Saturday, September 29, 2007

To Demetreus

I walked through our park tonight. Just now, in fact. I was walking home from seeing a rock show with my friends in the village. I have no clue if you liked rocked music or if you even do now. All I know of your musical taste is that you loved Mozart and found Bach dull. I thought you were crazy. Turns out not so much; I now find that Mozart is beyond fascinating and that Bach, well, he can drag on a bit, can't he? Regardless, neither of them are rock 'n roll so that doesn't help me.

I imagine that if you were ever to read this, which you most assuredly won't, you would hasitate at the opening statement. What park? We had a park? Show me park. No, never in our fewer-than-a-handful of times seeing one another did we venture into a park. Not on that first night which plunged me so deep I was a zombie the following day. Not on our second night, which was little more than a requiem for my heart. (You know, I still can't watch that movie to this day? I tried, for the first time, last week, hoping that my chemically-enhanced state would aid in the matter. I told the best friend that my companion was tired and that was why we only watched the first twenty minutes or so. This wasn't a lie, but even still, I couldn't have managed much longer.) And we certainly never went to a park when I saw you with Him at a club that summer and the only thing you could offer was an anemic smile.

So yes, dear boy, you are correct, there was no park for you. Oh, but how there was for me.

This was in the days of the early sonnets, when my Shakespearean acrostics were little more than immature odes to your supposed beauty. I only had you pictured based on the spikey orange hair and bright blue shirt so vivid in your msn display pic, like Sonic the Hedgehog gone auburn for the season. Hardly the medium for high inspiration, but those are the times we live in, no? There is a park, The Park, on River avenue right by Scott street. I'd never been in there, and yet that was where my mind decided that we would meet. It would be slightly misty, not quite drizzling, in the way that May evenings can be in Winnipeg. There would be umbrellas involved. I wasn't entirely clear on whose it or they were, but no umbrella would actually have been opened, as even in my still-developing romantic 19 year old mind, lovers in the rain didn't use umbrellas, even if they were close at hand. I was foggy on how we would have progressed from the first glance to the inevitable Kiss (by which point, naturally, it would have been a torential lovers' downpour), but I wasn't worried; it would happen in whatever way necessary.

Only it didn't. The Kiss happened, of course. Oh dear god, how it happened, the seat dropping away, leaving me suspended in mid-air. I don't remember your lips so much as that floating, that weightless haze that stayed with me for a year afterwards. I almost wish it hadn't had happened. I say "almost" as I could never really change anything, knowing who I became. I suppose I should be happy that I'm so content with my current self that I wouldn't erase the most painful thing I've ever known, but it's little comfort at 2:17 in the morning. I don't need to regret in order to still love you to this day for that Moment and to likewise dispise you for what you stole in it, as you truly did steal. Yes, it may have been unwitting, a biblical Benjamining, if you will. But Sweet Thief, you stole me but good. It took months to undo what you did in that one night, and even after that, to this day, I'm not really healed. That's fine. I don't need to be. Perhaps I make wiser decisions for it, or at least safer ones, although they're hardly the same thing. I've come to accept that there was absolutely nothing rational in My Fall nor in the theoretical recovery. Thinking about you weekly, usually more, is irrational given that you really only provided me with four hours of happiness. However, time was never really a factor in anything we did and those four hours encapsulated an entire lifetime of Disney and Grimm before it. They were everything I had ever thought I could conceive and receive. Everything. Except that they did not occur whilest in a park, let alone that park. And yet everytime I drive by there, I've thought of you, usually just in passing, but sometimes more and tonight perhaps more than I have in years.

So I walked through it and it was lovely. Truly the modern Rembrant I had always pictured. The swings I imagined you sitting on when I would have arrived were angled slightly differently and yes, I admit they were actually baby swings, not that it matters. I walked to that spot, four years after I was supposed to, and turned slowly, getting a perfect 360 view, so I could say that now in my mind, I would forever know what it would really have looked like on that night in the rain.


"You see what you did?!" I wanted to scream, and yet I already knew the answer. I always have.

Monday, September 24, 2007

This entry is the opposite of my penis: long and funny.

I have met a lot of people off the internet.

What an icky sentence.

But it's true.

Now, without going into the whole defense of 'it's better than the bar scene" and all my self-appeasing justifications, let me just say that it is not something I have ever regretted. Well, actually, that one time I got slipped a rufie wasn't so hot, but you know, that happens far more frequently at bars, thereby illustrating my point and forcing me to recrown myself as King of Logic World.

