Keeping it real since 1994.

I'm writing this post outside, on a bench just outside the Student Union Building. The sky is perfectly blue.

I started the new job yesterday. I have my own office (more like a glorified storage room) with a phone and a gorgeous G5 Mac with two screens. There's even a phone. I spent the day researching faculty profiles on other university websites to get an idea on how the new website will look. Today I will take one profile and write a few samples with different "tones" and present them at a meeting on Friday. I also have to edit the FAQ list and categorize it. Friends, I am happy.

On a darker note I've been experiencing some nausea since Monday. During my orientation yesterday I nearly puked on the floor. Although I'm feeling better now and I can keep food down, my stomach feels as though someone sucker punched me. Have any of you been sneaking into my house at night and walloping on my gut in my sleep? Just asking. I may go the the clinic today to check it out. Sipping water seems to help.

Tuesday night Lisa and I went to a bike party held by Bent at the Anza Club. Man, I was loaded. Lisa had to drag me home. The music was fabulous, there were kids dressed in sexy bike gear and the DJ wore a unicorn mask. We ran into my old friends Sage and Robyn and gossiped about everyone.

That is all for now. Take care.

Skype

Does anyone else use Skype?

Since I'll be out of the country for at least four to five months, I though it would stellar to have a way to communicate with friends and family.

-------------------> JOB!

I just got the call this morning: the job is mine! I am now an Editron. An Assistant Editron. I start Wednesday morning and my contract goes until September 1st.

Unfortunately, my house is in disarray. The only solution is to have a barbeque on my front stoop and drink beer. Yes.

I'll be playing football on Tuesday (which would tell you I'm feeling better) and possibly gaming next Sunday.

Oh, yeah. The staples came out on Sunday. I felt as though I was a two-by-four and the doctor was pulling nails out of me. Afterwards I saw Pirates of the Caribbean and to be honest, I wasn't all that impressed. The action was fun and the monsters looked great, but why are indigenous people depicted as having poor hygiene and speaking a simple, childish language? Why are they always cannibals? And, I don't think there are any groups like the one in the film that live in the Caribbean. I know, that's kind of a moot point, but that inaccuracy plus the overt rascism (thanks Disney!) really bit me.

How are you all?

Kill all forms!

So I go to the British Columbia Financial Aid website to download and print an Appendix 7, or reassessment request, just a couple of weeks ago. Granted, I procrastinated a bit, but as I was filling it out today I just realized this form is for 2005 / 2006.

OH MY GOD WHY THE FUCK DOES THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT NOT UPDATE ITS WEBSITE UNTIL RECENTLY YOU DOG-SUCKING SHITHEELS!

Yeah, I'm good.

Now I have to scramble to get forms filled out and sent and approved and blah, blah, blah. I hate filling out forms. Despise it. If I could hire a crack team of form-fillers ready to write in my vital information in rectangular boxes whenever I shine the Form Signal (which happens to be a rectangular box) into the heavens, then I'll be happy. For now, I will have to rely on Lisa. Who has done a fine job. So far.

Why the hell does academia and bureaucracy have to hang out all the time? Huh? If only they knew what they said about each other in different company. Catty, would be the word.

On a lighter note I'll be watching sword-fighting with Chris later on. Poke! Slash! Poke some more! Ah, yes.

Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate.

Tomorrow I have a job interview. The art history department is looking for an assistant editor and marketing person for their website and their newsletter. I'm pretty excited to get his job - I've been wanting to get some editing experience for awhile and now I have an opportunity.

So Bell Globemedia has bought Chum Ltd., or they just made the bid? Nonetheless, this piece of news twists me out of shape. Okay, I understand that the trend in media now is to have a bunch of old, fat men own every media outlet on the globe. But c'mon, Chum? The broadcaster named after chopped fish used for bait? Does Globe really want their skewed, half-informed journalists spreading indifference and fear through MuchMusic? That's just silly!

I was a little light-headed this afternoon. I laid down and then I felt better. Stupid head wound.

My head wound.

I never had stitches or staples before, so lying face down on a hospital bed at midnight while a doctor pinches my flesh together with steel staples was rather novel.

First the doctor (I don't remember his name, he was really upbeat and yet kept clam calm through the whole procedure) administered some local anesthetic, which hurt a little, then scraped out the blood clot; it was about the width of a quarter and really thick. Then he scrubbed the area to wash out the remaining blood and dirt. I told him I had a birthday recently and a job interview the next day, so as a birthday present to me he didn't shave my head to get to the wound. Very sweet of him.

He had Kayla come in to watch as a "reward" for being such a great first aid person. She told me afterwards that he stuck his forefinger into the wound and felt my exposed skull. I couldn't feel a thing. Pressing the wound together, he stapled the gash in an impressive amount of time. I could feel the skin being squeezed and held together as the staples drove through my skin: those of you with piercings might be able to relate to the feeling. No pain whatsoever, but I felt them sliding around under my skin.

Today I'm much better. I'll be back on the streets tomorrow.

The Aftermath

I'll have to keep this short for reasons I'll explain later.

First, thanks to all who came to my party Friday night. I had an amazing time and received some wonderful gifts from friends and family. Thank you so much!

We started with four of us, Kevin, Iain, Andrew and myself kicking the football around in the park. Later, we ended up with almost twelve players, including kids, parents and the occasional dog running over to grab the ball. When we got back to the house the guests had already arrived, and Carla did a wonderful job setting up the hibachi and getting the coals nice and fiery.

The hike was amazing, but there was an accident. While I standing at the bottom of the chimney leading to the summit, a loose rock fell and landed on the back of my head. I dropped and I lost feeling in my arms and hands. Will, Kayla and Kevin scrambled to stop the bleeding and I somehow walked down the mountain, thanks to my friends. A few hours later I had six staples in my scalp and a tetanus shot courtesy of Squamish General Hospital. No concussion, and apparently no brain damage.

Okay, I have to go and rest. See you.

If I Say Good-Bye I Will Never See You Again

I sat on my stoop and smoked a cigarette.

Someone was plucking a banjo nearby. The song was faint, the notes leaping and tumbling into one another. A long-haired cat, coloured like dried flowers, slept on my neighbour's porch. Sprinklers tossed water across the lawns and sidewalks. The clouds were thick and soupy, mixing with the fading orange light.

Two men walked by. One pointed at my crooked patio and said, "water damage." The other pulled at his thick moustache and asked his companion what he said. "Water damage," he uttered as he looked at my patio, and then at me. They continued walking.

The phone rang a few times. I washed the floors, made potato salad, bought wine and paper plates. I called Lisa.

"What's up?"
"In three hours I will no longer be in my twenties."
"You sound all melancholy."
"I realized while I was cutting potatoes that my twenties will be gone."
"You had a good run. It's only going to get better."

