Cher and cher alike

Hello readers. Look at your music video, then to her video, then back to your video, then back to hers. She's on a horse.

Clone High

Sometimes when I get particularly Emo and think back to my high school days I wonder why it never worked out like you see on TV or hear about from other people. I never had a strong group of friends to hang out with, I have few to no memories of strange hijinxs while we should have been in class, just the leftover memories of a surprisingly large portion of my life that I’ve mentally boxed up and shoved to the basement of my brain. It’s sad, in a way, you never can go back, and I’ve missed out on those iconic years.

One thing that always consoles me, however, is the old show clone high. It was perfect. The right balance of strange dark humour, intellectual observations, and reality combined with a soundtrack that was melancholy and yet bright. The opening song is the only song from a show that I listen to on a regular basis and it still puts a lump in my throat. Although 90% of what I say on a regular basis is pulled from some other source, I have yet to find a situation where a clone high quote is inappropriate. It’s usually the case that no-one knows what the hell I’m talking about, but the day that I am deterred by that is the day I hang up my gilded humour pants.

Now It’s not the case that I ever turned to it for problem solving advice, but on multiple occasions it did make me feel a hell of a lot better about whatever I was going through. It was on late at night, and just inappropriate enough that I wasn’t sure I should have been watching it, but I’d turn it down really low, and hold the remote the whole time, just in case (Don’t read that bit, k mom?) and I think that atmosphere contributed to the all-over experience of watching the show. It’s not a show you could watch with other people, it was something sort of consoling to your loneliness.

I even consider it, loosely, the first reality show from television. The actions and motivations were all human and understandable, even when it lost it’s train of thought and became completely ridiculous, it always carried the ridiculousness of everyday existence. Cause real life is ridiculous, and it really helped me realize that. Wish I’d taken more of it’s relationship advice to heart though. There really is no reason to blow them out of proportion.

Anyway the point I’m not making in any way shape or form is that the blog recommended for me recently has become the new clone high of my life. 2birds1blog is written mostly by a 24 year old college graduate who is funnier than a stick in the eye and seems to have the inside track to my brain and the ability to write it humorously, which makes me hate and love her at the same time. It’s just about one of the funniest things to read in the world and validates my life choices because she’s in almost the exact same place I am in life now. Shame her soundtrack is so poop. “I’ve never been to me”? I know she posted it just to mock it, but for crying out loud, really?
I want to be just like her when I age sideways.
Also; first post from mmy new eee pc!

The evening

Well, I knew this would happen, right from the moment Neal suggested it.
He had perfect timing, as always, the same timing he has when he's playing tennis; he knows I hate it when he uses it on me. It's why we can't play doubles anymore. Which might have strained the problem in the first place. But he didn't have to suggest it.

I'd just thrown my keys in the hand-made bowl we left on the side-table, barely taken my Gucci's off when he brought it up. So casual, so airy, so what-a-great-idea-y. He thinks he's clever, and I was so blindsided, so happy to be home that I agreed. I always go along with his stupid ideas, like that time we were taking a road-trip and I needed to pee and I was going to wait until we found a proper place to stop, but he insisted everything would be fine, we brought toilet paper, I could just relieve myself (like an animal!) in the bushes on the shoulder. I'd had a little chocolate cake for dessert, usually I'm on a diet, but I threw caution to the wind on this trip, so I was in a crazy mood and I agreed. There I was, fifty feet in the bush pants and panties around my knees, squatting when a whole bus-load of students on spring break drove by. Some of them whistled!

So I should have been more on my guard, I know the tone he takes, it gets a little high because he's nervous, but he shrugs more because he wants it to seem like it's not a big deal, but it really is, and I missed it, and I fell for it and so now we have the Bedermans over for supper.

Frank and Hernia (Who, honestly, names their child Hernia?)Bederman. Neal had known him through college and they had reconnected on the golf course. Thick as thieves my mother would say. She was so right. Neal said I'd "love" his wife, we were so similar, great personalities, huge hearts; I tried. Lord knows I tried. I extended the hand of friendship many times, but that woman is just so unreasonable! She's so deliberate and pushy and arrogant! Last time we opened a bottle of good white wine, and she just sniffed and said she didn't drink Pinot Grigio. Apparently since some movie came out it's been too mainstream. She sniffed a little as she said it, too. Wrinkling the lines around her mouth.

I hoped they would be busy as Neal dialed on our fabulous little spin-dial phone, such a steal at $300. I was sure they wouldn't pick up, and then, when they did, I just "knew" they would have plans, or be too tired (she blew us off once with that lame excuse) but accept they did, and show up too. Even just inside the door, she was criticizing the short-notice (She could have not come...) and making sure I saw her expensive new Jimmy Choo's that Frank bought her.

The food was, of course, over-salted, over-fattening, and under-done, but I was pleased when I saw her scarf down my dessert Tiramisu, she didn't have anything bad to say about that, huh? Then Neal suggested we watch the latest thriller on our new 3-D television, the Bedermans, inconsiderate boors that they are, did not bring their own set of glasses!

They laughed a touch nervously, said it might be a bit far to drive just for one pair of glasses, we don't have more than two pairs, ha ha? It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep smiling and say that it didn't matter I didn't need a pair, I'd already seen the movie (which I hadn't).