When describing these interactions to others, I will frequently break down my net meetings in the following manner. Of the people you talk to:

70% - not worth anything other than 5 lines of polite, terse response before blocking them
20% - appear to have potential until about the 5 minute mark when it becomes obvious that they have already blown their conversational load.
5% - are worth meeting, but you soon find out that a) it's no longer 1998 and they fudged their picture, b) they're nice but dull or c) they work with your mom
3% - are funny, kinda hot, perhaps even seem like they might be into you, but neither of you are that into each other to hang out more than once or twice, which inevitably leads to between a week and 6 months of very short, awkward, obligation conversations over msn.
2% - are amazing. Of those 0.00000000000000001% will phone you back.

No wonder I'm single. And thank fucking god.

All of the above has really just been a prologue to this:

Yesterday I was talking with a fellow who falls into the 3% category. Funny, really good looking, all that lovely stuff. We hung out once in February. I wasn't on my A game, partially do to the fact that when I find myself in the presence of someone that falls in that top five percent, it's just such a shock that I generally need a couple dates to really come to terms with the hot, funny guy smiling at me. Since February, we've chatted occasionally over msn, sometimes talking about getting together, but with no real intention (at least on my part) to really try and make it happen. Then, this week saw a huge tear in the social fabric of my net meeting dogma as the little bugger appeared to want a mulligan, which is absolutely unprecedented. The last time there was a second coming of this magnitude, a religion was born. We began to discuss in earnest a wine-drinking evening at my place. Then this dialogue (bear in mind, much of it is affectionate sarcasm):

Him: When I come over, could I use your computer? My ­­­­­­________ (some gadgetty-thingy-thing) isn't being read by computer and it's being a bitch.

Me: Perhaps your computer doesn't recognize gadgetty-thing-things belonging to people with fewer than three sexual partners.

Him: Haha. David, you're [hilarious. I love you.]

Me: I had the same problem, so one night I went out and banged 17 guys in one shot.

Him: Wow, you just went from a 9 to a 6.

Me: ...

Him: ...

Me: I was a 9?

It was all very funny and cutesy and incredibly flustering and I start to panic a little bit. Like, "Uh, haha, you're really great and all, but clearly you have me confused, because if you keep being all adorable, I really won't know what to do with you." Cause I really won't. I am so used to the idea of everyone having something terminally wrong with them, that my flight instinct has totally kicked in. I really, really don't want to hang out with this guy. I mean, I do. Oh god, I do. But no. It's like how before an audition you think, "Qu'est-ce que fuck am I doing here? Christ on a bike, I wish I were in the Caymans." Or something like that.

At first I thought this was just me being all emo-faggy about relationships (see: last six months of the previous incarnation of this blog), but recently it has evolved into something different. Essentially, all of my female (and a good many of my male) friends are in relationships and let me tell you on thing, kids: they suck. Not the relationships; the people. (Especially people that are engaged. "This is my fiancée!" "This is my barf bag.") And not just them, but people in relationships in general are just shitty and pretty questionable human beings a lot of the time too (Pretend that isn't a gross exaggeration). They stop calling or returning messages, they incorrectly assume they're other half is welcome anywhere, and to top it off, all other interests in their life are promptly dropped and replaced by their one and only.

Example: A conversation - the first in a month - I was having with one of my 'closest' friends two nights ago:

'C'F: I'm sorry I've been such a shitty friend, I've just been so busy with and I haven't had time for, like, anyone.
Me: That's cool, I know you're busy (and I'm totally willing to just wait around for your calls).

5 minutes into the same conversation:

'C'F: You should be SO proud of me: I'm seeing ­ for the first time in so long.
Me: Aw, really?
'C'F: Yeah, I haven't seen [them] since, like, yesterday afternoon.
Me: ...

Do we see the problem, people? Does this not seem a might inamicable, or is this simply the skewed view point of a citizen of Singletown who couldn't possibly imagine what y'all are feeling? These are genuine questions. My relationship-minded readers, I implore you to tell me, am I asking too much by asking the same of you that I did before, or is it that y'all are just too busy with that good thing you've found to care?

So this is why I am so icked out (that's right. I know big boy words) by the mere notion of being in a couple. It just makes people so stupid and I'd really rather not be. Or maybe I would and I just don't know it. However, I will say this: when the day comes - providence willing - that I do actually find myself playing double dutch and I start to ignore my friends, make poor life choices and just generally induce nausea, you have my total and utter permission to make the necessary arrangements to have me taken out back and severely beaten. That is, if I return your call.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Paintergate has been resolved. Thanks to all for their support (read: Michael) in my time of need. The apartment is once again back to it's former glory, but a little bit wiser for its new coat of paint. Almost like an off-white sheath of knowledge. It now knows that an apartment, as much as one may preen over that is still just a habitat and should not be used as a distraction from actually going out and getting a life.

In addition to that saga drawing to a close, yesterday also marked the end of my seasonal employ with the High Holiday Quartet. This is a good thing; I was not enjoying who I became in those last two weeks. Nothing short of a harpy, necessarily so, but a harpy all the same. I would regularly wake up to fantasies wherein I verbally berate someone to the point of mortified speechlessness. That is so not zen, yo.

