dire and dear

No.130

2008-03-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

If he exalts himself, I humble him.
And if he humbles himself, I exalt him.
And I go on contradicting him
Until he understands
That he is a monster that passes all understanding.
- Blaise Pascal, Pensees

The difficult that I have with relating life lessons to other people is that they invariably sound so trite. I hate it when life starts seeming like a cliche, or when it teaches you something that you should've learned watching a very special episode of The Facts of Life. That being said, cliches actually happen, which is in itself another horrible cliche.

Someone let me down. It was as abrupt as a car accident. One minute you're fine, the weather's nice, you're cruising down the street, some good music on the radio - then there's a moment of pain and confusion - and the next thing all you know is a colorful mixture of blood and wreckage. The only good thing about the entire accident is that it's over, and you have to adjust to your new circumstances pretty quickly.

This has been an interesting year for me. I won't say a good year, or a pleasant year - but an interesting one. Maybe not entirely fairly, I was leaning on this person. They recently withdrew their help, and while there's other people I can turn to, I'm just surprised that someone can change their mind about you so quickly, and just decide that you're not worth it. This may be all being done under the auspices of letting me learn to fend for myself, which, god knows, I can never learn enough. But I can't shake the feeling that there's something bloody presumptuous about leaving someone to drown and then trying to take credit for it when they force themselves to swim.

That's why I chose the above quote. Pascal, no stranger to drama, understood that in life there's always going to be some disaster, public or private, large or small, that will tear large chunks of flesh from your body. And there's never going to be a good way to react to it. Whatever you do, however you try to cope with it, you'll wind up looking ridiculous. There's no real way to handle it with dignity - you just stand there, blood all over your shirt, strangers pointing and staring, and hope that the wounds will scab over as quickly as possible.

I can't really say what the lesson here is. Don't trust anyone? People suck? Don't build houses on sand? Always look out for number one? I haven't really decided what I should take away from all this, and I'm not interested in turning this experience into some pat "growing experience" that I can walk away from and be a better person. The only thing I want is that it never happens again.

Bon Iver - The Wolves (Act I and II)

What I'm counting on

2008-03-17T18:31:00.001-07:00

Oh man, am I ever getting tired of this whole school thing. What, me academia? I'm a textbook example of what happens when you go by what you think other people want you to do. This cannot end too quickly. In the meantime, this is what I need a little bit of:

Matthew Sweet: Divine Intervention

What might have been lost

2008-03-15T08:25:00.000-07:00

From what my window tells me, it looks like it's spring time outside. I'm sure there's some kind of scientific explanation for it - our bodies tied to nature's cyclical rhythm, or something - but I feel excited when I look outside. I seem to get high off the sunlight. It's at times like this that I feel that change is possible, and that there's some kind of hope.

This may be just the caffeine talking, but it makes me want to run around aside in my junkie and homeless infested neighborhood and say Look everybody! The Sun! Remember the sun? I don't! What the hell is it? Unfortunately, no one would really take a second glance of someone running around and screaming in this part of town.

I feel buoyed up, which considering how I've been feeling lately, is a nice change. Let's hope that the good weather continues.

FAIL

2008-02-24T14:02:00.000-08:00

Education

University of Toronto – Bachelor with Honours

Major in Philosophy, Double Minor in History and Political Science (Muddled Through)

Employment

Library Assistant – Knox College, Caven Library

Responsibilities include:

ü Staring off into space

ü Checking Facebook

ü Signing out book every three hours

ü Avoiding eye contact with co-worker

Receptionist – Humanity’s Complaint Department

Responsibilities included:

ü Tacitly ignoring co-worker’s not-so-casual racism

ü Checking Facebook

ü “Accidently” hanging up on belligerent complainants

ü Laughing at the plight of the oppressed

ü Being terrified of the lunatics that would occasionally come in

People I’ve Disappointed

ü Parents

ü Self

ü Ex-Fiancee

ü Girlfriends (two through four)

ü Potential girlfriends

Successful Friends I Avoid

ü Friend with Business degree who got married at twenty-four, has a beautiful wife and child, actually owns a house

ü Friend doing PhD in Africa about colonial practices or something (Seems complicated)

ü Friend having well-placed job in diplomatic offices for the federal government

ü Friend who is now a high school teacher, has played in several bands, and is a long time relationship (Engaged? Married?) to hot T.A we both had a crush on, oh well

ü Friend doing PhD in London in Film Studies or Slavoj Zizek (Not really sure)

What I Thought I’d Be Doing At This Age

ü Have PhD (or at least a master’s degree)

ü Be working on my third novel

ü Be in a serious relationship

ü Be contributing something interesting or important to humanity

My Favorite Evasions

ü “No, I’m not just saying that so the conversation will end. I really do agree with you”

ü “Ah, we were just hanging out”

ü “We’re not dating”

ü “I DO love you”

ü “I don’t know what happened. The job just didn’t work out”

ü “It will never happen again. I promise”

Things I Realized Only After It Didn’t Matter Anymore

ü I should’ve ended things six months ago

ü It would have gone better if I had just admitted it

ü They were just trying to help

ü She wanted to be more than friends

ü It didn’t mean anything- we were both just drunk and lonely

ü I never really cared that much

ü I was still in love with her

Time Wasters

2007-11-22T18:48:00.000-08:00

My main motivation for this entry is to simply avoid working on an assignment that I've successfully avoided working on for over a week. It'd be easy to finish if not for my chronic procrastination and the assignment's heart-stopping inanity. Like an ersatz Job, I find myself cursing the ink the assignment was written with, the paper it was written on, and the very day the tree that was to become the paper was conceived.

To say that my time at the library tech program has been well spent would be a gross abuse of the truth. To give it its due, there are certain computer programs that I never would have known about without it, and I did genuinely enjoy my placement at a school library. So much so, that the rest of the program is seeming more and more like a grimly tedious mess. I am not enthralled with this program, I am not in love with what I am being taught. If I was dating this program, this would be around the time that I would start suggesting that we see other people, as we clearly have irreconcilable differences. I enjoy reading and seeing my friends, it enjoys obscure journal databases that perhaps thirty people outside of this program use.

Of course, like any relationship, it's never one persons fault when things start to sour. It always takes two. For my part, I am willing to admit to a fearful level of procrastination, a monstrous incapacity to commit fully to what I am being taught, a satanically short attention span for what I consider dull or unimportant, and overweening vanity. Sometimes, a subject is just too ridiculous for me to take notes on. The program is not completely to blame. It's more that having started down a certain path I lack the imagination to do other than grit my teeth grimly and continue marching on. Cursing under my breath all the while. Stoicism's not my bag.

That's not my bag either

Of course, a very wise friend of mine has rightly pointed out that it would be sheer emptyheadedness of me to drop out at this point. If I'm not doing as well as I think I should be doing, either start paying more attention or just stop caring. At the end of it I will have contacts in the field, and a nice little piece of paper that explains that I now officially know how to do stuff I already knew how to do. She also points out that nobody, Nobody cares what my marks are once I finish the program. All they care about is the little piece of paper. She is of course completely right - as usual - and I should just man up and get this program finished. The problem is only in my head, as are most of my problems.

Ultimately, the only thing that's at stake here is my vanity. Despite all empirical evidence to the contrary, I've always thought of myself as being a good, if somewhat misunderstood student. I realize now that that was really never true at all. I am a so-so to okay student. I'm not sure why this bothers me so much, as I know and respect many people who were never good students and I recognize as being highly intelligent and talented people. It seems that there is never an issue so intangible that it cannot somehow intersect and wound my monstrous ego.

The Balfour Manoeuvre

2007-04-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

Whenever I walk into a bookstore these days, I walk in with the firm intention of buying something light. My self-imposed reading list has been pretty heavy of late, and I have a great deal of books on the back-burner that require attention. I'm interested in reading something that's clever, well written, but fairly frothy. Something where after I finish it, I can think "Well, that was entertaining!" and then never have to think about it again. From where I'm sitting, some of the books on my dresser "To-Read" pile include: Crime and Punishment, The Adolescent, Beowulf, The Nicomachean Ethics, The Ascent to Truth, The Wings of the Dove, and Simone Weil: A life. I have a problem.

Probably also could've used some lighter reading

I always feel compelled to buy books like these, even when I know I could use a break, either from serious reading or reading in general. They usually sit on my dresser along with the other serious books that I keep meaning to read. I'll cite one incident as an illustrative example, an example I've come to think of as The Balfour Manoeuvre. Over the long weekend I walked into Balfour Books with the firm resolution that I would buy something fairly frivolous. I walked up to the first display table, and there right in front me was a copy of Graham Greene's Twenty-One Stories. After picking that up - I really didn't have a choice - I then found myself in the religion section picking out a copy of Thomas Merton's The New Man. The important thing to remember here is that I don't remember walking over to the religion section. I was just there. I then walked out of Balfour's, the proud new owner of a collection of short stories by a grim Catholic novelist and a collection of meditations by an existentialist monk. Go figure.

A good question would be why I keep doing this to myself. I don't have the time to read all of these, and at the rate I'm buying them it'll be another twenty-six years before I've finished them all. Some of my motivation can be traced back to my alienated teen snob years, where as a "serious" "intelligent" reader I would only have time for the most "serious" "intelligent" and "thought-provoking" books. I really did think like that, and it would be a lie to say that I've stopped completely. Sometimes when I'm looking at a light read, my teenage self scoffs, rolls his eyes and declares "You're not going to read that, are you?". It's not always blatant, but I know it's still there somewhere, just below the surface of my subconscious.

