ones, and myself. I don't think I've ever explained the things I feel most passionate about without stumbling over words, stuttering, falling into habitual mindless "uh's" "um's" and "like" and worst of all, forgetting my point. Writing reduces the chances of me making an ass of myself. Writing is also incredibly hard for me. It's easy to come up with a great little turn of phrase or combination of words. But to give them homes, in stories, poetry, any kind of context, is daunting, and exhausting. For me, the discipline it takes to sustain any sort of piece into a fully fleshed story, is nothing less than an act of courage. Yet I continually do not write, even though the alternative is far worse, even though characters and ideas and landscapes possess me and I can't help but obsess over them until they're recorded, and until then I stay in my head, and I get very irritable when people unknowingly take me away from my thoughts. It's not fair to those around me, and people always wonder why I'm so cranky. I continually do not write and it murders me. So if nothing else, consider this rant a plea for sanity, from myself, to myself.

Sacred Skin

As Michael prepared his apartment for Beth’s arrival, he kept asking himself: are you worthy? He asked this of his possessions too, as he cleaned. The only woman to grace his home was Mary, who hung in silence above his futon, above his showerhead and on his fridge. She was a good substitute for Mother, up in Saskatoon. He consulted his pictures, with rosary or without, over all matters. And she helped him—maybe not with words, but with the calming reassurance of her being there. She doted on him as best a long-dead saint could. Michael made sure she watched him from every room, to make sure he stayed out of trouble and to make sure trouble stayed away from him. Yes that’s good and all, but are you worthy? Besides Mary, not another woman had ever been here before.
What did they require? He had no television, computer, or radio, so the world could not cajole him. Was this appropriate? He had three pairs of shoes: one for work, boots for winter, and runners for everything else. He swept the floor every day, even in the complete absence of crumbs or dust. He kept his apartment with quiet efficiency. He donned cargo pants and sweaters. He kept his hair clean. Was that enough?
Fidgeting with his sleeves, he looked at the ice-bound streets outside, where yellow pools of light splashed in rows down the block, making the surrounding sidewalks and streets brown in the dark. He always believed he was like those lamps: providing light to those who needed it, unnoticed when he was doing his job right.
In his flurry of activity—as he picked up stray clothes off the floor and into his hamper, stacked his few plates and cups into the cupboards—he needed Mary’s soft gaze. He needed her mild expression, her heart radiating on the outside of her garments—these things reminded him to breathe. Once the whole place was clean Michael kept adjusting the position of the easel, moving it from one side of the living room to another, unable to decide where the best vantage point exactly was. Beth would be here in an hour. He laid out his pencils and brushes, from thinnest to thickest, left to right, on his dresser. Then right to left. Then alternating it, pencil, brush, pencil, brush.
Michael sat on his bed and pulled out a bin from underneath it. He opened it and sorted through the paper scraps, looseleaf, canvases. On each piece was a girl, some more fleshed out than others, some with grey faces from the smudge of Michael’s fingers.
Some were scribbled out in a frenzy, their contours jagged, as if constructed out of sticks. The other theoretical women in Michael’s life. He turned and looked to Mary for an answer. She held out her hands, palms up, supposedly in benediction. At the moment it just looked like she was shrugging, saying you’re on your own, kiddo. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to conduct himself around those he devoted his life to protect. He protected them with his absence, his invisibility. He did this for two reasons, two things he never doubted: first, that Adam was a prototype, and a failed one at that. Eve was the edited version, the better side of humanity. Second, he, being like the prototype, was not fit to exist.