We talked about literature. I explained the trajectory my life had taken. I congratulated myself by repeating all the wonderful things others had said about me. I got excited by the planning and the dreaming.

Night slipped into the city. Tomorrow, friends will arrive. The house was clean and the food was cooked, cooling in the fridge.

I was ready.

I invite the internets to my birthday.

My birthday is this Friday.

Would you like to come? Did you not receive an invitation? Then email inquiries to ghostofjason [at] gmail [dot] com.

There will be booze, barbeque, soccer and (hopefully) poetry, followed by a two-day climb up a gigantic mountain.

See you there.

Blargity-blarg I'm on the internets!

Last night I met some lovely people. I was given the lowdown on butchery (of animals, not people; although, I should write an entry on human butchery in the Secret Hell Blog), discussed Darwin and ecology and then compared Cezanne with Van Gogh.

Hopefully my metrosexual application will be approved.

Also, I met one of the authors of the 'zine Bleach at this wing-ding. She was the host(ess), actually. The fact that 'zines are still being made totally astounds me. The craft has diminished over time, either replaced by the internet or fizzled out due to simple apathy. So readers, please pick up a copy of Bleach at Magpie or Spartacus or wherever fine 'zines are sold.

I am embarrassed.

I was fooling around with Friendster this morning. There is a feature where you type in people's email addresses and the search engine looks for their profiles. Instead, I sent a few invites to near-strangers. I am officially a spammer.

You'll have to excuse me while I look for a hook to hang my asshat.

Untitled, or Reading, Thought and Authorship.

Woof. Not much sleep last night, and I don't have that pleasant tired buzz I get when I don't sleep.

Well, the buzz is sort of there.

Summer is reading season. I don't want to go outside that much, so I'm content to just sit and read with a cup of coffee and listen to some Mozart in the background. Not only am I reading from my self-imposed syllabus, but I'm also catching up on some other books too.

I have been thinking about the shape of twenty-first century fiction. Are we living too early in this century to predict what literature will look like? I find most fiction is widening, an acute sparseness in the prose. Nineteenth century literature really attempted to sculpt a thought and show its every contour. Now, prose races across the page by reducing and distilling the language. The colours, sounds and shapes amid the words emerge, and are given greater emphasis. The sounds between the notes.

For example, one common method used in reasoning is called modus ponens. The form is a very simple inductive argument. It looks something like this:

If P, then Q.
P.
Therefore, Q.

Or,

If England plays against Portugal, then it is Saturday.
England plays against Portugal.
Therefore, it is Saturday.

The nineteenth century author wrote the complete, unabridged description of a thought. An immediate example that comes to mind is Poe's "The Man in the Crowd," and to look even further back, one can include Austen's work as well. One of her sentences would stretch for several lines, heavily punctuated, teasing out each possible angle and nuance the thought contains. In essence, the reader will see the entire modus ponens argument; however, the contemporary author would only write this:

If P.
Therefore, Q.

Arguably, the early twentieth century author was no different, at least prior to Modernism.

Perhaps the lack of modifiers like adjectives or adverbs, or the chronic insistence to eliminate passive sentence structures are to "blame" for contemporary literature.

More importantly, how will colonialism, imperialism and warfare be treated in global literature? I believe this will be an exciting time for authors. Just as nineteenth century novelists saw an increase in readership due to innovations in printing technology, twenty-first century authors have access to the internet. Although the medium is still somewhat exclusionary (as is literacy, cultural capital and recognition) the possiblities for new and greater dissemination are being explored.

For those who are concerned, I did, in fact, register for the French classes I needed. Thank you, insomnia.

Ouch.

Yes, my ribs are still bothering me. I've been annoying people with the fact and taking a small degree of satisfaction from my complaining. I hope I mend in time for the Big Day.

Hell-o

Woke up at 6 AM. Somehow got to Commercial Drive to watch the England game with Mr. Chris, Mr. Iain and Ms. Kayla. Drank one cafe au lait, one Americano and cheered when Beckham scored. Bought comics. Ate breakfast at Slickety Jim's with Mr. Chris. Had an anxiety attack during the walk home. Had a bath, slipped into pajamas and will go to the park later to read and buy gelato.

Weird, glorious day.

The sun has risen, and the crows settled into the cornfield.

I might as well start from the end and work my way to the beginning.

Yesterday, after waiting two hours for my paycheque, I met Iain for some football practice. We did some passes, then we tried attacking and defending. Iain also practiced his corner kicks, since I want him to be our teams' forward. On one of his last tries, I attempted to catch the ball with my sternum, but I turned and the ball slapped my ribs. They vibrated like xylophone keys when the ball bounced off me. Afterwards I went out for greasy Chinese food and swung by Iain's for a party. I'm still sore today, especially when I laugh or twist my shoulders.

But, more importantly, I finished my ten-day jaunt working for the UN World Urban Forum. At the beginning, the convention had a very energetic atmosphere. People from all over the world would come up to the registration booths, brimming with excitement at being in another country. As time wore on, the participants and the staff began to wane, as exhaustion, frustration and boredom crept up and slithered into the proceedings. Often there were long stretches of doing nothing, or the odd task involving getting more office supplies or convention kits.

I met mayors from Africa, scholars from Italy and N.G.O. directors from Mexico. I must have badged well over 200 people, possibly even more. On any given day I could be seen directing traffic (the human body kind of traffic), registering participants, answering questions and doing whatever the supervisors needed doing. I actually enjoyed traffic control for awhile there. Not many folks are given the opportunity to command a mass of people at one time, like a general leading troops into a battlefield shrouded in acrid smoke. Or something like that. I was surprised by how many people simply don't listen. A person in a semi-formal uniform is politely asking them to walk somewhere that will help make the process of entering a crowded building efficient and expedient. But, no: they would much rather wander haplessly into doors and other pedestrians, or enter a restricted area and be reprimanded by security.

During the slow periods some of us would enter the convention and sample some of the free food (the pecan tarts were the best, I described them as "angels with jet-black wings brandishing swords and spears wreathed in blue flame") or sit in on the talks and events. Or, we would just chat with one another to pass the time. Most of the other temps were recent graduates from UBC so there was plenty to talk about. I was surprised by the number of political science majors working there, and there were a couple of artists working to make ends meet, so to speak.

Working 8 to 10 hour shifts for ten days straight was very much like living a monastic existence. I hardly saw anyone I know, or even went out. I would wake up at around 6 AM (completely uncivilized, yes), work, come home, eat, sleep then repeat the process the next day. I did have some time to read poetry and the odd article, but any writing was done entirely in my head. Which means I have to remember as much as possible and transcribe everything soon.

So yeah, that's about it.

Monday afternoon.

Today is my last day of freedom. Tomorrow I start my temp job and that goes for ten days.