Of course, we all know that the dark underside of snobbery is a terrible insecurity. As a teenager I didn't play well with others. Back then, given the choice between going to a party and re-reading Thus spoke Zarathustra, I would've chosen the latter. Reading, especially books of philosophy and the like, was a way for me to reassure myself that I wasn't the gawky idiot that I suspected myself of being. It allowed me to construct a rickety self-image of Sam as a precocious, willful adolescent who cared more about the important things, who was deep and wouldn't be caught dead watching something as trivial and superficial as "Friends". Even when these trivial and superficial people got better grades than I did, I would think that they were just obnoxious keeners, and had no idea of the true worth of things, or the heights and depths that a truly aristocratic and spiritual nature was capable of. Yeah, I read that much Nietzsche.

Probably also could've used some lighter reading... and a shave

It made me feel special, and was my only real defense against the ravages of adolescence. As much as I wanted to believe all of the above was true, it was desperately necessary that other people believed it too. As much as I told myself that my peers were beneath my notice, I still needed their recognition. I wouldn't admit it, but I still judged myself through what I thought their expectations of me must be. Because of course, they must be secretly thinking of me as much as I was secretly thinking of them.

Of course, another element to all this is the obvious one - that these are just the books I prefer to read. Sure, it would be nice to be able to pick up Anne Tyler a little more often - I loved The Accidental Tourist - but if these are the books I want to read, of course there's no shame in it. That would be the perfect counterpoint except for the fact that when I'm between books and going on public transport I bring along a more "intellectual" book. After all, nothing attracts the ladies like Nathanael West.

Don't worry ladies, plenty to go around

As a twenty-something, I should probably know a little better. While caring about what other people think is normal and healthy in small doses, my concern is often exaggerated beyond rational levels. You could even call it neurotic. Just not to my face. That would make me self-conscious. You never grow up as fast as you want, and I suppose that one of the things I have to learn to tone down is my sometimes morbid self-consciousness. After all, it's not like everyone's watching my every move, judging everything I say and do, right?

You aren't, are you?

On starting over (and over, and over, and over)

2007-03-31T21:12:00.000-07:00

One of the keys to survival is pattern recognition. Without it, our ancestors never would have noticed that striking two rocks together usually starts a fire, summer follows spring or that the red berries taste like burning. While we can debate the validity of inductive reasoning until the cows come home - if they come home - I think we'd all agree that it's a pretty useful guide to our every day lives. Lately, I've noticed some patterns in my own behavior that may hold the key to my future survival. Or may be good for some cheap laughs. We'll see.

Disclaimer: Discussing this man may make Heather cry

I like to start over. It's something I do frequently, about every two years or so. It usually starts with me taking a fairly critical look at what I've managed to do - usually not much - and becoming righteously disappointed with myself. What's the matter with you my inner nag begins, Weren't you have supposed to have written a novel by now, or travelled to Europe, or discovered gunpowder or gotten a real job? This simply won't do at all . And then in an orgy of flagellation I take stock of my mediocre sins.

Over the years, the usual offenders wind up being smoking too much or still smoking at all, in a job/ jobs I don't really enjoy, not writing enough or everything I write is superficial, uncertain of the status of the relationship I'm currently in, not working out or not working out enough, not eating well, and trying to live beyond my means through the modern miracle of credit cards. The next step in this process is trying to ward off the gods of failure by making them impossible promises that they know I won't be able to keep. Wait! I think to myself I know what the solution is! If all of these things are wrong with me, then all I have to do is simply change absolutely everything right away. After all, that shouldn't be too hard, should it? And then the gods laugh.

By setting up an impossible challenge for myself, I guarantee failure. By demanding perfection from myself all at once, failure in even one of these areas completely invalidates any gains I make in the others. Feeling like a total failure, I then indulge my minor vices even more so. This results in my feeling to be even more of a failure as I've now become a failure and a recidivist - the logic being that it's worse to try and fail then to not try at all.

I've been wondering why I do this, and what I think the problem may be that I'm actually scared of succeeding. If I just focused on succeeding at one thing, why, that would mean that it would be possible for me to succeed at my other problems providing I don't demand instant perfection and realise that -gasp- self improvement is a gradual process that takes many years of hard struggle and can't be achieved instantaneously or by quick fixes. It would mean that the game is harder than I thought, but if I play it sanely I have a better chance of winning, or at least getting a little closer to the goal.

As I see it, the problem lies in the fact that I want to be perfect at something right away. If it requires too much effort - and the way I do it, it usually does - then I get frustrated and give up. But the beauty of it is by giving up after over-extending myself everything stays exactly the same.I don't get challenged, and everything remains as it is. There's a certain comfort in total inertia. It's familiar. Dull but familiar. Which is very attractive to me.

One character trait that I have is my maybe excessive enjoyment of the familiar. I don't really like change. Once I've acclimated myself to whatever the emotional/social landscape is, my innate preference is for everything to remain static. Oh, things can happen of course. Just as long as they don't interrupt the overall sense of continuity and tradition that I crave. In fact, one of the pleasures that I take from reading books of history - or watching Rome - is the sense of continuity it gives me. The dark side to this trait is that if I think something has to change, then everything has to change. Like Chesterton's free-thinker and "revolutionise", change becomes an intransitive verb.

The obvious answer to all of this is that I should just stop being so hard on myself and admit that I'm not perfect. Not even close, and that I should stop lacerating myself with guilt because I'm not the exact mirror image of who I want to be. I think any one who knows me well enough has given me some variation on this advice over the years. It's very hard advice to act on, as over the years I've sharpened my capacity for self-criticism to a killing edge. It's also one of those things that's as natural as breathing to me. The most significant problem with that advice is that it requires me to change.

If life is largely about missing out and missing the point, why does it bother me so much that I do? Maybe it's just vanity, ultimately. A childish wish to be good at everything, regardless of whether or not I actually consider "everything" to be worthwhile. Maybe from now I'll just focus on what I want to get better at, and stop worrying so much over whether it'll eventually constitute perfection.

2007-03-04T16:29:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from The Fabric Of The Cosmos by Brian Greene:

Whereas human intuition, and its embodiment in classical physics, envision a reality in which things are definitely one way or another, quantum mechanics describes a reality in which things sometime hover in a haze of being partly one way and partly another. Things become definite only when a suitable observation forces them to relinquish quantum possibilities and settle on a specific outcome. The outcome that's realized, though, cannot be predicted-we can predict only the odds that things will turn out one way or another.

Freedom is built into the universe.

Something a little lighter

2007-01-19T17:08:00.000-08:00

For the curious, this is what a Library technician does.

I've been accepted into the program.

'That vast moth-eaten musical brocade'

2007-01-14T12:32:00.000-08:00

There is a special way of being afraid
No tricks dispel. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says 'No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel', not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound
No touch to taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

-Philip Larkin, Aubade

Today I finally introduced myself to the priest at the church that I go to. I've been going there for about three months now, but haven't yet officially joined. Last week I tried to join online, the page wasn't working, so it seems I had no choice but to finally walk up to him and introduce myself. I had to wait a few minutes, as he was busy listening to whatever the seedy looking guy in front of me was whispering into his ear. The gentleman in question was wearing a huge gray parka, a day's worth of growth, and less than the standard issue of teeth. I waited my turn.

The entire interview took less than five minutes. I introduced myself, explained that I had been coming to his church for a few months, and now wanted to officially join his parish. I explained that I tried joining online, but that the page wasn't loading. He listened with the slightly abstracted air of someone who had a great deal on his mind but was still trying to be attentive. He told me that I should phone the parish number available on the newsletter, and explain to that I had been trying to join but was having trouble with the page. Then taking another look at me, asked if I was studying or working. I told him working. He looked at me again, shook my hand, said it was a pleasure to meet me, and moved onto the next parishioner that needed his attention. I left the church feeling, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I had accomplished something.

I finally decided that I had to join this church a couple of weeks ago. It was about three weeks before Christmas, and one of the priests - I think he was a guest speaker from another church - read from the gospel of Luke. There had been other times coming here when I felt myself tearing up listening to the songs or something the priest was saying. However, I always managed to hold myself back. I would think:If you start crying in a church, in this church, then you've lost it. Do not lose it here. This would usually bring me around and I'd stay cool during the rest of the sermon. I'm not sure why this time was different, and if you asked me to explain what exactly provoked it I wouldn't be able to tell you. The passage that the priest read was from chapter three, verses 15-16:

A feeling of expectancy had grown among the people, who were beginning to wonder whether John might be the Christ, so John declared before them all, 'I baptise you with water, but some one is coming, who is more powerful than I, and I am not fit to undo the strap of his sandals; he will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and fire.

I lost it on "fire". Tears started to stream down my face. Something had cracked open.

Morbidly self-conscious as I am, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Sure enough, one guy at the pew opposite to me had. His expression was a partly concerned, mostly embarrassed What the fuck? When he noticed me looking at him, he quickly looked away, and pointedly stopped looking at me. I don't blame him. I would've done the same in his position.