From an early age, Michael knew all about Succubi. The things other children would tell him in Sunday school were all too convincing. They told him how they were devils that would come to a man at night, dressed up as a woman and make him put his weeny in her, and steal his soul. And the night before his First Communion, when he was nine, he saw one for himself. It was a woman he’d seen on television once, posing in lingerie. She had blonde hair that wrapped around her head like a boa. Her name was Victoria, or something like that, and from what he could remember she had some sort of secret. She made her way into his head while he slept. She didn’t do much; just came into his room and lay down in his bed, posing beside him much like in the commercials, and that was it. Maybe it was a test. His first dabbling in the holy life. He’d heard of this happening before. But just to be safe, the next day he was the first in line to receive the body and
blood of Christ, trying to get as far away from hellfire as possible. He didn’t tell his mom about this. He believed he was safe.
Others would come later. He’d see them in his room, walking around. Some of them weren’t from TV or billboards however. Some were girls in class. When he was twelve he even saw Ms. Pinter, his seventh grade English Language Arts teacher, and she was in her underwear. She leaned in and pressed her cleavage in his face. He woke up in the middle of the night with a spot of wetness on his crotch. He cried for hours underneath the covers. Unable to look at mom at all the next morning, Michael threw his soiled underwear into the garbage before Mom could collect his dirty laundry.
Hail Mary. She of all people could keep him safe. His mother was too fragile as it was; she couldn’t take it. So Michael turned to Mary. She would listen to him, nodding her head in understanding for all eternity. He kneeled on his bed and whispered “Holy Mary, Mother of God” over and over again into his locked hands, and they were the only words from it he could remember at twelve, even after years of Sunday school. Still they would come at night; but he understood why though. This was God testing him. He read somewhere about how Gandhi would sleep in a bed with naked women beside him, to prove his chastity was made of steel. Perhaps this was what Michael had to do. This was what his dreams were asking of him.
He didn’t mind hating the Succubi, because they were simply not real women. They were satans in drag, trying to make an enemy out of those dearest to him. There were only women for Michael after all. There was no father. There was a man; there was
a man who came and made Mom pregnant with him. There was a man who married her after impregnating her. There was a man who, having impregnated her, lived with them for five years and then left with all of their money, but not before smashing Michael’s baby-toothed face in. He told Michael to tell Mom he had fallen off the porch (Mom was also hurt; she slipped on ice and shattered her ribs). He told his son that he was clumsy, like his mother. There was that man. No father, though. Just a stand-in. Like Joseph. He lorded over them, and Michael wished to keep Mom safe from the man, but after all there are no five-year-old guardian-saints. And because he came from that man, he was liable to become something ugly like him.
He saw in the news, in books, everywhere rape victims, women bruised, shattered, and silenced. He felt responsible somehow. To be a man was to dishonour God. But he knew, even as a boy, there must have been some divine rationale in being born into this lot.
One night he discovered how to subdue the Succubi. Before going to bed, he conducted an experiment. He scribbled out his Victoria on a piece of paper as best as he could. He woke up later, with an erection, but completely dry. He tucked his erection between his legs and kneeled against his bed. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Holy Mary, Mother of God. But he uttered these words with a fresh vitality. He had weakened them. He would not let them turn him into the Prototype.

Michael looked through the pictures. They couldn’t hurt him on paper, tucked away in a bin under his bed. They were out of his head, now, copied out in charcoal, acrylic, oil,
HB, anything he had at the time. He got better at drawing over the years, and these were the records to prove it. He buried his nose in anatomy books, books on still art, one, two, three point-perspective, anything. Books on Michelangelo, Manet and Renoir among others littered his shelf. He looked over Boticelli’s The Birth of Venus and Leda and the Swan of both Da Vinci and Cezanne. He studied everything he could—the curves, the expression, the posture—to better capture the souls of these creatures. He sharpened his skill, and with sleight of hand he expelled each one from his dreams. He had forgotten them, and suspected that they did the same.
He came to the drawings of Beth. There were several more than the others. There were only a couple for each, a schoolgirl crush or a celebrity in a thong. He had fifteen of Beth. She wouldn’t go away. And she only became clearer and clearer in his dreams: her hair curled on her shoulders, her bronze apple-shaped earrings, her sun-burned nose, her slender peach-toned figure. Why would his brain undress her like this? She always came the same way, too. And he would reach out too, and hold her. He watched himself in horror as he did it. He would kiss her and the ink of her lips would rub off on his, and her face would be a black smudge. When he pressed his hand against her breast it would crumple like paper and she would rip and fold. He mastered the female body as a geometric principle. But he never knew what a girl felt like. Even Mary was just a picture.
It was eight at night, when Beth called him. She was sobbing over the phone. “I need to come over. Right now. I’m leaving Cam. I’m bloody doing it. I’ll be there in an hour, okay?” There was a click on the other end, and Michael hung up and scrambled to prepare for company. She was coming, and there was no talking her out of it. She had never visited him at home before. This was his chance to save himself. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to do it, but Beth would somehow be a part of it.
Michael, in the six weeks that he’d known her, had become something of a personal therapist to Beth. While he was working security at the Mackenzie Art Museum he saw her come by the front desk, giving a little half-wave when she realized where she recognized him from. They shared an Art History class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the University of Regina. He kept to himself, and Beth took an interest in him, if nothing else at least as someone to talk to. She sat with him and they went for coffee afterwards, until it became a ritual, to liven up the wintry Tuesdays and Thursdays. She talked mostly about her fiancée Cameron, who was training to be a pilot. She told him about how he proposed to her at Cirque Du Soleil on her birthday, and she declined. He begged for half a year, until they were at a cabin in the Rockies, and she said yes to his pleading ring. She didn’t see him much after that; he left for Calgary for training, and when she saw him, she said he acted like he was trying to prepare her for her life with him. To edit her. Cam didn’t get mad, she told him; he would go quiet instead, and slink away, like a wounded animal. She disappointed him. As if she owed him. Like there was something inherently wrong with her. Original sin. Michael heard it all, of course. He
didn’t mind listening though; Cameron soon became something to crusade against, and by listening to Beth he had an edge.