Aside from putting a stop to my conductors' rage, the end of my sacred tenure also means a new overabundance of time, hence this post. That's right, kids. It's that most nefarious of all ramblings, the Bored Blog. It's like a Drunk Dial but with less illicit substances and more typos.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Paintergate 2007 - Day 17: For those out of the loop, there has been a certain amount of drama surrounding the painting of my apartment. I was originally given the thumbs up that it would be painted before I moved in (42 days ago). It took them three weeks to send me the notice that the painters were coming (21 days ago). So I moved all of my earthly effects into the centre of their respected rooms. The painters were supposed to come that Friday (17 days ago). They didn't. I called my super and he said they would be there the following Tuesday (14 days ago. They didn't. They finally arrived that Thursday (12 days ago) to patch up holes. One would think that they would return the following day to then actually paint and that no one in there right mind would leave and think it appropriate to have an apartment patchy for any period of time. They did. I called the agency a week later (5 days ago) to say "wtf?" and the 3rd-runner-up-for-the-lead-in-Hairspray-lookalike at reception, upon hearing that I had been living like a small burrowing woodland creature (props to Gloria) for the past two weeks, giggled nervously and said that there had been a (and this is a direct quote) "painting emergency" at one of their other buildings. After verbally anally raping her over the phone (that's a lie. My form of vigilanteism is nothing more than a passive-aggresive annoyed tone of voice) she informed me that the painters would be there the next day (4 days ago) or Monday (today). I'm at work and have yet to see for myself, but I'm not optimistic. I really need to call upon Lisa Nichols and the The Secret team to help me call the painting of my apartment into existence.

Update: I just got home. They didn't.

According to Karl

This summer, I participated in the University of Manitoba's Contemporary Opera Lab, which for me was roughly like Maury sending a crack-addicted 14 year old teenager to boot camp. I spent most of my time fighting real, real hard. However, in the end I realized what an enriching, worthwhile, blah blah blah experience it was.

A good portion of this was due to our conductor Karl WhoselastnameIforget, who had a very interesting view on being a musician in this world.

It goes something like this:

It's like you're an alien and you come down to Earth and you see all these other aliens walking around. Say, ten thousand of them, and they're all trying to blend in with the earthlings. Except they don't blend in and they can't for the life of them understand why. The earthlings, while not really sure why, certainly know that the aliens don't fit in and simply accept this as fact. So you have all these aliens who don't know that they are aliens running around being very confused. Enter you. You go up to all these aliens and say, "Um, hey, so the reason that you feel out of place on Earth is because - guess what, kids - you're aliens."

The ten thousand aliens then look at you and in one smooth, cohesive motion their mouths open:


It was a brilliant analogy. We don't fit in; we weren't designed to. It is a necessary function for art that it be somewhat removed from that on which it is acting. If one is too immersed, then it is impossible to interpret and art cannot be literal. Otherwise, it would simply be life and the phrase "art immitating life" would become "life immitating life" and that makes no sense.

Next, I had a very funny time on Friday night. I'm not a huge drinker, but when libation is the cue of the night, I'm usually on top of it like a fat kid on a Smartie. However, I was not feeling especially inclined towards inebriation and therefore spent a hilarious, sober time interacting with drunken folk. My friends are not the sloberring, obnoxious sort of drunk you see at the bar but rather people attempting to carry on social interaction while in an extremely altered state. It makes a good time for Jane Goodall-ing. Most importantly, they tell you how amazing you are and for a compliment whore such as myself, c'mon, there's nothing better. Special thanks go out to my three drunken soprano friends for giving me love for the opera scenes I've done with them. It tickled me. Oh no, wait. That was Brendan.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

To start us off right, big shout out to Mikey J and Mummy-Cat for their always-insightful and appreciated feedback. Waaaaaaaaay nicer than the anonymous reader who used to leave comments on U's blog calling her various not so nice things behind the veil of anonymity. He was kind of a dick.

I just woke up from a four hour nap. I think anything more should just really be called 'sleeping'. And the reason for said nap? A six-thirty wake-up call followed by a five-hour High Holiday service. Imagine, if you will, a newborn baby dear. He is new to this world, just having learned how to walk properly. So, feeling rather good about his newfound mobility, he goes out for a stroll with his little bunny companions. Of these little bunny companions, some have been around for a while and are wisen and aged in respect to this world of daisies and babbling brooks, while others are even newer than the fawn and you just kinda want to kick them. Like, hard. Sometimes you even think, "Lord, God (you're a very religious fawn) why in Heaven did I choose this fucking lagomorph as a strolling companion?! WHY?!" But I digress...So you're strolling around with your little bunny friends and suddenly the grass ends and the ground becomes hard and black and you think, "Oh this must be a road. I've heard about these things, but I've never actually been on one" So you step on up and oh, it's not so bad...