I quoted from Larkin about religion because until very recently, that's how I used to feel about religion, and I'm sure that at least a few of you reading this - Hi Jen! - still feel that that's the proper attitude toward it. I have to admit, there is a great deal to admire abut that point of view. There's a bravery, or toughness about it that's hard not to think highly of. In fact, I do think highly of it. I just don't think it's right. Larkin's description of death, of non-being is terrifying. How could you not shudder at a line like 'Nothing to love or link with'? The only problem with it that I see, is that Larkin is overstating his case. I think in this instance he over plays his hand, because he's trying to get us to imagine what Non-Being would feel like. 'This is what we fear - no sight, no sound / No touch to taste or smell, nothing to think with'. The problem with this is that he is trying to get us to imagine what it would be like not to exist. The problem with that is that it is literally impossible. The mind cannot conceive of it.

I no longer believe what Larkin believed. I used to. There wasn't single argument that convinced me otherwise, nor was it a single incident that made me change my mind. If at this point you're looking for concrete argument, look elsewhere. it was a series of arguments and events that made me start to think otherwise. I doubt that arguments in favor of religion usually convince any one. I'm not saying that I don't still have certain reservations either. There are certain hot-button issues that I'm sure that someone a little more conservative in their faith might disagree with me on. That's neither here nor there though. I'm starting to learn that there can be disagreement over certain topics as long as we can agree on the broader issues. There are many mansions, after all.

I suppose I could make an attempt to explain why I do believe, but that would be another posting, or three to explain. I might attempt it. To put it as simply as I can, I just do. I can't help it. They could subdivide the Trinity into seventeen different parts and I still would. I can't do otherwise.

Draining my fangs

2007-01-12T18:16:00.000-08:00

Everybody in my world knew that regular work was just another word for being robbed and dying of boredom.

-Sarah Waters, Fingersmith

Miss me?
There are two main reason that I haven't been writing lately. One has been Christmas, the other has been work. I've decided to embrace the entire concept of the blog as a place to vent some spleen, as I have precious little other places to do it.

Having read through the Gospels a couple of times, I haven't found a single reference to people having to buy anything or go into the black hole of credit card debt - I'm pretty sure that lending at interest is frowned at in the Bible, but that's another matter - let alone having to tolerate behavior to which the only sane response is at best a thunderous "fuck you" in order to celebrate Jesus' birthday. What really irritates me is the invoking of the necessity of staying calm and not over-reacting "because it's Christmas". Apparently Christmas is supposed to engender rational self-control, but good manners not so much. I'm not sure where this holiday went wrong, but I doubt that making me want to smash things with a claw hammer was quite what Jesus intended, if he did in fact intend us to celebrate his birth at all.

The other thing that's been getting me down is work. Now, for the sake of discretion, I can't actually name it, but we'll just call it Humanity's Complaint Department, or (HCD) for short. When, over a couple of beers, I was describing to a friend what actually happens at the HCD, he aptly pointed out that it sounded like all the worst parts of retail - with none of the benefits. For those of my readers who've worked with me at BeastCity, imagine - if you dare - a clientele that consisted solely of irritated Ken Finklemans and angry Bernards. With none of the in between customers who had a genuine love for the product, or simple hadn't been raised by wolves. In fact, there isn't even the respite of Ken Finkleman in mild mood or a sweet-tempered Bernard - who, to do him justice, was charming when he was in a good mood - because they're like that all the time.

What adds injury to insult is the written hyperbole. When every single letter you read is written in the colour of aggrieved self-righteousness, bemoaning the fact that the writer once believed that Canada was a country of Law, Order and Moral Virtue - that now that that veil has been brutally torn away from their eyes they will be forevermore living in a shattered back alley of broken dreams, giving unhappy defeated hand jobs to the cruel and powerful. The above is only a slight exaggeration of the type of rhetoric a great deal of our clients enjoy using. The spelling has been somewhat improved. Their opponents are little better, using the weaselly language of deceit, evasion and denial of moral responsibility so well that it makes this twenty-six year old slacker blush. After working at the Beast, I really though that my opinion of general humanity could not run any lower. Like all optimists are, I've been proven wrong. In short, I'm suffering from an extreme case of compassion fatigue.

Of course, because all good things come in threes, on top of irritation and moral dismay the other reaction my job provokes in me is boredom. A high degree of boredom. It is incredibly repetitive, dull and the only reason why they don't get a chimp or a computer to do it is because of the inertia that is natural to all bureaucracies and because it is wrong to hurt animals. Despite everything, I will go to my grave a happy man knowing that I made a difference in the life of some chimp somewhere.

So why not just leave? I am, of course. I recently received the wonderful news that S. College has approved me for entering their Library Technician program. The program starts in May, lasts a year and will at the end of it give me a job that is commonly reserved for grown ups. For those of you who are wondering what a library technician does, the simplest way I can explain it is that I will basically be a librarian. Basically.

Let me close be saying that everything is not as bad that I'm making it out to seem. I've got a lot of good friends who keep me sane, I've been introduced to the music of Shearwater and Okkervil River, and at least the job pays fairly well. Of course, there's also this:

Ride free little guy, ride free.

Existential crisis #53789

2006-12-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been wondering if blogging is really the medium for stuff I'm interested in exploring.

The first problem is that I'm a little introverted. To be a little more accurate, I'm a blackhole of introversion. Not always good at sharing, or comfortable doing it. I don't even know what would be my equivalent of Jessie's vaginal discharge story, but I'm pretty sure I'd never tell it. I can't really talk about work either, because despite the fact that I'm a mere lowly factotum, I could still - very, very easily - be fired for disclosing just about anything that happens to go on there.

My personal life is largely out of bounds as well. While I could change the names to protect the guilty - mostly myself - everyone in Toronto knows everybody else. I doubt anyone would be really impressed or fooled if I tried something like that, and I don't think it would be too classy of me to try. I guess I could start a super-secret blog that no one else knew about where I could write about my feelings and relationships, but that seems heart-stoppingly lame. It sort of captures the heart of the contradiction. I'd like everyone to read this, and while I realize that one of the rules of blogging is to never talk about what you read on someone else's blog - I have no idea why - I also want the privacy to say exactly what I think. I know that's what journals are for, but wasn't the entire point of blogging to have a journal everyone could read? Or am I just missing the point again?

This all ties into something that's been eating at me lately; whether or not I'm actually that much of a writer. I don't mean that I need reassurance that I'm a "good" writer, I'm pretty sure that I know by now what my strengths and weaknesses are. It's just that I'm beginning to wonder if being a writer is something I really have a calling for. I've been mistaken about creative callings in the past - I actually wanted to be a philosophy professor at one point - and sometimes I wonder if this might not be another example. Put plainly, writing is just a job, like being a tailor or a garbage man. I am militantly opposed to the concept of the writer as the revolutionary vanguard of human consciousness. I consider that to be largely a romantic hangover, but I know that part of the reason why I'm so opposed to it now is because it's something I used to fervently believe when I was but a pretentious, wayward youth.

As a pretentious, wayward young man I've learned better. Now I just think it's something people do because they're good at it. What exactly is writing for? In a letter to a friend, Flannery O'Connor said the question never really occurred to her until she was three quarters finished her masters in English. She went on to say that she she was pretty sure that there were people with PhD's who taught English in universities to whom that question never occurred - not because she thought she was particularly more insightful than them - simply because it occurred to her by accident. I know a question like that would have never occurred to me had a writer like O'Connor not asked it.

Of course, I have no idea what the answer is. I don't like letting go of the idea of myself as a writer. Writing, in some shape or another has become an integral part of my identity. It's how I think of myself when I think of that one creative thing I do. Can't sing, can't dance, can't act. But I say to myself at least you can write! But I don't. At least not very often. I'm not sure if it's because I lack the imagination or the desire, but sometimes I feel like it has to be something big. If I'm not a writer, then I'm not quite sure what I can replace it with. Some days I feel I should just resign myself to the fact that I'm meant to be a consumer of culture, but never a producer.

I know the easy answer to all of this is that I should just keep writing. But I haven't really written anything-anything I would really consider writing-in several months. I've never published anything, period. It seems that I mostly just use writing as some sort of therapeutic aid for private trauma, usually me morbidly over-reacting to something.

So what's my point? I'm wondering the same thing. I guess it's just that recently I've been feeling that "Had potential" is going to be the epitaph they carve on my tombstone.

Sam applies to Pitchfork

2006-11-21T16:59:00.000-08:00

I rarely write about the things I like. It's one of those quirks of the personality that I only write when I feel I have to use words to somehow magically prevent my life from collapsing. I would write about work, but then I work at Humanity's Complaint Department (HCD). While my position there is sufficiently lowly, I'm still privy to enough private information to land me back in the unemployment line if I ever went into detail about what went on there. Any one want to make it worth my while?
In order to maintain my sanity, I've found myself listening to a lot of music lately. In no particular order, here's what I've been listening to and enjoying.

1. Shearwater - Palo Santo: While listening to this album doesn't send me into an existential frenzy (See previous post for what does) it is one of the most heartbreakingly sad pieces of music I've ever listened to. The first time I listened to the song "La Dame et la Licorne" it brought tears to my eyes.I don't recommend any one listen to "Johnny Viola" if they have anything troubling them. I'm not sure I even want to guess what would happen if I listened to "Hail, Mary" after a few drinks. I'd probably run sobbing into the forest, never to be seen again. That being said, this is a gorgeous listen.