With monk-like precision he had the place immaculate in fifteen minutes. For the rest of the wait he spent flipping through his drawings. How could he get her out of his head?
Then, a knock.
Michael froze. Beth knocked again, and with quick jerky movements he made his way to the door. He opened it up and Beth came flooding in. Hail, Mary. She came in hooded with a mane of fur lining her short red hair, her nut-brown eyes tipped with snow, her sun-burned nose, and her bronze apple earrings. Michael knew that everything she wore were gifts from Cameron, except those earrings. He took her coat and scarf, relishing their softness. He wondered if the rest of her was this soft. Then his glance met Mary’s on the wall. She was not smiling at the moment.
“Thank you for letting me come at such short notice, Michael. I had enough of being by myself,” Beth said.
“So you’re leaving him? That’s what you were saying on the phone, you’re leaving him?” Michael said.
“I think I am.” This was something she had resolved to do before. Why was this any different? “I think I was just looking for a reason. I couldn’t bring myself to it, but now I can.”
“Why?”
“I think he found some one else. Some cute little twat, I imagine.” She spoke as if numb, eyes unfocused. Beth told him how she was checking her messages on her phone and there was one from someone named Meg for Cameron, about how much fun she had last night and they should do it again some time and call her back as soon as he gets this message okay thanks buh-bye. “The worst part is the idiot gave her my number. I heard it earlier tonight and I couldn’t be by myself anymore. Cam doesn’t know I heard it. He won’t get home until later tonight. I’m really sorry if you were busy.”
“No, not at all. Please.” He let her in and he sat her down on the couch.
In the kitchen, Michael flipped on the kettle and gave a plaintive look to fridge-Mary, who was holding a little blond Jesus. His face was adult-like, though buried under rose cheeks and baby fat. Mary wasn’t saying much tonight. Jesus wasn’t much help either, but he was still in diapers. Michael covertly glanced at Beth, who was looking around the place. Is it worthy?
Michael came out and sat beside Beth. He didn’t know what to do, so they both just sat there, staring at the ground. He hoped she would say something, like she usually would.
“The kettle’s on. What now?” Said Michael.
“You know what? This is a good thing.” Beth said to the carpet. “This is a win for me. He’s always the judge. No, the executioner. Little Saint bloody Cameron, holding the keys to heaven. Now he’s bloody messing around with some other little twat. This is good.” She slumped back to the couch. “I still feel like shit though.”
“So you should talk to him, then?” Michael said.
“Talk to him. Yeah. I should.” Her face glowed, even now. “Am I a horrible person to not care that this happened?”
“I don’t think so.” Michael thought about this. He didn’t know for sure, but he knew Cameron would say yes, so he decided that was the right answer.
“I don’t know. But thank you. Clearly the gentleman is not completely extinct,” she said with exaggerated formality. Michael felt the divine rationale coming in to play, and he smiled to himself. She laughed and smiled at Michael.
Suddenly she wrapped her arms around him. He leaned into her, her head in the crook of his neck. His cheek on her hair, he reached his arm around her and held her closer, with a stiff arm. Was this enough? Neither of them said anything for a few minutes; the kettle whistled in the background. He felt her mouth on his neck, warm and wet.
He jolted up, and unsure what to do next he slipped into the kitchen, trying to stay calm. Was this a woman, or was it Beth? He poured hot water into two cups, and he heard Beth go into the bathroom.
Some time to think.
Michael touched his neck, where she kissed him. No smudge of ink, now. Only the memory of warm. He was failing the test. It wouldn’t have surprised him if fire and sulfur started spitting out of his kettle. He grimaced at Mary and her babe. They had
nothing to say. Mary had never been this unreliable before. No help this time, Mike. It’s not open book.
Fifteen minutes later, Beth came in, blank-faced. “She’s his cousin.”
“What?”
“Meg. Megan is the name of Cam’s cousin. He just called me asking if she called. I asked him very calmly who she was. He said his cousin. She’s in town for the weekend. I think my heart stopped for a second.” He watched her face, almost able to see the possibilities of salvation drain out of her. “I don’t even know if it’s true. I think it is. Cam’s a terrible liar. He didn’t do anything. And I come here to—he didn’t do anything. He’s fucking perfect, isn’t he?” She laughed bitterly, fidgeting with her ring. “I don’t add up. I can’t do it. He could just as well have fucking shot me as pop the question, when he did.” Michael watched her face; it would wither if coffined into Cameron’s world. Not knowing what else to do Michael gave her a mug of chamomile. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, Michael.”