That look is what I felt like up on the bima (altar-equivalent) today

(NB - The above was composed two days ago. I have since experienced my second day and it was much less oh-crap-I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-why-did-they-hire-me?!)

Coming off of this sense of accomplishment, I definitely feel the urge to let loose and have an adventure tonight, one that takes me from a party to a park to my bathtub to my bed. Anyone interested in partaking may call me or leave a comment.

Ooh, also, I've taken down the "My Future Husband" link. For those who never visited, it was linked to a blog called vividblurry, which used to be very funny and slightly touching at times as well. I just visited it for the first time in a year only to find out that the lad's body dysmorphia has become so rampant that it is little more than an ode to a gym bunny. Guys actually send in their Before and After photos and in return receive congratulations. It's gross.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

One day I will get up and sing in front of my peers and not suck.

One day I will open my mouth and out will come exactly what I expected all along, exactly what happened in the practice room mere moments before. My throat will not feel like it has little throat-gnomes creeping out of its walls, constricting my air flow adding little scratchy noises, which, I swear, were not there before. One day, my knees will not shake nor my balance test me. F#s will flow out of me like semen. Wait, that's gross. Like blood. Actually, not a ton better. Is there any single substance that emanates from our bodies that is not disgusting in some matter? I'm gonna go with no. Where was I? Oh yes, the awful, baby-crying F#s. Yeah, those will be awesome. One day I will not have to float above myself in real time thinking "Oh Christ on a bike, not again!" and I'll actually be able to do a character rather than some shallowly emoting caricatured. One day I will not finish a performance and want to go up to every single person in the room and say "I'm sorry! I over-sung in the practice room and I can do it better, really I can! I swear, I have made progress in the last four years!"

One day all this will happen.

Today, however, was not that day.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Moving on

The notion of resurrecting this blog has been dancing around in my head for a couple weeks now. The reason for the gap between inception of realization has been due to the pressure of The First Post. I have observed many things in the past couple weeks about which I've thought, "I that would make a dandy post," but none of them seemed to be efficient as an initial reentry into this medium. And then this thought of moving on popped into my head. How do we do it? Why do we do it or, perhaps more importantly, why don't we do it?

This evolved from my thinking of the ubiquitous U, whom I am hoping to see tonight. We have had a tradition of seeing each other for beverages every Sunday for two years now (two years on the 24th; happy anniversary, love.). Up until several months ago, this ritual took place religiously at one of two coffee establishments who kitty-corner River & Osborne. Then she moved and we have found temporary, sometimes only weekly, homes elsewhere, primarily in the cultural beacon of Transcona (I will be earning points for my weekly treks out there for years to come). However, due to my recent move and her recent acquisition of a driver's license, we have started to once again entertain the notion of putting down roots and I have felt her pull towards our old haunts, those staunch Village rivals. I feel her nostalgia and, correct me if I am wrong, darling, perhaps her longing to hold on to something from our recent past. I understand it and I would be remiss to say that I didn't feel it myself. However, that being said, it also fills me with dread.

I have recently made enormous leaps towards the future, moving out being the most often noted (most often by myself, no less; I apologize if this has become annoying to anyone), but smaller things as well, such as signing up for Hydro, online banking, getting a credit card, taking my Price Chopper's (adieu, Superstore!) groceries on the bus and feeling the immense satisfaction that comes with the above. The thought of reliving that time feels not only dishonest to my goals but it is also a cruel reminder of a period of time wherein I had my biggest awakening. It reminds me how I felt like a 6 year old again, of her eyes on that first evening, hazy, in delicious recovery, and mostly how, despite giving her my everlasting love and support, I'm not sure I'll ever truly be able to forgive the fact that she let go. Was it for the best? Probably. Would I change anything? Of course not. And yet it's there, in the taunting form of a Second Cup no less.

For someone for who nostalgia has always been manna, this is an odd turn of mind. Perhaps, it's all these changes I've made. Perhaps it was sitting last night immersed in friends, but upon closer inspection, realizing that they were now comprised of seemingly happy couples and (slightly) metrosexual frat boys and feeling a momentary isolation I haven't encountered in four years. Perhaps it was the epiphany that came to me not 30 seconds ago as I was typing that last sentence that I've been desperately trying to cling to a group that has not existed in years. It has expanded, which has been largely positive, but my failure to fully embrace this new incarnation has led to much frustration recently without knowing why.

So I have decided to move on. Not from anyone, any place, any thing, and apparently not from the name of my blog. Rather, simply to let the past and its idolized memories remain where they belong.

And so here we go...