2. Pedro the Lion - It's Hard To Find A Friend : When mentioning to a friend that I really enjoyed this album, she cut me off in mid-sentence saying "Yeah, he's alright, but he's a little too Christ-y for me". Now, I positively enjoy things being a little Christ-y provided it's sincere and aesthetically well constructed. Fortunately, this is. Obvious favorite is "Secret of the easy yoke", but my personal favorite is "Of minor prophets and their prostitute wives". Part of the pleasure comes from knowing who the prophet in question is -It's Hosea!- but also the lurking menace in a lyric like "Come home darling all is forgiven
So come home quickly". The vaguely threatening way he emphasizes "quickly" implies that this forgiveness depends heavily on her coming home.

3. Okkervil River - Black Sheep Boy:
This is the scariest and most intense album about love I've ever listened to. The song "For Real" is making me question how deeply I've ever been in love with anybody. I want "So come back, I am waiting" to play at my wedding, provided I ever get that far. Yes Susannah, I went out and bought this too.

4. Tropicalia - Various artists: I've only been listening to this recently, but go out and buy it! Buy it now! Tropicalia is a Brazilian style of music from the late sixties that combines pop, punk and avant garde influences. It's also incredibly upbeat and relentlessly catchy. You'll need to listen to this afterBlack Sheep Boy makes you relentlessly question the intensity and sincerity of all your past and current relationships.

2006-11-11T12:46:00.000-08:00

I know it's childish of me, but whenever I read about this guy I'm filled with nothing but a soul-corroding envy:

My Arch-Enemy

He's only six years older than me; but he's an emergency room doctor, an award winning published author, happily married with a two year old son, working on his novel, and his first collection of award-winning short stories is being turned into a television series which I'm sure will be highly entertaining as well as wildly lucrative. I bet he has a great relationship with his parents, never forgets a friend's birthday, has impeccable grammar and is a good cook. I also remember reading somewhere that his tears cure AIDS, and that the city's homeless worship him as a god.

Bastard.

All hail our new Cow-Man overlords!

2006-11-07T18:27:00.000-08:00

For the benefit of those who didn't get the e-mail, I present the link again in all its splendor:

Cow-Man, King of the future!

Crazy!

Just thought I'd share

2006-10-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

On my way to work this morning, I looked up into the sky as the sun was rising. The way the light reflected off the clouds created this beautiful ripple effect - as if the entire sky was filled with fiery waves.
It was breathtaking.

Captain Badass

2006-10-23T16:27:00.000-07:00

As the rest of my life has stopped hemorrhaging disaster, I'd like to publicly thank the inimitable Susannah for the recommendation of Songs: Ohia, a.k.a Jason Molina, a.k.a Guy who clearly must have been hiding in the bushes while documenting my previous relationship, taking detailed notes and then setting it to music. The actual album is Axxes and Ace. The parallels are too numerous for it to be just sheer coincidence. I've never had a whole relationship set to music before.
I won't even name any particular song, because it seems like every goddam one of them was written for this relationship at different stages.
I actually think he may be watching me now. Damn you, Jason Molina! Get out of my head!

"Such a great sinner for so small a boy"

2006-10-10T16:42:00.000-07:00

The trouble with introspection is that it rarely leaves you time to accomplish much else, or a least much else that's meaningful.
The long lag between posts can be explained by the fact that a great deal has been going on in the Anti-Blog(a.k.a Real Life-Thanks to Matthew).When that happens, I catch the introspection bug. And when that happens, Sammy goes into Deep Isolation. Not deep as in "spiritually profound", just deep as in "I hope no one will find me in this dark hole". But I've come out, wiping the bits of sleep out of my eyes, scratching the crumbs out of my beard and blearily looking out into a world that resembles a belabored metaphor.
I'm starting to feel a little better. About everything.

And how was your day?

2006-09-12T15:57:00.000-07:00

Fascinating facts about me:

-My kitchen is now sixty percent mouse free! I'm not sure where the rest have gone, but I'm thinking of establishing a treaty negotiation with the Mouse King. In exchange for safe passage through my kingdom, he and his remaining subjects swear to only devour ten percent of my foodstuffs. To sweeten the deal, he promises to give me half of Poland.

-My bathroom no longer makes strong men gag! Or lesser men weep!

-Did you know that towels work better when they're clean? I do! Now.

-Today I experienced the simple pleasure of riding the street car all the way home! No film shoots obstructing crucial intersections! No mysterious and sudden turn-offs at Lansdowne! Hooray for all the way home!

-I enjoy being alone the same way certain people enjoy good music.

- At my new favorite bookstore, The Monkey's Paw, they have a book that contains all known interviews given by Flannery O'Connor. I would kill for this book! Maybe you! Just kidding. Maybe.

-I can barely be bothered to read any more. There's almost nothing that keeps my attention. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying. Mostly terrifying.

-Every mistake I have ever made can be chalked up to either poor impulse control or lack of forethought! These are just fancy ways of saying I make dumb decisions. Please make a note of that.

-I spend more time on my computer than I do with certain members of my family! This is not unhealthy as I want to. I am confident that if you met certain members of my family, you would spend more time on my computer too.

-I have learned that Piquet is much harder to play than I thought.

-Today I spilt coffee all over my desk. I didn't really mind. Not much.

-'King's Crossing' is perhaps my favorite song, ever. I'm not always sure what it's about-Junkies? Despair? Despairing Junkies?-but I would totally gay-marry it if it asked me too.

-I determine the gender of songs based on the song writer. Yes, I know it's not a perfect system.

-Nothing beats walking around your mostly clean apartment in your bathrobe and slippers. Nothing. I defy you to name anything more pleasurable.

-I mostly consider work as that eight hour break in my day where I have to make money.

2006-09-09T20:11:00.000-07:00

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it was liking one felt, or disliking? And to those words, what meaning attached, after all?

-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Ms. Woolf, all is forgiven.

Sorry about the lack of real entries. I promise to be more diligent.

When I see the price you pay...

2006-08-30T17:21:00.000-07:00

In the past few weeks there have been car attacks, two babies born, gadgetry won, new jobs and rumours of new jobs. All of these rapid changes are off-putting. Furthermore, all of these changes seem to be happening mostly to my friends on the distaff side. It's starting to make me think. Unfortunately, my capacity for deep thought was violently removed sometime during University and Retail. I'll do the best I can.

We're growing old. It doesn't frighten me. I wouldn't know how to characterize the emotion it invokes exactly. At times, adulthood seems like a really simple answer to what I thought was an incredibly complex and distressing question. As a child, I differed from a lot of my friends in one important respect: I didn't want to grow up. While the other boys would talk excitedly about what they would be when they reached maturity; I had a different answer. Instead of wanting to be a lawyer or a doctor, I had something different in mind. I wanted to be a ten year old boy.

Of course there were certain jobs I wanted. Comic book artist, writer, musician. But that desire that my friends had, the overriding desire for adulthood, that I never had. I never understood my friends either who wanted it. With my preferred jobs, it seemed like I could do them and still somehow be a child. I felt it was obvious there wasn't a great deal to be gained by being an adult, and a great deal to lose. From what I observed from the adults I knew, being an adult didn't really recommend itself well. It seemed like a punishment for some undefined sin. They seemed so unhappy. I promised myself that I would somehow-magically-remain the same age. Even if my body grew, even if I learned more, I would still somehow maintain my innocence.

I still don't think that adulthood has much to recommend itself. Giving up that capacity for wonder and joy for paying taxes, failed relationships, sex and mundane jobs seem to me to be a ludicrously cruel and unbalanced exchange. The few consolations there do seem to be in the renewal and affirmation of youth; either through the maintenance of friendships or through the actual bearing of children. One of my few consolations is the deep and increasingly sophisticated friendships that I've been allowed to maintain. On certain nights I look around my apartment and think So it happened to me anyway. It's a bittersweet realization. I imagine it's how Esau must of felt five minutes after he got the pottage. You're tired, exhausted, and confused. Then someone somehow cheats you out of something precious.

None of this means that I'm not proud and happy of what everyone has accomplished. It just surprises me that the regular cycles of life-Marriages, jobs, children-had to happen to us too. I thought we were exempt. For some reason, I though we would be different.

I said no "no comment!"

2006-08-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure why, but for some reason my blog hasn't been showing the "post comment" option. After alternately screaming, crying, begging and threatening, comments can now be posted again. Go nuts.

Yesterday is the shadow of today

2006-08-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

While I've been on hiatus from books, I've decided on attempting some life-affirming activities; such as buying garbage bags and cleaning out the chthulian madness that is my closet. I've come across a lot of garbage, some old essays, and one gem. I found actual, handwritten, detailed notes on an old girlfriend's favorite authors, interests, habits and music. The following is transcribed for your delectation. I've crossed out her name for obvious reasons. Namely, if she ever came across this she'd probably laugh herself into a coma. Or be creeped out.

Things xxxx likes:
-Jazz/Blues (Ella Fitzgerald, Screaming Jay Hawkins)
-Opera- Verdi(?)
-Italian horror films (D'argento)
-Simpsons, Family Guy (?)
-Zizek (Read more of him)
-Deleuze (Read more of him)
-Bataille (Ditto)
-Sade (Get some other stuff)

Share common interests,
music, film , philosophy

-Lobby hero(?), Look up art galleries, jazz clubs

-Preferred coffee: Milk, no sugar
-Likes martinis
-What kind of food does she like?