So now, here we sit, clustered on our leather sofa, the three of them enjoying the movie, and I battle a headache. Some people just have no idea how to behave.

Medical call-out

Hey Mr. Lesner!
If you feel our health-care is inadequate because they didn't feed you while you had a hole in your intestines, feel free to come be a doctor! Were you expecting a country of pampering house-slaves? You are welcome for fixing you now get out of my country!
Perhaps if the thickened clot he calls a neck had not earned him so much money off people who admire his "talent" he would realize our health-care is more human to those who weren't blessed with fifteen inch biceps. We like it just fine.

Pay as you drive

So here's the idea, in case you don't want to watch this handy video

The first year, you pay your premiums, based on 20,000 kms, or so most insurance companies claim. They check your odometer. If in the next year, you drive less, you receive a rebate off your previous years 20,000. The next year, you can choose to pay the lesser amount, and assume you will drive the same amount.

Personally, I know I would strive to drive less if I knew it would save me more money. Studies show that people drive approximately %10 less if they pay closer attention to how much they drive. It would also help people who routinely carpool, but occasionally require a second vehicle.

If you like this idea, please sign the petition. You do not need to donate afterward, although ipetition automatically transfers you to a donation page, the shysters. After only three days it has seventy signatures. They've implemented this system in Ontario, let's get it here!

Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Ayaan Hirsi Ali grew up in some of the world’s most strict Islamist countries, but after running away from an arranged marriage and claiming refugee status in Holland, she flourished and become a powerful political force, with a steady personal perspective and a spine of solid steel. Her autobiography humanizes the struggles in many other countries, most notably Somalia, and awakens a zeal in anyone who has even wanted to make a difference in the world. Her story is called Infidel.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.

One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.

Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.

But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.

This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.

life updates

It started at a black desk. I'd sat to write, sipping coffee and a small soup, running ideas like carrots across the cheese grater of my mind. The dogs were running, ridiculously, under my feet, their favorite game. When I asked if they would like, "outside?" they charged for the door like maniac children; I smiled as I let them out.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.

Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.

I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.

She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.

Dada-ictions

It's a strange thing, then, addictions. the original inspiration for this article spurred from a reading of Cracked's "5 creepy ways video games are trying to get you addicted", and I will save myself time later by apologizing for the amount of times I am forced to use the word, or variants thereof, addiction.

When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.

I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.

Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.

When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.

Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.

Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?

Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.

It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.

When the Loss was Noticed

Out of my mouth
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts

Hide and go seek life

I remember, on occasion, an incident when I was young, sleeping-over at my girlfriend's house. We had decided to play Truth or Dare, and I, having nothing interesting to report, chose dare. I was instructed to borrow ice cubes from a neighbor, who turned out to be a young girl close to our age, who handed me some with a minimum of fuss or odd glances. When I returned to triumphantly throw them in my drink, my compatriots wailed that I had 'done it wrong' by revealing to the unwitting neighbor that I was under duress, in the form of a dare. This, of course, made no sense to me; the confession had made the whole affair easier, and I didn't poke fun at a neighbors ignorance, taking advantage of the innate hilarity of others confusion. This caused my girlfriends to pout, and declare we should play another game, since I had obviously ruined this one, by my insistence that I had done nothing wrong.

In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.

Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.

Recent Ruminations

At the heart of an onion
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears


I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp

silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream

Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.

More Haiku, etc.

My stomach turns
Tepid greasy dishwater
left by men

Neat bic,
Beatnik.

Camp(y)

The battery in my walkman has died.
pulling the phones out of my ears
i raise my head
looking into the face
of unfathomable weight, power
rock god titan.
a mesozoic eye regards my size
the moutain has found me wanting.

Typical

Cruising down the road in a thirteen ton truck, with a dish of butter chicken, an unhinged frenchman at the wheel, "stuck in middle" on the radio and my honey waiting for me with shakesphere at home.
Alright I'm bragging, but I didn't want to give readers the impression I was emo.

Lapis Lazuli harmony

The heron's beak
is an arching spire
piercing the tinfoil-bitter-blue.

He provides the path
from the Thunder God's fury
through the crown of my skull
through my vertebrae
My feet rooted.
My ears are open.

Fill me with dirt,
I have cleaned my plate.

Carpet Dentum Appointment

Carried in my mouth
I held angry-metal
in my teeth, dagger-sharp

Late night Titus

My mouth is full of teeth
and veins filled with tiny stars
edged bits of sand
as the waves heave
over and again rolling
across the lace of my spine

I, Titus,
a sorrow dispersed
into the blackness
the stars lay witness

Socket Wrench

There was a socket danging down from the sky. It was white and simple; a place to put a bulb. I stood, agog, in the middle of the road. I walked to it, touched it; there was no switch, but a long cord, all the way up, until I lost it in the sky, swingin with my touches with a great weight. I plugged my head in, screwed it up in, messing my hair; my face blushed, my cheeks flushed. How odd.

Life's Haiku

bitter verdant spade
solemn in spring's ecstasy sends
new roots of desire

Lunar Orb

There is a moon in my sky tonight:
large yellow fat hanging hovering
like the eye of some Godzilla
waiting with baited tongue
teeth covered in fly bits
turning towards
flicking lightning
gulp