My weekend was pretty laid back, although my health fluctuated from time to time. Either I was exhausted or light-headed, or both! If I'm going to feel lousy, at least give me a choice between symptoms.

I'm feeling much better now.

Something else. . .

That's not to say that the "astronomy computer" mentioned earlier is a fantastic device, but rather the mystery behind the artifact does have fictional tones to it: discovered in a mundane fashion, hidden in a rather exotic locale (underwater no less), persisted to elude researchers as to its true nature and ended up being a sophisticated tool. However, that tangible feeling of mystery underlies both mythology and nature. But mythology was used to explain the world around us, which was partially replaced by science. So one explanatory discourse is being used to understand the previous one, and then discovers that ancient people weren't that far off the track.

As "L" pointed out, my extended holiday precluded any freelancing. I guess I'm not as ambitious as I thought I was earlier. When my temp job is over I'm going to take a more active role by tossing out a few articles along with finishing up my first draft.

Which I'll stop mentioning anytime soon.

Artifacts as fandom?

Just a couple of interesting items.

Researchers find hidden Greek text on "world's oldest astronomy computer."

This story has a cinematic feel, doesn't it? The artifact is found in a shipwreck and baffles scholars for over a hundred years.

The science behind Raiders of the Lost Ark.

My problem with this story is the fanboy subtext going on here. Everyone loves Indiana Jones, but I'm not convinced that the Ark of the Covenant was an ancient super-weapon of some kind. That type of technology requires a particular ideological and epistemological framework; that is, a working knowledge of natural laws and the intellectual tools to harness said power and design such a device.

These two stories have divergent yet similar themes: the quest for fantastic or mythological features in human history, and an explanation of those features using scientific methodology. The language of science is the language of explanation, a cool, measured and reasonable voice. So it's interesting that scientific discourse is employed to explain the esotoric.

Drinking coffee, writing.

I received my contract for the UN gig this morning. Now all I have to do is fill in the blanks and fax it off.

Iain and I signed up for soccer (henceforth referred to as football) at the community centre yesterday. I'll be playing once a week starting July. If anyone is also interested in throwing in for a match or two then by all means sign up. We'll also be catching the first England match this Saturday at, like, six in the morning.

There's a meeting for Discorder tonight, but I don't know if I can make it out for that.

One of my goals is to start an organization of some kind. Not a non-profit kind, but one centered on activities. Whenever I want to join a group I always find they lack something or they simply don't exist. So, here's what an afternoon of brainstorming produced:

East Vancouver Football Brigade

Pretty easy to figure out. We get together, play football then go out for drinks later. I was thinking of hosting a gear swap now and then.

Eastside Reading Society

My friend Tania once suggested we start a book club. Although I liked the idea, I never acted on it. Basically the group meets once or twice a month, reading from a selection of literature that is anti-imperial, post-colonial, feminist and critical. Of course, lighter material would be included too. Members can also present books they enjoyed, and we can have local authors or scholars come in and speak on various topics.

East Vancouver Tactical Squad

A gaming group that caters to tabletop and video games of all kinds. Although I'm aware of the Vancouver Gaming Guild (a fine organization), I would like to see more groups out there. Somehow we can have a central "headquarters" where players can meet regularly. Folks can connect with each other, swap, sell or buy gaming gear and host events on occasion. I know, this one seems the least realistic, but a man can dream, yes?

The unnecessary black thrust of my birthday.

My thirtieth birthday is in roughly one month. There will be a celebration, two in fact, so expect emails soon. The plan? Party at my house, then a climb up the Black Tusk the following day.

I've put together a birthday wishlist.

- Soccer cleats, socks and shin pads *
- New watch (silver, no velcro!)
- Silver ring
- Wine glasses
- Tumblers (for whiskey)
- Whiskey
- Books: Dorothy Parker, Arthur Rimbaud
- Day pack (one that holds a hydration pack, black only)
- Money for clothes (mostly jeans)
- Money for sunglasses
- Dayton boots **

That is all, my friends. Since I have a small house and I'll be departing for Europe soon, I chose items that are not terribly huge or useless. This will be the last year I ask for presents, including Christmas and whatever else.

* I prefer Adidas gear, but don't go to their website. You have to navigate Flash sites and listen to horrid music. I won't do that to you. Black shoes and black socks, please.
** Or money towards them. However, this is totally optional. I love them but I don't ride a motorcycle, so I would feel like a poser wearing them. I really hate running shoes.

Pirates stole my intrawub.

Does anyone else out there have a tribes.net account? I joined so I can connect with a couple of friends, so I want to know the benefits of having a presence there.

I'm going to see a show tomorrow night at Cafe deux Soleils. Chris and I are meeting up to see a band wearing pirate costumes and playing sea shanties about downloading MP3s. Pirates R Us, I believe they call themselves.

Show starts at 9 PM.

So now I'm back.

Well, first, I got the job at the UN World Urban Forum. Second, Victoria was really fun; I saw old friends, drank too much beer and ate delicious barbecued morsels. I ended up cycling to the liquor store in the dark with Will and spent some time with Robin and Grace. Robin lent me a couple of books and we ate more barbecued goodness for breakfast. I spent Sunday with my parents, and we just hung around their place and ate dinner together. And third, I watched a friendly soccer match between England and Hungary with Iain, and my team (England, of course) won after an exciting second half. As Iain said, they're my team by default.

The result.

I never had a group interview before. I have to say, I kind of liked it. I only talked for ten minutes and, while sitting in the world's most comfortable office chair, listened to a brief orientation and other related banter. The people in the group were mostly marketing or commerce students (with an interest in event planning), some urban studies people (like me) and one dude was a tour guide. No reply yet.

Did you know that when the UN sets up shop somewhere, the land becomes temporary UN property, as though you're stepping into the UN building in New York? Of course, security is as tight as. . .something really tight. I'll leave the analogies to you good people. Prizes for the best one.

So, it looks like I'll be writing more tomorrow, then playing some soccer with Iain. He played his first game today so I figured I should chase him around the field or whatever it is lads do out there.

I'm in Victoria on Saturday, then back on Monday.

Job interview.

Today I have a job interview. I'll be doing customer service stuff for the UN World Urban Forum, happening next month. I'm actually signed on as a participant, so hopefully I can get a chance to attend some of the events.

So what's going on here?

I just sent my writing sample to Bookslut, and now I'm filling in the application form for my scholarship. This thing is a million pages long.

In other news, my dear friends Robin and Grace are having a baby! I just found out this morning in an invitation for a barbecue that appeared in my inbox. Yes, I think I will be attending. Congratulations you two!

I still need to get a belated wedding present for you-know-who.