Ask her about:
Thesis proposal
Meeting w/ prof

Find out her last name!!!
(Idiot)
xxxx

So what does everyone think? Is it sweet-but-naive, creepy-and-weird, or simple-but-brilliant? I favor the latter. With that in mind, I make this promise to all future girlfriends: I will keep extensive, detailed notes of all your likes, dislikes, and habits. In addition to this, I will also make detailed plans of action of how I can be a better boyfriend and a list of things we can do together. Sound good?
Wait, where you going baby?

You can take the books away from the boy...

2006-08-14T18:18:00.000-07:00

In a rare instance of consistent resolve, I've actually managed to go a few days without reading. I'm beginning to learn that there's a world outside the printed page, even if that world is often scary or confusing. Usually both.
Case in point, my participation in that old, revered institution-SNDC (Sunday Night Drinking Club). Fully realizing that I had to be at work at eight-thirty this morning, I decided to stay out until three.
For those not in the know, SNDC was initiated three years ago by our very own Susannah. It was originally conceived as a work project which had the end goal of knocking boots with Toronto's own Ron Sexsmith. While that end was never realized (As far as I know. Susannah?), little did she know that this modest gathering would eventually give birth to one of the grandest recurring social events of the twenty-first century, beloved by at least ten to fifteen people. In times of difficulty and confusion, wars and rumors of war, in my darkest hours, I know I can always hold fast to its time hallowed traditions. Traditions that exhaustively include meeting up with people, and drinking till we can barely afford a cab to bring us home. This week's SNDC included an impression of yours truly by our very own Andrew, which I modestly absented myself for.
I'm not sure if it was the adrenaline from the lack of sleep, or the coffee and sugar, or some unholy combination thereof, but today was one of the best days at work on record. While I can't susbtantiate this in any way, I'm pretty sure that the caffeine plus the adrenaline brought on by exhaustion allowed me to obtain Buddha consciousness. This allowed me to perform my various tasks with eerie precision while in a blissful state of indifference. While the blissful state of indifference was unsurprising, I was so unnerved by my efficient completion of tasks that I would often run to the bathroom and huddle in one of the stalls, shaking and crying and wondering what went wrong.
In completely unrelated news: the Booker Prize is upon us. While I've heard of a few of the authors, I'll admit that for a few I have absolutely no idea who they are. Could someone tell me who they are? I mean, am I that out of the loop or do they just usually pad the list with a bunch of unknowns? I notice with mild irritation that quirky-hipster favorite David Mitchell is on the list, and I notice with maddening rage that Peter Carey is yet again on the list. I don't understand his appeal. Has anyone ever read My Life As A Fake? I've never read a book that would be so improved by a small, judicious use of fire. I've been told to read the Kelly Gang, but I've become cynical about books written entirely in dialect. I'm starting to suspect that writers use dialect as a literary smoke bomb, allowing the writer to escape out the window with character development, well crafted ideas and my hard earned twenty-two fifty. But that's a rant for another time.

Vow of chastity

2006-08-09T19:25:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about giving up reading for a little while, yet I'm panic stricken by the idea of having all that free time. Mervyn Peake has really taken it out of me. Any suggestions? Remember, T.V isn't an option as I have no cable. Neither is spending vast amounts of money, as my vast amounts of money are currently located on the dark side of the moon, which I can only reach by flying in my invisible spaceship.

Now then, my gipsy child; death or glory

2006-08-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

While I don't have Susannah's excuse of being screamingly happy for not updating-I have something almost as good. Mervyn Peake.

When he came to the Tower of Flints his mare was waiting. He mounted, shook the reins, and moved away at once through the inky shadows that lay beneath the walls.
After a long while he came out into the brilliant light of the hunter's moon and sometime later he realized that unless he turned about in his saddle there was no cause for him to see his home again. At the back the castle climbed into the night. Before him there was spread a great terrain.
He brushed a few strands of his hair away from his eyes, and jogged the grey mare to a trot and then into a canter, and finally with a moonlit wilderness before him, to a gallop.
And so, exulting as the moonlit rocks fled by him, exulting as the tears streamed over his face - with his eyes fixed excitedly upon the blurred horizon - and the battering of the hoofbeats loud in his ears, Titus rode out of his world.

Now do you understand?

I'm your secretary

2006-07-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

So. For the past week I've been working in a branch of the provincial government. I won't name it for fear of this coming up in a random google search, but I can say that this is the most I've ever been paid for doing so little. Yes, I have even less responsibilities there than I did at That Which Shall Not be Named. For the curious, here's my intinerary for a normal day:

8:30 A.M: Get in to work. Turn on all the lights, unlock all the meeting rooms and turn on the computer. Say "Hi" to people as they come in. For an extra challenge, try to remember their names.

10:30: Mail comes in. Chat with mail guy about how his day's going. Usually bad. He's tired. Answer a phone call or two. Answer each question, no matter how complex or long winded with: "Okay, I'll just transfer you to one of our intake people who can help you with that". Sort Mail.

10:45: Have my subtly passive-aggressive sub come over to the desk to take over while I make the round of the offices to distribute the mail. Listen to her thinly veiled criticisms and complaints about my heterodox approach to sorting the mail. Feel inexplicably wounded.

10:48: Purolator lady comes in. Try to chat with her, but am answered brusquely, if at all. Attribute this lack of social graces to the fact that I am a man, and not the cute girl I replaced that she would chat volublely with when I was here on my training day. Feel inexplicably wounded.

10:50: Distribute mail. Wander around offices, get lost half on purpose. Gotta make this last as long as possible, because I'm in no hurry to get back to my desk. Joke around with some of the nicer middle aged ladies. Self-esteem restored.

11:05: Return to desk. Sub is on phone with a friend, talking about going somewhere Friday with friend on other line. Other topics: Getting a new car, and why HE shoudn't have done that. Wonder vaguely who "HE" is. Feel like I'm eavesdropping, so go to washroom.

11:07: Return from washroom. Sub is off phone and looking up information about cars. Draw attention to the fact that I'm back. Make polite chit-chat about cars, about which I know nothing. Talk about lunch, and when I would like to go. I say "One o'clock". She says "Fine" and leaves.

11:07 A.M-1:05 P.M: Stare at walls. Illegally check e-mails several times. One about a back steet boy being gay, and another about what friends might do on the weekend. Stare at walls. Say "Hi" and smile to people passing by. Try to remember their names. Indulge in my new taste for excel art. Make two drawings, "Evil Rabbit and "Bored Space Invader" respectively. Surreptitiously read Titus Groan. Enjoy it. Try to remember the character's names. Hide said book whenever someone walks by.

1:06-2:06: Got to a secluded spot on the Metro Toronto library where there's a semi-garden and read Titus Groan. Eat lunch. Wait fifteen minutes in line at Tim Hortons for a coffee.

2:07: Return to desk. Sub is on phone, but has already sorted mail that has come in. Draw attention the fact that I've returned, and go to distribute mail. Get lost, half on purpose.

2:20: Return to desk. Sub gets up and leaves. We say our good byes. Office girl with name like a fancy drink brings me out a heavy package and tells me that because the Purolator people don't like carrying heavy boxes downstairs, I have to call security and get them to bring it down. Process order, then call security to bring it down to the front desk. They do.

2:40 Continue reading book. Occasionally say "Hi" to people as they walk by, but original enthusiasm has waned.

2:50: Purolator girl walks in. Asks if there's anything for her. Absent-mindedly say "There's nothing". She leaves. Wonder if I should've mentioned package at Front-Desk on first floor. For no reason, assume she'll check and put worries from mind. Return to reading book and occasionally answering phone calls. Probably should've told her.

3:30: Still reading. Sometime check e-mails.

4:30: Still reading. Answer miscellaneous phonecalls and transfer them all to the Intake people.

4:45: Notice people are leaving for day. Say "So that's you for the day, then?" and make mindless small talk.

5:00: Start locking up. Turn off all the lights, and shut all the meeting rooms. Unplug phone. Turn off computer and put back all the keys.

5:05: Neurotically double check all doors. Check two or three times to make sure all keys are where they should be.

5:10: Check all doors again as a way to ensure that I will avoid riding elevator with nominal co-workers and be forced to make small talk on the ride down.

5:15: Ride Elevator. Make no eye-contact with fellow elevator riders.

5:15.50: Get off on bottom floor. Leave building. Put on Ipod. Feel blissfully disconnected from bustle on street.

So endeth the day. Despite the fact that I don't do anything, I always come home feeling bone weary.

Real Slavery, Book Slavery and Retail Slavery

2006-07-20T16:10:00.000-07:00

I realize I've been little remiss in posting, but I've been occupied with the trifling matter of the end of slavery and deciding how best to put my useless carcass to work. Perhaps a sign of my morbid disposition, reading about how a motley combination of Quakers and Evangelical Anglicans helped end slavery has been the more interesting of the two subjects.