“No, not at all. You’re a blessing, Beth.”
This made her laugh, he couldn’t understand why. “Thank you, Michael.” She sipped her tea. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
His mouth went dry. He stared at her slender feet itching one another on the pale green kitchen floor. How could he not document those feet, those splendid peach calves? He looked up at her face: a discreet wisp of hair dangling, caught in her lips. How could he not record that hair? It might save her. “I would like to try something.” He took her by
the hand into the living room again. He went into the bedroom and returned, carrying out the easel.
For ten minutes Beth sat on her side, shifting slightly in the stiff position that contained her: Madonna of the Futon. Three tall lamps beamed down on her like searchlights beside Michael, hunched on a stool behind the canvas. He looked at Beth and then the canvas and then her again. He looked and looked and looked. He couldn’t start, not even a sketch. Everything was too close. It was different now that she was there with him in the room on the couch, punctuating his waking moments rather than embedded underneath his eyelids. How easy it would be to let the Succubi win. How attractive, damnation.
He put his head on the canvas, out of Beth’s sight. But he swore she could hear what he was thinking; the next moment she was standing over him. She took his hands and stood him up very close to her, inches from touching. He rested his forehead on hers. Their breaths were slow and tremulous. Michael’s eyes remained shut however. He prayed. He prayed he could turn to stone, that his eyes become like stained glass windows, letting light into a pure and empty space inside of him. He prayed the blood that surged through him would evaporate. No such thing happened. He felt only his father—he was no better now—trying to crawl out of him from some deep wicked place. He prayed that he could become another street lamp in the winter, where he could illuminate the world without drawing attention to himself—cold, free and loveless. It was too late. Beth was already in
his blood. There was only the wetness of her lips that mattered, a swelling curiosity of flesh.
“Please don’t make me look at you,” Michael said. His voice sounded hollow to him. His mind was racing. He searched hard for those magic words. Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee. She put his hands on her hips, and moved them up, lifting her t-shirt up with them. She lowered her hands to her sides, while his remained. He traced his fingers along her ribcage. His touch was light, his fingers cold, enough to draw forth goosebumps. He could feel the air expanding inside her chest. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—he moved his hands behind her, running his fingers up and down the smooth furrow that divided her back in two. There was no bra strap—Jesus. He slipped his hands up her back under her shirt and held on to her shoulders. He held her close for balance, gripped by a sudden vertigo. Holy Mary, Mother of God. He lifted the shirt up, over her head and to the floor. Still, he dared not look. Pray for us sinners. Beth took his hands and ran them down her to her belt. Now and at the hour of our death. He felt her smooth, modest breasts, her ribs rippling down her, the light hairs on her abdomen. He undid her jeans, pulling them to the floor. Crouched, he rested his head on her knees.
Beth then made the next move. She must have been nervous, because she was as careful and ceremonious as he was. When Michael stood up, she lifted his sweater and shirt and Michael raised his arms like she did. Michael then felt a snip below his waist, as Beth undid the button of his pants, and in a single motion, his pants and underwear slid to
his feet. Now they were both standing in puddles of their own clothing. He was sweating. He moved his lips to a prayer, circling his thumb on his fingers like he was holding his rosary. Pray for. He sagged under the weight of history, under heredity. Sinners. Mary wasn’t listening. Hour of death. There was nothing left now. His eyes would have to participate sooner or later. Michael got up—Hail Mar—and opened his eyes.
Salvation would be delayed until further notice.