The short story is coming along swimmingly. Chris and I had a great conversation about our own writing practices, and when I got home I was energized and wrote a couple of hundred words. I have a brief outline and some notes on what needs to get done. Like Chris said, writing is a solitary craft, but writers need to talk to each other on occasion to untangle this messy business of writing.

I don't know what I'll do when I finish the first draft. I was thinking of workshopping it, but then I have to commit to a group and invest time I don't really have at the moment. My other plan is to send it out to friends and get their feedback.

I think my insomnia is pretty much cured.

I will motivate you.

Problematizing the Universal Library: Copyright, Exclusion and Public Space.

Awhile back Kevin Kelly wrote on article for the New York Times Magazine on a universal digital library for search engines. The project involves scanning the collection from five research libraries into a database, which will then be accessible to the public. BoingBoing has a permalink on the story.

When I read this article I initially had some negative responses to this project. Please excuse my sloppy rhetoric; I'm still shaping a strong argument.

When the entire collection from five research libraries is scanned, what happens to those five libraries? I doubt they will be shut down, but how will the libraries be situated in the community when their collections are made publicly available? The inherent beauty of the library (and I'm talking public libraries, not of the research variety) is that they are public spaces centered on literacy. I wonder if the issue of space will be addressed, or is it inconsequential?

The article mentions the Alexandria library constructed around 300 BC. The goal then was to collect the entire sum of the world's knowledge (read: the known, colonized and "civilized" world) into one massive building. What happened? The sucker burned down. Over 500,000 scrolls vanished, and hence the history and culture of the past also vanished. Computer networks are not entirely safe. Hackers, viruses, power outages / surges; I just don't have the faith in digital technology other people have.

Don't think I'm an overly paranoid Luddite. I understand that the internet is stable and reliable, excluding the whole Net Neutrality situation going on. But no structure is immune to entropy.

Lisa brought up copyright issues. When Google wanted to scan and post books online, authors had to speak up. Having five research libraries post their collections online could compromise the already fragile economic balance in the publishing industry. Libraries loan out books to the public because they have paid the publisher, ergo the author gets paid. So, at what point during this Universal Library scheme do authors get paid? Is literary work considered work, or is an author's efforts not given the same value as other types of work? When texts are scanned and distributed freely, the author's legitimate claim of ownership (if the work is copyrighted to the author) loses its integrity.

Another angle one must consider is computer availability. Obviously, high-speed internet access and computers with up-to-date hardware are not accessible to all members of society, all over the world. The Digital Utopia is a middle-class fantasy, and folks who are trying to cover their basic needs (and the number seems to be growing each year, particularly in developing countries that are quickly urbanizing) may not have the same priorities as those who have access to "digital resources."

Ahem.

Mister Jalopy: "Everything you love, everything meaningful with depth and history, all passionate authentic experiences will be appropriated, mishandled, watered down, cheapened, repackaged, marketed and sold to the people you hate."

Writing is love.

writing is love
brought to you by the isLove Generator

Good morning heartache.

I'm applying as a poetry reviewer for Bookslut. The submission guidelines recommend sending either a general review or a straight-up book review as a writing sample. Since I haven't had a chance to write about books, here's to hoping my other reviews would be adequate. I reckon an experienced lit critic would be preferable.

Insomnia has kicked in. I get to watch the sunrise.

Anyone need a tutor?

Since I'm still looking for work, I'd figure a little freelance tutoring would be in order. If any of you or someone you know is taking college or university courses this summer, and you need some feedback or editing strategies, then send an email my way.

I'm capable of tutoring students studying sociology, anthropology, philosophy, and literature. I have experience addressing content and grammar in academic essays, as well as some creative writing. I can also tutor other subjects, but let me know in advance. My fee is $20 an hour, and most sessions don't go beyond two hours.

Email: ghostofjason [at] gmail [dot] com

Stop complaining and touch the keyboard.

So, I'm still looking for a day job, though I received some "thanks for applying, don't hold your breath" emails today from prospective employers.

I've been writing very little, only snippets here and there. Lately, I've been a little down, mostly because I'm unemployed but I think a big chunk of it is my lack of focus and purpose. Easily solved, I'm sure.

I've mostly been looking for audio / visual / textual stuff on the intrawebbs, whatever is pretty or interesting, and reading blogs and journals. Why should I leave my house or be productive? The entire planet is nestled on my lap! Like a STD!

Time to do something interesting. I'll have to write more tomorrow.

And see a dentist.

The Skeletor Show.

My dreams have been realized.

Chris and Carla's Wedding Photos.

Lisa took this great shot of the house where the ceremony was held.

Chris and Carla's Wedding Report.

Ahem.

First, let me congratulate the bride and groom. I hope the two of you have a wonderful life together, and you both enjoy good fortune and good times.

Since I want to retain the facade of civility, I won't describe the events that occurred during the bachelor party, expect to say that Lisa was invited to join us, which is probably the first time in history a woman joined a bachelor party. Before the boys (and girl) hit the town, we swung by Kevin and Tania's place to celebrate Tania's 30th birthday party. There was a roaring barbecue and lots of beverages, and I was enthralled (yes!) to see old friends again. Once again, happy birthday Tania!

The next day, Lisa and I showed up early to the ceremony. We met at a heritage house in the West End, and the couple kept the ceremony short and intimate. The Justice who conducted the ceremony was the first to marry gay couples in Vancouver, which is incredibly cool. Chris invited me to join the other guys to share some aged whiskey (Lisa was invited to that too!) with him. We're quietly standing in a circle, enjoying the last few minutes of Chris' bachelorhood, when his mom stepped into the room.

"Chris, I need to talk to you."
"Not now, mom."
"I just want to ask you - "
"Mom."
"Could you - "
"Mom, we're having a moment."

That, dear friends, was perfect.

During the ceremony, Lisa teared up a little, and I was very proud of my friends making such a commitment. Chris got a choked up, and I knew they made the right choice to share their lives with each other. Like most weddings, the ceremony flew by, but the photographers had the proverbial field day. I swear, there must have been ten thousand photos taken that day.

We went home to change, and met the reception at the Anza Club. Okay, let me just say this: that was probably the best wedding reception I will ever attend. Seriously, Chris selected the music (no Chicken Dance!), there was plenty of food and booze, and there were so many people I knew: Will, Kevin, Marlo . . . yes, there were more, but I think I drank enough to forget. I danced, I was the one who caught the bride's garter, and I drank. And drank. By the end of the evening, Jeff, the best man (who is a great guy, Chris chose the perfect man for the job) poured me two massive glasses of wine. Not only was he the best man, he was the best bartender.

Oh, yeah. Apologies to Curtis, who I mistakenly introduced as Colin to everyone. Um, sorry man.

Anyhoo, I got to chat with Kevin and Will, which involved camera antics and a tearful confession on my part. Will, Kevin and Chris definitely changed my life for the better, and being so drunk that dignity was conveniently tossed out the window, I told Will what was on my mind for a long time. Thanks for listening, man.