The book in question is Bury the Chains, by Adam Hochschild. He also wrote King Leopold's Ghost, which is a history of the Belgian colonization and enslavement of the African Congo. He is my favorite historian, and with good reason. I find these topics fascinating, and he has a clear, concise style that Dave Eggers and his ilk will never be able to improve upon or destroy. "Bury the chains" is interesting, because as the book explains, the abolitionist movement was unprecedented in human history. These twelve men essentially got together under the common conviction that slavery was wrong, and didn't stop agitating for its end until the British parliament outlawed it in the early 19th century. Granted they were favored by historical circumstance, such as the French Revolution and the bloody slave revolts of St. Domingo, but these events only encouraged them, and were not their original impetus. While the two most dedicated abolitionists were Tom Clarkson and Granville Sharp, my favorite one out of the twelve has to be William Wilberforce, who was so tender hearted he couldn't bear to fire any of his servants. At one point he had seven or eight octogenarian maids and butlers wandering around his house, not doing much in particular.

The heroic selflessness of these men is sharply contrasted by the vulgar self-serving of the people who were anti-abolition. I know Susannah has been rightly irritated by some of the Labour party's ridiculous Newspeak, but take a look at what at least one pro-slavery writer was considering doing about the "slave-problem":

Instead of SLAVES, let the Negroes be called ASSISTANT-PLANTERS; and we shall not hear such violent outcries against the slave trade by pious divines, tender hearted poetesses, and short sighted politicians.

Gross. I know it's naive of me, because slavery was an age-old practice that even the Bible took for granted, but what the hell were the anti-abolitionists thinking? While I don't think I would've been as heroic as the original twelve, I'd like to think that if they talked to me about it my reaction would've been somewhere along the line of "Hey, you're right. Gimme one of them there anti-slavery buttons". The description of what the conditions were like on the slave ships should've been enough to upset people of even the most basic sensibility. This is a really fascinating book and I'd encourage any one to pick it up and read it. It's real Good vs. Evil stuff. Next on the chopping block for me is Titus Groan, which I've been meaning to read for ages, and Constantine's Sword. The latter is a history of how the Catholic Church has treated the Jewish people over the centuries. I'm going to guess "Not Well".

As to what I've decided to do with myself, after much hemming and hawing I've decided to enroll in Seneca College's Library and Information Technology program in the fall. It's a two-year program, and at the end of it I should be able to get a real job and not return to hated retail, something which I have to do now as a temporary stop-gap measure. What the program will be training me to do is operate and manage the different type of information retrieval systems and programs that most libraries, public and private, now use. I wouldn't be a librarian, but a "library technician". Basically, I'd be capable of running a library on a day to day basis, while the librarians would make policy decisions in their ivory towers, while simultaneously drinking mint juleps and doing cocaine off strippers. Of course, I wouldn't be limited to working in a public library. I just like to imagine librarians having decadent, coke-fueled orgies. I'm not sure why. That's for my therapist to decide.

Having been lacking direction for say, I don't know, two and a half years now, I'm relieved that I've managed to find something that sounds interesting and challenging. Although I've been assured that by a friend that I can always drop out if I find I don't like it, I hope that that won't be the case. I'd like to stick with this.

Arrowed!

2006-07-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

Quick update: The japan thing is a bust, and for the curious, so is the librarian option.
On the positive side, my chess game has never been better.

Got the ebb, got the flow

2006-06-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

Well.

I got the job. Really, I'm just as surprised as you are. It seems that my mutant ability for self-sabotage (secret identity: The Self Destructor!) was mysteriously absent. Despite feeling seriously outclassed by the situation, the concept of leaving Toronto, the other more qualified applicants, the group interview, and the private interview, the job is mine if I want it. Lest anyone think that I'm being unduly modest, offered below are snippets of dialogue which seriously made me question my abilities, nay, my very right to be there:

"Sam, do you, uh, have anything to say?"
"Actually, I just graduated Teacher's College."
"Really? I teach sign language to the deaf. It's a dream come true."
"Actually Sam, I don't think England ever played Portugal."
"Okay Sam, there was something else Tenzen did during the group interview when he was explaining how to teach to students, do you remember what it was?"

And my personal favorite:

"Alright Sam, how would you explain that without using bad grammar?"

Wow. I guess they really will just take anyone. Despite the that I had been assured of that very fact by a friend who had done this two years ago, I am still surprised that they offered me this position. Other choice advice from this friend was that I shouldn't sleep with a student, because that is virtually the only thing they will fire you for. He also assured me that during the first three weeks of your time there, this is a very hard rule to remember. As a sidenote, when talking to my younger brother and repeating said advice, he fixed me with a grave stare and then said in a tone as serious as a Old Testament prophet with a hangover: "Uh, yeah. That's gonna be a problem for you". Ever supportive.

I'm going to get the information package in a few days, which will outline when and where I'm going to be going. I've been told to read over it and send it back to them. I'm not quite sure what to make of this pleasant, slightly nervous feeling I'm bathed in.

It couldn't be that I'm happy and excited, could it?

Look for me, I'll be around

2006-06-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

The blind, impersonal forces that rule the universe seem to be distracted lately. How to otherwise explain the hope that's been offered to me?

Ladies and gentleman, I may be going to Japan in the fall. Now, this is highly premature as I have not been offered the job yet, let alone gone in for a interview. But I have a good feeling about this. God help me, I need those to get by. The organization is called the Nova group, and they specialize in sending over-educated dilettantes abroad to spread the good news of the English language. The interview is next week, and it's a full day. The first half of the day is spent in group interview, interacting with (possible) future peers and staff members, the next half is spent in an one on one interview. I've done my homework, and this organization seems to be delightfully non-sketchy. I have friends who can vouch for them. If all goes well, I'll be off to the mysterious orient in the next three months. The only thing that I'm now upset about, because I have to be upset about something is why I didn't think of this sooner.

The only explanation is a type of spiritual or emotional lassitude. I'm essentially a comfort loving creature. If certain very low conditions are met, I'm content to drift by. If I have a job, any job, no matter how miserable it makes me, as long as I have money I'm content. Then, if I have friends to hang out with, that completes it. I get comfortable, I've adjusted to my environment, and there is no need for change. Due to a lot that has happened with me lately, I've realized that spiritual growth needs a material incentive. To use a scientific metaphor, it's like the punctuated-equilibrium variation of evolution propounded by Stephen Jay Gould. Creatures adapt perfectly to their environment and don't change until a disaster occurs and they have to evolve or die. People won't change or grow as individuals until they're left with no other options. Because change is scary and unpleasant and uncertain. The only thing more unpleasant is dying, whether physically or otherwise. Furthermore, it's unrealistic to expect people to change unless they have this unconditional reason. The only people who do it without are saints, and sometimes even saints need a kick in the ass before they decide to be them.

I'm no different. Had I not been called on certain types of my own behavior, I wouldn't even have started thinking about this, and I am grateful to the friends and circumstances that have forced me to.

On a lighter note, I want to say thanks to everybody who made my birthday so awesome. Guys, I'm totally rocking the Ipod. With only five hundred songs allowed, I only have songs on it that I'm sure I'll want to listen to. Also, a public thanks to Jamila, who sent me Everyman and The Death Of Ivan Illyich. I read thought them both in one day, and I'm probably going to read through again for good measure.

I'll let everyone know about the Nova group thing as it develops.

Happy Birthday to me

2006-06-13T06:37:00.000-07:00

I feared these present years,
The middle twenties,
When deftness disappears,
And each event is
Freighted with a source-encrusting doubt,
And turned to drought.

I thought: This pristine drive
Is sure to flag
At twenty-four or -five;
And now the slag
Of burnt-out childhood proves that I was right.
What caught alight

Quickly consumed in me,
As I foresaw.
Talent, felicity -
These things withdraw,
And are succeeded by a dingier crop
That come to stop;

Or else, certainly gone,
Perhaps the rest,
Tarnishing, linger on
As second-best.
Fabric of fallen minarets is trash.
and in the ash

Of what has pleased and passed
Is now no more
Than struts of greed, a last
Charred smile, a clawed
Crustacean hatred, blackened pride - of such
I once made much.

And so,if I were sure
I have no chance
To catch again that pure
Unnoticed stance,
I would calcine the outworn properties,
Live on what is.

But it dies hard, that world;
Or, being dead,
Putrescently is pearled,
For I, misled,
Make on my mind the deepest wound of all:
Think to recall

At any moment, states
Long since dispersed;
That if chance dissipates
The best, the worst
May scatter equally on a touch.
I kiss, I clutch,

Like a daft mother, putrid
Infancy,
That can and will forbid
All grist to me
Except devaluing dichotomies:
Nothing, and paradise.

-Philip Larkin, On Being Twenty Six

Whistling down the wind

2006-06-06T18:43:00.000-07:00

In a refreshing change of tone, I have some good news to report. Before I do that, I'd be remiss if I didn't thank some very good friends of mine. Much love goes out to Jessie, Jen, Jam and Heather (in no particular order) for helping to mend that fragile thing I laughingly call my sanity. Thanks for listening to me rant, rave, blow off steam and generally act like a disgruntled malcontent. It's much appreciated and I promise not to abuse the privilege.

Good news: my ongoing war of attrition against unemployment has entered a dangerous new stage. I applied for a job today and a job applied for me(?!). The job I applied for was a contract copyediting position for a company that would seem to be satisfied with me only having a Uni. degree, which is no small thing. In the cover letter, I wrote that not only have I worked in a bookstore and a marketing research organization, but I also have a "Passionate interest in the written word"(Italics mine). I'm certain this will somehow set me apart from the ten bajillion people who are also applying for this position and are much more experienced and talented than I am. I'd really like to get this, so general goodwill, knocking on wood, the crossing of fingers, prayer etc. would be much appreciated.