He looked down her pale brown body. How it stuck out in odd ways: her hips running down thin rounded thighs, the small hairs between her legs, curls pressed down by her panties. Her toes adorned in scarlet nail-polish fidgeted in their rows. He followed her calves and thighs and hairs up again, to her belly, punctuated by her navel. The light from the lamps carved a path on her skin, from her blushing nipples, up between her breasts to her neck, and then to her mouth, slightly open, lightly smiling. She only had her bronze apple earrings on. This was no Succuba. He saw her for the first time, and saw what she really was. Full of grace.
He then looked down at his own body as if he’d never seen it before: there was nothing but a pink, thin man left, shaking underneath. The hair on his chest was blond, almost invisible, while the hair surrounding his erection (he blushed at this, trying to hold it down), was brown. He was a quilt; there was nothing consistent about him. Unworthy.
Beth hooked her fingers loosely in his. Her breath was heavy on his neck, and his shook on hers. Her body was warm against his. He would not draw her anymore
They stood there, swaying. All they could hear was each other’s breathing.

Hey guys it's me. This blog's been inactive for half a year now, even though I've been regularly snooping around. Sorry about that, to whomever was perhaps mildly curious about or otherwise bored enough to read it. At any rate, I'll try my best to post more often on here again. I'm gonna try publishing some of my work on here, which is what I had originally intended this blog for, and I'd love to get some feedback if possible. Anyway I'm off to bed for now. Cheerio!

Standing on another Threshold

So the year of our lord 2007 is over. That was probably the longest year of my life, but it was also one of the most important. I lost a lot of myself and gained a lot of it too. Either way though, I wouldn't revisit it. There was so much drama, in every sense of the word. However, in the time I spent back home for Christmas, I charged my batteries pretty well, and I'm now looking at 2008 with brightly burning optimism. I feel renewed in my purpose, and now I see this year as mine for the taking.

Now I'm a sucker for New Years resolutions. I may not achieve them all, but I like setting the goals for myself anyway, and trying to get to them. So here are a few of them that I can think of right off the bat.

-rig the US presidential elections so the democrats win, or so Stephen Colbert wins.
-be a better listener
-be a better reader
-finish the Harry Potter series
-read more plays
-read more CanLit
-read more contemporary lit in general. I have way too many old
dead guys sitting on my shelves. Not that I mind their company,
I need to spice up my personal library with a little more variety.
-actually give up something worth giving up for Lent. Or just give
something up in general.
-get writing into my daily schedule
-go to the gym
-meditate more
-watch more movies
-submit at least one article to the Martlet
-submit at least one comic to the Martlet
-finish my old sketchbook once and for all
-draw more
-get my freaking drivers license
-get to know my res-people a little better
-write to Grandma and Grandpa
-Learn how to love myself, and judge others less

I don't feel like these goals are exactly unrealistic, either. Well, maybe the last one (that's an ongoing affair which, I imagine, will last all my life). I find I'm happiest when I've got purpose, and these things will give me purpose in my efforts to achieve them. As always, my overarching goal perhaps is to learn how to find happiness in the journey as much as if not more than the destination.

I've got to be more open. I have to be willing to try things that would be worthwhile, even if I may not "feel like it". Although that attitude is sometimes called for as well, a lot of the time it just gets in the way of the experiences I should be having. I feel more motivated now, so let's see how this works.