So, we left pretty late and walked a bit with Curtis and then turned down Main Street. Now, the wedding cake, it wasn't so much a cake but a few dozen donuts arranged in layers, topped with a Batman and Wonder Woman in action figure form. Lisa got a few donuts to take home, and was carrying them in a conspicuous Tim Horton's box. As we walked down Main Street, we were suddenly surrounded by clowns. Yes, clowns. The make-up wearing, bicycle horn brandishing type. When they saw the box of donuts, they formed a circle around us and Lisa sheepishly offered the floppy shoed bastards our donuts. They took all but one, then proceeded to dance on the sidewalk and invited us to their clown party. We refused. Not because of any clown prejudice on our part, but because I was already fall-down drunk. After the clowns went their separate way, we stumbled upon a fire coming from one the rooms at the Ivanhoe. A crowd formed outside, and the street was clogged with fire trucks and police cars.

We finally got home. I sat in my office and cried. Partly due to the booze, partly due to the wedding, and partly due to the realization that my friends and I are getting older and our world is changing, but for the best.

On Sunday, we went to the Naam to celebrate Suzanne's (Lisa's mom) birthday and later we went over to Jess' place to celebrate Jason's birthday. Yes, I was very hung-over, like for the whole day. I'm sorry if I can't do these two celebrations any justice, except to say that I was happy to see so many lovely friends in so many hours. Happy birthday to Suzanne and Jason, all the best in the future!

Now, go outside and play in the traffic or something.

Notes towards a Weberian Thesis on Work.

Work is defined as a process that alters one's environment or manipulates resources to fulfill a particular need. To work is a cultural practice, and culture, being paramount to human livelihood, must be made and reproduced. However, there is more than one immediate, material environment. Being human, we are immersed in several overlapping and intersecting environments that are not visible but coerce individuals and groups nonetheless. Other animals, and I am thinking of mammals in particular, do not share these environments with us. Political, social, economic, cultural and even aesthetic spheres have environmental features. They have an effect on us, either physiological (we experience stress and joy) or socially (we become isolated or connected). My focus is on social environments.

We build social networks or maintain those we have already established. This is work; we actively transform our social environment. Even the verbs used in describing the processes have connotations related to work: build, maintain, establish. We work on our relationships, we work out problems we have with others, we work to build trust.

There is a Weberian term to describe this phenomena, but I don't remember it at the moment.

My summer course work.

This is my curriculum for the summer:

1. Re-read Foucault's History of Sexuality.
2. Re-read the final three chapters of John O'Neill's Five Bodies.
3. Read several essays on Jane Austen.
4. Re-read the final chapter of Austen's Pride and Prejudice.
5. Using the syllabus from the Introduction to Literary Theory class, read the selected essays from Criticisms: Major Statements.

That last sentence has a Dickinson feel to it. Discuss.

So, yesterday, I bought a suit. I haven't bought a suit for well over a decade. Sure, I've owned ties and crisp white shirts and blazers and flashy pants (flashy pants!) but not as a complete package. I even picked up shoes. Pointy shoes!

Now I am a grown-up, a grown man!




Why so many exclamation marks? My friend is getting married, and other friends are coming to the reception to celebrate. It will be a friend-party. The best kind!

I'm not sure about the tie, though. I was looking for something thick and vibrant, either green or light red. The one I chose is too muted, like an old man's tie. Not that there's anything wrong with that, no, I just wanted a splash of colour to contrast with the dark suit. Ah, we'll see.

Also, I don't know how to tie a tie.

Blood and books.

I finally went into the lab and got my blood test. Although I've gotten used to them, I wish patients can have a regular lab technician like you would have a regular hairdresser. The woman who took the sample last time was so good, I didn't even feel the needle. Today I really felt the needle slip into my vein and my arm started to ache. Not pleasant at all.

I did write today. I'm gathering some lit theory terms I need learn, and I'm putting together a self-study curriculum for the summer. I am teh geekiest.

---------------------> NOW!

TWO OF MY GRADES ARE NOT POSTED YET THE EXCITEMENT IS BURNING ME UP PLEASE PROFESSOR(S) AND TA(S) GET THOSE GRADES POSTED OK THANKS PS: THIS IS WORSE THAN CHRISTMAS

Editing woes.

You can call someone an asshole or an areshole. I have yet to decide which is better. Suggestions are gladly accepted, as are gold nuggets, red wine or those fortunate enough to work in an university administration office.

Okay, I'm talking to myself at this point and that's okay. Lately I've noticed (only recently, Lisa has been pointing this out for some time) that my editing skills have diminished over time. I write the piece, leave the bastard alone and then when I return to the page I miss enough errors to fill a respectable four-door sedan. Case in point: I read a plot synopsis I wrote (don't ask) and noticed that these little typos or repetitive phrases or poor diction chip away at the overall effectiveness of the work. So stupid.

What to do. Be more careful? Sure. There has to be a better solution. Last weekend I noticed how Lisa formats her page as she types. She doesn't go for the whole double-space, just the half-space. When the text is compressed on the page I really can't pick out the nasty little bits, they just meld with all the other words. Giving them some breathing space might give my editing eyes (which is connected to the editing brain) a fighting chance, yes?

That, and get used to reading my own work millions of times until it's perfect.

Oh, right. It's never perfect. That, I'm used to.

These are the lazy days.

Lazy days, for sure, but I'm worried that this easy living will rot my brain. Looking for a job is not easy, but writing and catching up with friends is terrific. Today I just slept in, made scrambled eggs (with lots of mushrooms, as it should be) and chatted online.

On Monday I need to roll up my sleeve for another blood test and hunt the job boards again. Oh, and make another doctor's appointment. Fun.

The weekend.

With exams finished and essays turned in, I'm feeling a little of the anomie today. I know what I have to do, but there seems to be no purpose for doing any of those things.

I'm still looking for a job, yes.

My weekend was fantastic. Lisa and her family invited me to stay with them on their friend's property near Duncan. Lisa and I shared a beautiful cabin with her brother, and her folks stayed in their friend's place. All I did was eat, sleep, read and write for a couple of days in very scenic surroundings.

I wrote a couple of pages for a new story, a sketch for another one and I organized my other projects for the summer. I also tried to write a poem in Emily Dickinson's style and voice:

Piano keys - strike
- as Bees hum in hot glass
Dropping - thick and straight -
a little Thunder -

Not the most successful, since I tried to emulate her meter and the lines fall short by a few syllables. Dickinson played with meter quite a bit, throwing off our expectations by suddenly introducing a line that was too long or too short. I think I'll be writing some sonnets over the summer as well.

Urville

This is kind of old news, but I"m beginning to believe there's no such thing as old news. Information will always be unheard by someone.