The job that applied for me I'm a little more wary of. They seem to have found me through the resume that I posted on Monster. It's one of those private energy companies that rose up after the market was deregulated. It's located far out in North York, and it may be a sales position, which I'm not really keen on. Furthermore, when I went to their website I saw that they've been advertising these positions since March. I mean, I'm grateful that anyone seems to be interested but the fact that they've been advertising these positions for three months without anyone biting leads me to believe that this place may be less than completely desirable to work for. I can't really afford to be choosy, literally, so I'm going down on Thursday to check them out. I'm trying to keep it positive.

What else? I've really been enjoying watching The Brak Show, although I suspect that being stoned while watching would be a great supplement to the experience. I've also been reading a book called Morte D'Urban by the much neglected Catholic author J.F Powers. All of his stuff is out of print now, and I suspect it has to do with his two main preoccupations: Catholic priests, and the non-reverent portrayals thereof. He's quite funny, and I'd encourage all of you who have an interest in that sort of thing to check him out. James Wood likes him too, if that helps. It should. It really, really should.
Stay tuned. More on the job situation as it develops.

Gravitas (Sorry guys!)

2006-05-31T16:56:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the last two posts. I've been feeling really lazy, and it was hot, and I've been feeling really lazy.
I just finished reading The Confessions of Zeno, which is indirectly the inspiration for this post. Without getting into the story, it's an examination of identity. What exactly makes you "you", whether it's possible to change who you are or if character is destiny, and (my favorite) the quite possible futility of self-analysis are all ideas that this book examines. Again, without going into too much detail, because of certain things that have happened to me recently these ideas are having a more than usual appeal.
I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible to change who you are. If it means recognizing patterns of behavior and changing them, I don't see how that's possible. Even if you can recognize certain patterns, what if certain habits, under certain circumstances, are good things and getting rid of them would leave you worse off? I happen to believe that our vices are usually misplaced virtues. If that's the case, I don't even see how change would be desirable. It's even possible that analyzing, identifying and then failing to do anything about it is part of your character. There wouldn't be anyway to change that. Besides, being able to change our own behavior would imply a level a self-awareness that most of us don't have. I'm not sure I do. It's hard enough to be honest with others, I'm not sure how honest we ever are with ourselves.
What I'm getting at is that I'm growing skeptical about whether or not any kind of transcendence is possible. It'd be like a prison trying to escape itself. At best, I'd be willing to grant that recognizing certain habits might allow you to mitigate them, or a least sometimes avoid situations where they'd cause you or someone else harm. But then again, it's possible that that kind of withdrawing is just another part of your personality that you're unaware of. Or maybe just lack of energy. How often do we stop doing something because we simply don't have the energy to do it anymore? If that's the case, I don't think we can really credit ourselves with "becoming better". Entropy is hardly a virtue, right?
Ask me about this again next week and I might say the exact opposite. It's just that I've been noticing things about myself, and I'm starting to wonder whether it wouldn't be a better idea to simple admit and accept certain things rather than wasting energy try to fight my way out of myself.
Slaps on the back of the head and exhortations to snap out of it are warmly encouraged.

2006-05-29T18:33:00.000-07:00

Dear World,

Why are you so hot right now? It makes smoking unbearable. Although it does make for a good day in the park with friends. So, I guess, carry on.

Sincerely,

Sam

For you, a little quote

2006-05-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

It is easy to laugh at anyone for being wise after the event. But it is almost as useless to be wise before it.

-Italo Svevo, The Confessions of Zeno

Yeah, that sounds about right.

What outside world?

2006-05-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

What a nice feeling it is to be able to rest. I really didn't realize how much the Potarini job took out of me until I finally stopped working there. My long weekend was only remarkable by how much of it I spent asleep. On Sunday night I went to bed at one in the morning, woke up briefly at seven the next morning, and then proceeded to sleep until three that afternoon. I suppose I'm not used to working that hard, physically. Wait, for physically, instead read "at all".
Outside of sleeping, I've been doing a lot of reading. Jane Austen, in particular. I'm surprised to be liking it, and I'm also surprised by how funny it is. At twenty-five, I know this is trite. I have tried reading her before, but I've never been able to sustain an interest past the hundredth page. Stamina issues. Also, she seemed to be a bit cruel. One passage that made an impression on me was from Pride and Prejudice, while describing a mother who talking about her no-good son who died at sea, mentions that "she cried more tears over him now, than she had at his funeral", or words to that effect. I think it helps that I'm reading Northanger Abbey, which is supposed to be a type of parody of gothic romances, particularly The Mysteries of Udolpho, which I also haven't read. What I'm finding interesting about this book is how Austen uses language in order to manifest a person's moral character. Like how she does with the odious John Thorpe, whose vulgarity is made manifest to the reader by his constant splitting of infinitives, as well as his repeating vile saying: "He's as rich as a Jew".
Speaking of horribly feeble segues, I'm also reading James Wood. With all due respect to the Pope, this is the only guy I consider infallible. At least when he's writing about books. I've been going through The Irresponsible Self, and I've been really trying not to run out and buy everything he recommends. My respect for Wood's critical ability borders on the slavish, hell,is slavish. Only a fellow Woodian(?) like my friend Jammy could understand. She claims that he's ruined her for other men, a claim to which I can only say, "Likewise". Jammy, working together we can split him up, and, I dunno, take turns serving him? I hear the English can be surprisingly opened minded about those kinds of arrangements. Good for them.

Hired! pt.2 Where our hero learns the dignity of honest labour, makes a new friend, and maybe, learns a few lessons along the way

2006-05-15T16:29:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm still working.
I wasn't thrilled about a job that was the equivalent of helping a friend move for eight hours. Reason being, I have a (yet undocumented) medical condition where heavy labor induces sweating, severe bouts of laziness and spontaneous instances of profanity. This time, my attacks have been relatively mild. I've been speculating as to why I seem to be getting over this allergy, and this is what I've come up with.
1.Person I'm working with: When I found out that another person was assigned to work with me, I was a little wary, seeing as how the scientific term for my social skills is NON-EXISTENT. Greg has turned out to be a friendly, interesting guy. Turns out he used to be a vice president for Indiepool, Canada's largest distributor of Canadian indie music. Why is he helping me lift boxes? He quit his job because he wasn't sure it was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, then went on a trip through Europe and Asia. We've killed a lot of time talking about our favorite music and playing the movie game. I'm glad I get along with him, seeing as how we have to spend eight hours a day together. There are members of my family that I can't imagine spending a quarter of that time with.
2.The people I'm working for: I'm not sure some of my friends will believe me, but the people at the architectural firm that I'm working at are neither embittered sons of bitches or monstrously huge assholes of biblical proportions . They're all pleasant and well mannered, even when me and Greg ask intensely stupid questions. I know. I'm not sure what they've slipped in my water either.
3.What I'm learning: Having spent three years in a bookstore, I've managed to avoid developing any marketable skills. You might think that being able to fake my way through a discussion of the metaphysical implications of the Kantian categorical imperative, or pretending that Jonathan Safran Foer is anything more than a tiresome po-mo hack are marketable skills. You'd be mistaken. In the past three days I've learned how to unbolt and disassemble shelves, re-bolt and reassemble shelves, what a nut and bolt are, how to use an electric screwdriver, and how to hammer in a nail without breaking my thumb. Functionally useless human being no more!
So there you are, my spirit remains unbroken. This isn't anything I'd choose to do, but I'm surprised to be disliking it as little as I do. I would even admit to actually enjoying it a little bit, but given my recent history I'm trying not to tempt fate.

Hired! pt.1

2006-05-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

Well, I have news. It seems that after judicious review of my resume, the good people at PD Bureau have found me a job suited to my singular talents. Tomorrow, at nine A.M sharp, I get to report to Hariri Pontarini Architects and...lift....heavy...boxes. I think the most suitable category to file this job under is "It's Better than Nothing". To be fair, Rita (my job agent) realizes this.
"I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind," she says,
"but I figured we could give you something to get you started."
"Thanks! That's, um, great news" I reply, out of a pathological desire to appear polite. All the while I'm thinking: Lifting boxes? Fucking lifting boxes?
Luckily, I've been well-trained since childhood to simulate enthusiasm and cheerfulness about tasks that I have absolutely no interest in, and as usual, my training stands me in good stead. I ask if it's okay to wear T-shirts (it is), and whether or not sneakers are allowed (they should be okay). Splendid. I thank her and hang up.
I'm not annoyed at Rita, I know she's doing her job, and I'm sure she had to go through a lot of effort to find even this. I'm just dismayed by the poverty of what's on offer. I don't think I'm a special case, this seems to be happening to quite a few people. The only jobs that seem to be on offer are those that require a warm body and the ability not to (completely) drool on your shoes. I'm relieved to have some money coming in, but it's a waste of my time to be doing a job that a Jr.High diploma, let alone a university degree, makes me overqualified for. For one, I could be spending that time looking for a better job. It also makes me question the wisdom of staying in a city where after spending four-odd years in university, this is the best I can do.
The obvious retort to all of this is Well, what do you want to do? Honestly, I'm not sure anymore. I've tried a few things already, but nothing seems to have bore any fruit. Of course, I recognize that this is undeniably a first-world problem, and that I should be counting my blessing that I have the luxury of complaining about the indignity of taking jobs that I'm overqualified for on my blog. I don't dispute that. It's just that knowing it could be worse doesn't make me feel any better.

This important message brought to you by the letter "J"

2006-05-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

He wondered whether he were stupid and unskilled, and he was finally obliged to confess to himself that he was impractical.

Henry James-The Bostonians

Why Mr. James, however did you know?

Thoughts of a dry brain

2006-05-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

Just finished watching the final season of Strangers with Candy that my pal Jessie lent me. Good times, good times. It's a brilliant parody of afterschool specials and a reminder of what a terrifying Darwinian nightmare highschool was. Thanks, Jessie!
It's a beautiful, chilly Saturday afternoon that I'm spending inside. I've been overtaken by that strange kind of lethargy that afflicts you when you haven't really been doing anything for awhile. The type that lends itself to the horror and neglect of the obvious. When you know there's constructive things you could be doing, but choose to do something non-productive, or as I like to think of it "alternatively productive". After all, becoming culturally literate counts as being productive, right? How else will I be able to make obscure pop culture references if I don't watch obscure pop culture? Right?
Right guys?
In other nerd news, I've been reading this fascinating book Evil In Modern Thought: An Alternative History of Philosophy. The author Susan Neiman argues that the modern era in philosophy was primarily concerned with moral, as opposed to epistemological, questions. It grew out of an attempt to defend a theological world-view after the Lisbon earthquake(a horrible disaster in 18th century Portugal). Thousands of people were killed, and quite a few thinkers of the time wondered why God would let such a horrible calamity befall his people. Everyone from Voltaire to Leibniz to Rousseau chimed in with their own reasons.
Neiman defines the modern era in philosophy as one that attempted to discover whether there was any link between natural evil (Natural disasters and the like) and moral evil (The usual stuff we humans do), and whether or not the human mind was even capable of discovering such links. In short, it was about whether or not God's behavior could be rationally understood and defended. She argues a tendentious point that the Enlightenment, as opposed to being an exaltation of human reason, was a radical attempt to rigorously limit and define what the human mind was capable of knowing. So there was an epistemological element, but it was motivated by moral concerns. Morality as Neiman understands it, is our attempt to mediate the gap between what is and what we believe ought to be.
For her the history of philosophy is divided between two types of philosophers. There are those who attempt to make sense of the world's evils, and as such reduce them to the level of half-understood goods. These philosophers have optimistic views about what reason can know and understand. The others are those who maintain the traumatic nature of Evil. For the latter, Evil is an existential violation that frustrates our attempts to make sense of the world. Evil is senseless. That's what makes it so horrible. They can be fairly pessimistic about reason, and the human condition generally. I think you can tell where my sympathies lie in this argument. I geekily sped through this book in two days, so now I'm re-reading a bit slower so that I can get a better sense of what she's going on about.
I'll try to have something a little more upbeat for next time, but evil makes for good reading. Really!

Modern Day Mugging

2006-04-27T08:22:00.000-07:00

"Dost Sam fear God for nothing?"
-Book of Job (updated)

Well, I was planning on writing about how reading " Keep the Aspidistra Flying", is mostly superfluous, seeing as I how I AM Gordon Comstock these days; but fortunately something much more interesting happened to me last night.
I was mugged.
I was walking east bound on Bloor, past the old Crossways mall, on the north side on the street. I've walked past there literally millions of times, usually much later and much drunker. I've never felt unsafe walking in that area. As I was walking, I glanced up at the stairwell and saw three kids hanging out and smoking. They looked up and saw me, and I kept walking. Again, no big deal.
As I was walking under the underpass (There's a huge bridge there that the Go train passes over), I felt a sudden weight on my back and an arm around my throat. I think I said "What the fuck!". My first reaction was that this was a friend playing a joke on me. Then another kid was in front of me and pushed me to the ground. The entire incident took about two minutes and was wonderfully Benthamite in its execution. When I was on the ground, I think one of them pushed something cold to my throat. I may be just imagining this last bit, as I didn't dare to look. The first kid, the one who pushed me, said "Got an Ipod, man?". A largely redundant question, as he simultaneously ripped it out of my right hand. My cell was gripped tightly in my left. This was well spotted by another assailant, as he then asked "watchoo got in the another hand, man?". To this, I boldly replied "Take it!". He needed no further encouragment. As an afterthought,the first asked "Got a wallet?" to which I nonverablly assented by handing it over. Sastified, they escaped eastward.
I watched them leave as I lay there, and then when it seemed safe to get up, I did so and continued walking to my girlfriend's place. A concerned citizen a few feet in front of me asked "Hey man, are you okay?". Thanks Batman, but by then there was nothing he could've done. I think I muttered something about forgetting it and I would just phone the cops when I got to my girlfriend's place. When I did get there, I rather abruptly commanded that she get me cigarettes, and so began the slow, dull process of getting things cancelled and phoning the cops.
What I find interesting, retrospectively, is my reaction to the entire thing. I wasn't frightened, exactly. Or angry. I just became a blank of automated responses, preprogrammed reactions. I didn't think "Damn, I'm scared! I should hand over xyz". For all the thinking that was going on, I could've been a pair of frog's legs responding to galvanic stimulus. If it makes any sense, I'd describe it as an almost active absence, like thinking would've slowed me down. As someone who has a tendency to overthink and live in his own head, it was a curious experience.
If anything, I might be responsible for introducing them to a better class of Indie rock and hip-hop. Who said there's no such thing as a silver lining? I hope they like Belle&Sebastian and MF Doom.

Local geek watches Ali G, global economy on verge of total collapse

2006-04-24T15:16:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a week since I was fired from my job. What I'm finding odd is the lack of the almost total panic I expected myself to be in. Not having to work is a bit of a novelty for me; I've been employed since I was sixteen. The last time I didn't have a job is when I wasn't legally employable. Somewhat irresponsibly, I've been using this as a bit of a holiday and an excuse to catch up on books I've been meaning to finish. That and watching Ali G.
One that I've just finished was a memoir entitled "Blood done sign my name".The author's name is Timothy Tyson. He's a professor of Afro-American studies at the University of Wisconsin, and the memoir focuses on a racist murder that happened in his town when he was ten years old. For allegedly making a flirtatious comment to a white woman, a black Vietnam vet named Henry Marrow was chased down and murdered in broad daylight by the woman's husband, his cousin and the husband's father. Sadly, but perhaps predictably (This took place in North Carolina in the seventies)none of the men who involved were found guilty. Despite the fact that they had murdered a man while he was begging for his life, they hadn't even been arrested until the following day.
What made the book interesting for me the author's personal stake in this story. Tyson's father was a liberal Methodist preacher who constantly challenged his congregation on the issue of race, and got involved with a lot of the early protests about the obvious injustice that was surrounding the trial, as well as the larger problem of racism in the community and American society. I found it pretty refreshing to read about a preacher who challenged the community's prejudices, as opposed to catering to them (is that possible?). Tyson's father was left behind though, as the movement became more radical and viewed even white liberals with suspicion. Due to the problem of endemic racism, white liberals were in some circles considered to be even worse than out-and-out racists. The thinking went that while a racist would just say "I don't want them coming through the same doors as white people", the liberal would set up a committee to determine what exact door black people would be allowed to enter by. Tyson also refuses to give us solace with the idea that it was just a bunch of hillbilly rednecks that opposed the civil rights movement. He cites statistics that shows that the majority of people who identified as being Caucasian felt (before Dr. King's assassination)that the civil rights movement was going too far, too fast. This is really an interesting book and I'd encourage any of you who are interested in racism, religion and southern history (particular bugbears of mine, to be honest) to check it out. The writing is occasionally a little clunky and precious, but try not to let that get in the way of the way of this really interesting, tragic story.
I'll let you know more about Ali G once I've finished absorbing it all. The Borat character is inspired.

apocalypse sam

2006-04-22T07:38:00.000-07:00

Well, it had to happen.
Enough has happened lately to warrant me actually sitting down and writing one of these. Figure I could use the practice, having not written anything except e-mails for several months now. Don't count on this being very interesting at first, unless of course you enjoy people taking pot-shots at Book City. I can't promise there won't be alot of those, but I'll try to rise above the pettiness. I guess I'll usually be writing about the type of things that interest me. Surprised? Those will include, but not be limited to: Philosophy, Music, Literature, Theology, Pop culture, Catholicism, Religion (I have a fondness for Christianity, but others can be pretty interesting), and of course my highly fascinating social life.
I recently had alot of free time forced on me, and needing some kind of creative outlet I decided, like millions of others people, that blogging was the way to go. Of course, when it comes to computers I'm completely retarded so I'll be desperately dependent on everybody to help me do things like link to other sites, and post photos. I should also warn everyone that not only are my computer skills non-existent, my computer's abilities are about the same, so we're evenly matched. So whenever something doesn't work, it'll be half my computer's fault.
Be forwarned, card carrying narcissist that I am, I have a hard time committing to anything. So I'm not sure how often I'll be updating. Although, card carrying narcissist that I am, I do love talking about myself. Stay tuned.