Anyway, I've been enjoying a very fascinating website that exhibits drawings by Gilles Trehin, who lives in Cagnes sur Mer in south-eastern France. Trehin has envisioned an entire city which he calls Urville, and has an impressive number of drawings that display some of the architectural features and street layouts. He has also written extensive essays on the geography, history, economics and demography of the fictional city, bringing his creation to life.

I keep thinking about Georg Simmel and Walter Benjamin, and maybe some Freud, too. This is such an amazing project and I can't stop thinking about Trehin's creation. I will definitely be writing more about this wonderful city and the implications of this project. The website is here.

The call for new media was heeded.

Amazing. Chris sent this my way, and now the rest of you must watch this and learn how to make animation that works. Take the classic black and white side-scroller found on hand-helds, mix in some over-the-top anime conventions and shake vigourously. What you get are gory zombie battles and the most sinister end bosses in history.

Go ahead and watch Paul Robertson's Baby Pirate's Cabana Battle Street Fight 2006. BEWARE.

Press your finger inbetween the arrows and send fun things for J to look at. => <=

I HAVE BEEN STUDYING SINCE 11:00 AM (WITH AN HOUR-LONG BREAK) AND NOW ALL I WANT TO DO IS SIT BEHIND THE WARM GLOW OF A COMPUTER SCREEN AND WATCH MOVIES AND / OR PLAY GAMES OK THANKS FOR LISTENING PS: PLEASE SEND ME GOOD MEDIA OK GREAT THANKS

The sun comes out when you study.

Two nights ago I managed to get some writing done. Something, like, 500 words maybe? I wrote the opening scene and some dialogue that takes place mid-way through the story.

I did see No Great Mischief last night on a media ticket. The performance was really enjoyable, with some memorable lines throughout, but I had a hard time accepting the physical aspects of the play. The actors would use mime rather than using actual props, and the set was completely sparse, but I wasn't entirely convinced. I understand that when a story takes place in different time periods and the actors must make quick shifts the use of an elaborate set would just get in the way. The transitions through time were well done, but there were times when the actors got sloppy.

Maybe I'll write more later, but right now it's back to the books. Two more exams, people.

I want to go outside.

The tree just outside my office window is beginning to bloom.

I've been studying since 11:00 this morning and I feel as though I haven't made much progress. I'm almost finished reviewing the debates we have to cover for my crime and society class (and some of the arguments are really painful to read) and then I have to move onto my notes. I like studying, I really do.

How are you?

I will be busy.

Who doesn't enjoy being busy? I do. I devour busy like a freshly-baked pie, smothered in whipped cream. I'll be preparing for my exchange program, doing medical related stuff, studying for exams, consolidating my finances and, somehow, trying to fit in some writing.

Should I die before I wake: more books bound in human flesh

I wrote a little on anthropodermic bibiliopegy awhile back, which lead to some black humour and then some ruminations on how the materials, or the medium (and I'm thinking of McLuhan here) far outweigh the text, since the medium conveys the embedded cultural meanings that inform how the medium is shaped and presented. If the book is bound in human flesh, then what messages are being transmitted here?

This particular book, pictured above, was turned over to the West Yorkshire Police after it was found in Leeds. Police officers are asking for someone to come forward and claim the book. The text is in French and is dated to be around the 1700's, which is interesting because books like these were common during the French Revolution. Between the 18th and 19th century, anthropodermic bibiliopegy was regularly practiced as a legal procedure: murder trials were inscribed in the accused's skin.

My earlier post on the topic is here, the BoingBoing post is here, the Warren Ellis post is here and a BBC report is here.

You will know me by the stink. Of victory!

Man. I've been to two parties, a sociology / anthropology conference and now we're waiting for Lisa's folks to come by so we can head for a birthday celebration at the Naam. Michael (Lisa's dad) has a birthday four days from now, so we're getting together this afternoon. This weekend has kept me from sleeping in pajamas; I just crawl into bed in my clothes and then slide out in the morning to arrange myself for the day. Rinse and repeat.

The conference was fantastic. The presentation on the use of soundscapes as sources for empirical social research, as well as cultural research, was so damn incredible. The fact that sound is directly connected with processes that occur in society and should be regarded (like the sounds one hears in a war, on the street, or at home) is so bloody interesting I've been mulling ideas around in my head since Saturday. One notion I remember from the presentation was that our range of hearing is the same range our voices can carry. How does this connect with protests, performed poems or conversations? The dialectics of spoken discourse, of listened discourse. Low frequencies induce calm, high frequencies cause pain. The possiblities are endless.

Poetry Friday.

Since I'm going out tonight, now would be a good time to post for Poetry Friday.

I was introduced to Richard Hugo while chatting on MSN. We were discussing Stephen Crane and somehow, and I think it was the booze, Hugo's name came up. After looking him up and reading his most well-known poem, I immediately liked the man. I did a brief presentation on him for the school poetry club, and even now I let the poem roll and tumble in my head from time to time, especially the last stanza.

Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

Richard Hugo (1923-1982)

I like this picture of Whitman. I'll be shooting for this look when I get to that age.

I've been drinking the coffee at school for a few months now, but this morning I brewed my own in the new Bodum. Forgetting the potency of home-brewed coffee, I succumbed almost immediately and experienced something like a PCP-induced state: my heart rate shot skyward and all the colours outside were vivid and shifting. I think I need to adjust the coffee-to-water ratio until my metabolism gets habituated to real coffee.

Okay, poetry question time. If you were to teach a class on 20th century American poetry, what would you put on the syllabus? What about 20th century French poetry?

Notes on Afghanistan.

So what's been going on lately? Not much. I've gotten into a self-absorbed headspace since I've started this essay, and I always get this way. The outside world tends to blur and spiral away, leaving me with a laptop and some books.

The essay is coming along just fine. Some facts I uncovered during my research on forced marriage in Afghanistan: 54 per cent of girls under 18 are married and the women’s rights organization Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan (RAWA) reported that there has been an increase of girls under the age of 18 victimized by rape or forced into a marriage to an older man, with some girls being as young as eight years old. Only half of the girls under 18 years old living in Kabul attend school, and the school attendance in rural areas is as little as nine percent. Also, of the 1,038 hospitals and clinics in Afghanistan, only 40 percent have women working on staff. It's pretty damn depressing, and I'm shocked at the lack of funding and support from higher-income countries. I may be wrong about that, so perhaps a lone voice from the intrawebbs can correct me?

At this point I'm going to draw in some theory to perhaps explain the why and how of this phenomena. I'll be using Marcel Mauss' essay on gift exchange and how the exchange is a pervasive social activity that encompasses all social institutions. However, I'm going to drop the proverbial bomb when I bring in Gale Rubin's "The Traffic in Women." She not only references Mauss and places him in a greater critical position; she draws on Marx, Freud, Levi-Strauss and Lacan and places them into her theory. Her "sex / gender system" (transforming biological sex into cultural activity) is relevant for my paper, as well as her use of Levi-Strauss' ideas on kinship as institutions for gender reproduction. Well, I may not use that particular theory after all.

Damn, I gots to get me to school. Laters.

Brief briefs.

No, I haven't seen V for Vendetta yet. There's a plan to see it this weekend, possibly on Sunday.

I'm just slogging through the last essay at the moment.

My girlfriend is popular on the internet.

Lisa's news tip has just appeared on BoingBoing.

New review and preview: Sexual Perversity in Chicago and The Soldier Dreams

Go here and here.

Nasty colds and interviewing.

I got me a nasty cold recently. Yesterday I got the worst of it, seeing that I almost passed out on the way home from school. I slept for about twelve hours and now I'm feeling much better. My chest is still congested and I got the sniffles, but I'm alert and my appetite has returned.

There's nothing like a roaring headache to tell a body to get some rest.

In other news, my articles are out and I'm looking to contact the publicist for the Vancouver Playhouse to interview a director. I'm in no shape to do a live interview.

No, I like interviewing. I've only conducted a few and they've all been enjoyable. Getting the inside information on an event is empowering, to say the least. Especially if you're a critic, when you need that extra, almost subterranean knowledge that keeps productions running smoothly. Usually I'm more nervous than the person I'm interviewing. My tension doesn't register (hopefully!) because the last thing I need is an interviewee who clams up. You can coax someone, but that can lead to some unquotable responses.

I just thought of something: I never learned how to do any of this stuff. I did a stint at the University of Victoria's radio station, but I never had any formal journalistic training. Story of my life. I tend to get thrown into situations and somehow I learned how to tread the dark, churning waters.

Essay for English 223 is up!

The Troubled Heart of Modernity: Freudian Discourse and Audio Recordings as a Means of Reading Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Poetry Friday on a Monday Morning.

When I was in the twelfth grade, all I wanted to do was run as fast as I could. Run anywhere. I painted a little. I liked books but kept a respectful distance from them, sticking to Nietzsche or Watts or skimming poetry and science fiction novels.

I learned about Surrealism. I heard how Andre Breton would write "automatic poems," a completely random selection of words and lines. Taking a random set of words, I would pull them out of a hat and arrange them in no order. Then I filled in conjunctions or articles to glue the sentences together.

My art teacher read these poems. One day, after class, he handed me a photocopied page from a book, containing this poem. I read it over a hundred times. I carried the page with me until the folded edges wore out and tore the paper.

This poem means a lot to me, and even now I can't tell you why. It strikes my gut like a sucker punch, pushing the air out of my lungs. After I read this poem I wanted to read more like it.

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

When you see me, walk the other way.

I can't tell if I'm exhausted or depressed or terrified.

I can tell you something though: I'm sick of the chronic pain and the anxiety. Sooner or later I'm going to turn into someone who screams at pedestrians and tries to sell homemade pamphlets at coffee shops for fifty cents, detailing how the elaborate neo-fascist subterranean lizard-man conspiracy is using my veins to transmit clandestine messages to Burger King.

This semester is almost done. I want nothing more than to see my friends and my family.

Music toy!

Havana, drama and vendetta.

Lisa and I finally went to Havana last night for a light dinner and drinks. Although I was impressed with the friendly and efficient service, the food was a little dubious. For $6.00 I had the chili and rice, which was adequate; the rice was light and not too buttery, and the chili had a slight smoky flavour but it could have used another layer. Perhaps a sprig of cilantro or some dark chocolate? Also, the portion bordered on the miniscule. The presentation was charming, with the rice and chili divided evenly on either side of the bowl. However, a little spoonful more would be superb. Lisa described her black bean soup ($5.00 or $6.00) as being plain but very tasty. The two qualities seem to cancel each other out, no? That is not necessarily a good situation, you simply get a "neutral" soup that's not impressionable at all. We also ordered a pitcher of blanco sangria. Oh, yes, I was impressed: very fruity, very refreshing and very addictive.

We ate at Havana because the play I'm reviewing is performed in the small theatre space in the back of the restaurant. When I finish it today I want to link to the article from this blog. I've had plans to showcase my writing from here for awhile now.

Tonight I have plans to see V for Vendetta with friends.

Finished!

I saw my doctor (some good news and some tests to run), finished the paper (at around 4:30 in the damn morning) and I have the interview tomorrow afternoon.

Thanks again to Lisa!

Oh, it's Day Ten.

I just signed onto The Engine, but I'm having problems uploading a picture and getting my signature to do what I want.

Yes, I'm going to stop counting days after tomorrow. Although I still have one essay left, I don't have to hand it in until April 7. I'll be looking at the exchange of bridewealth in Afghanistan, with an emphasis on Rubin's essay on the trafficking of women and Mauss' work on gift exchange as a total social phenomenon.

I need to get my head around the essay due tomorrow. Okay, if street-level prostitution is inherently dangerous, since women (and a small percentage of men) must face poor health, inadequate housing, drug addiction and violence, and if an individual has made the choice to pursue prostitution as a means of income (particularly those who are low-income, homeless and drug dependent) then the conditions (legal, social and environmental) must be reformed. You can't make prostitution "go away," it's just like trying to make drugs or crime "go away."

Street prostitution is problematic because the act is illegal, and poor individuals may not have a stable residence, like escorts who can select their clients. Hence, street-level prostitutes cannot "hide" from the public eye, they become adjoined to the public sphere because of their presence.

More later?

I don't know what day this is.

Last night I looked at the page for my third essay and was stunned. I couldn't write anything down. Lisa agreed to help me bang out the bastard tonight. It looks like a late night for me.

Day Eight

I have a busy week coming up.

1. Finish the Poe essay and upload it to the class website. I'll provide a link when I'm finished.
2. Edit the Blake essay and include the citations.
3. Finish the essay on prostitution in Vancouver and Calgary. I'm examining the issues around legalization.
4. Get to my doctor's appointment.
5. Interview the director for Sexual Perversity in Chicago and get the article in Monday morning or Sunday night. It's only 500-600 words. I need a copy of the script, and all the copies at the public library and the university library are gone.
6. I need to look for a job. Ideally, something part-time and well above minimum wage.

Poetry Friday on a Saturday Night.

Hello and good evening. It has come to my attention that some bloggers are prone to post poems on Friday, but due to circumstances beyond my control I was unable to comply this week.

This is my first entry. The theme for the next few weeks will be What J Was Reading in His Teens and Early Twenties. This entry is no surprise for those who know me, but some might be surprised that I didn't choose one of Bukowski's more, um, "scandalous" poems. Well, for me, Bukowski shouldn't necessarily be regarded only as a writer of dirty or shocking poetry, but as a representative of America's underclass; the migrant worker, the ex-con, the drunks and the addicts. Was he a flawed character? Probably. His grammar was rocky and at times his ego bleeds way too much into the text. Take from him what you will.

I used Bukowski as a measure of character. I never trusted anyone who either vehemently adored or despised the man. Enjoy.

the souls of dead animals

after the slaughterhouse
there was a bar around the corner
and I sat in there
and watched the sun go down
through the window,
a window that overlooked a lot
full of tall dry weeds.

I never showered with the boys at the
plant
after work
so I smelled of sweat and
blood.
the smell of sweat lessens after a
while
but the blood-smell begins to fulminate
and gain power.

I smoked cigarettes and drank beer
until I felt good enough to
board the bus
with the souls of those dead
animals riding with
me;
heads would turn slightly
women would rise and move away from
me.

when I got off the bus
I only had a block to walk
and one stairway up to my
room
where I'd turn on my radio and
light a cigarette
and nobody minded me
at all.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

I think this is. . .Day Six?

This morning I got a little angry at my cat. I think I was frustrated at having to clean his litter box and feed him and pay him some attention when all I wanted was a cup of coffee and few hundred words written. He was weaving around my legs and standing in front of me as I was walking, making me trip over him on occasion. I was like, I'm not getting any more pets after Sal, but I remembered all the good times we had together, and all the frosty nights when he curled up beside me in bed. I'm going to apologize later.

I was angry because I did very little work yesterday. I made dinner and watched Battlestar Galactica instead. My plan was to get up early today and double my efforts ("The Emperor does not share your optimistic appraisal of the situation") to make up for last night. Sal seemed like an obstacle, one that I erected myself.

Now's he's snoozing in the hallway in a patch of warm sunlight.

Day Four

Yeah, day four. I wrote 400 words for Mr. Blake, who is turning out to be quite the complex fellow. His poetry, and I'm referring to Songs of Innocence and Experience, seem to waver between serious discourse and, perhaps, some comedy? I've yet to explore this further. Oh, and I wrote 500-600 words for my Poe paper this afternoon. Not much to say there, except the link between Freud's "nervous illness" and Poe's tortured narrator is looking flimsy, and I have to bring in the multimedia parts too.

BEWARE

Day Three

Just to give you a heads up, the following entry will lack any real colour or drama.

I wrote about 500 words last night for the Blake essay and a brief outline for the Poe essay. When I get home I plan on writing another 500, or possibly more, and finish up Mr. Blake by Friday or Saturday. That gives me two or three days to write another 1200 words for Poe, and the last three days to write for my crime and society class.

Good old Sam.

An excellent discovery: Samuel Beckett plays on BBC radio.

Day One

As of today, I'm in work mode. I have to see the prof for my American lit class, go to an orientation for my exchange program, and then collect research material and class readings at the library. Then I write, write like I've never written before.

A couple of semesters ago, while I was at Douglas, I enrolled for five classes. Near the end of the term I had papers due for all those classes at around the same time. I panicked, so I procrastinated, which ignited more panic, and so forth. I was a wreck for two weeks. I'm worried I'm going to pull the same stunt this semester. I decided that whenever I'm awake, I will be writing. No doubt this blog will suffer as a consequence.

Did I mention that I'm interviewing the director for a student production of Mamet's Sexual Perversity in Chicago? I'm slowly returning to freelancing, although I'm not getting paid. More clips for the file, I suppose.

Nietzsche and essays

This month will be a trial, but it will definitely make me stronger if the month doesn't kill me. I have three papers due at the end of the month, all relatively short, but I haven't a clue where to begin. The next two and half weeks will be interesting. My paper for social theory class isn't due until April.

I guess that's it for now.

Now I take the fight to the enemy.

Reading Daredevil recently has instilled a deep sense of justice and dignity within me. That may sound corny, but in light of my current situation, I remember how proud I am to follow the story of my favourite character and equally proud of Matt Murdock. He is a fictional character, yes, but he embodies the struggle I sometimes encounter.

I should mention that on the day of my morning anxiety attack, I had a relapse during my social theory class. There's nothing like being engulfed in paralyzing fear in a huge lecture theatre with almost a hundred people attending the class. I felt waves of undulating terror sweeping over my body, and I was dizzy and nauseas. I kept opening and closing my laptop, and then I finally walked out of class and called Lisa, who talked me down. Going up the stairs to exit the theatre was like climbing a hill on the Moon, my legs were as heavy as lead and each step was really difficult . The smell of stale body odour and old socks stung my nostrils. I honestly don't know what I would do without Lisa. She has supported me all through this difficult period, even to the point of taking me to the emergency room and staying at my bedside until I recovered. So, I'm taking a proactive stance. Counseling services are covered in my medical plan, and I'm going to set up an exercise regime plus more hiking trips. I have an appointment to see my gastro-intestinal specialist in about week. This problem will be snuffed out like a flickering candle.

Correction!

Ah, it's when technological design is isolated from social processes, not that it may be isolated from them.

Everything unfolds like a rose.

I'm currently in the library, or, more precisely, since there is more than the one library, I'm in the Irving K. Barber Learning Centre. I have no idea why it's called a "Learning Centre." It's a library. Well, yeah, one does learn in a library, but c'mon! Anyway, the Main library is being torn down, and this building is the first one to be built on the old foundation. The (ahem) Centre has become my favourite place to study these days. The building's interior is very modern and has huge windows, there's a lounge with long, wooden tables that resemble the libraries in old American universities and it's in a pretty central location. I've been told the law library is equally good, as well as the forestry building.

The reason I'm writing is two-fold. First, the pain in my side disappeared this morning and then returned just now. I did some serious "chair stretches" and now the pain is gone. Huh. Second, I was chatting with Lisa about technology, and here's a thought: technology sometimes has trouble keeping up with established social processes, especially in the computer field where the advances are towards usability. Unfortunately, because technology may be isolated from social processes, there's a cultural lag. That's why when we see an intelligent design (I think it's called "intelligent design" (not to be confused with the philosophical position) or "human design" or "human-orientated design") we truly appreciate it, because the design has aligned itself to current social needs. That moment of appreciation lends technology its aesthetic quality; the synthesis of form and function (since it outwardly expresses the designer's intention and relative position on design theory) is flawless, and as consumers of both materials and aesthetics, we consider the design to be successful. That is why we become frustrated and angry when the design is not properly aligned.

Also, wearing earplugs when you're studying? Golden.

The adventures in my head.

There's a mix of snow and rain falling outside today. The snow tumbles down in thick heavy flakes then it softens up and turns into a gentle rain. The air is cold and damp, and I all want to do is go home and drink something boozy and hot while I'm wrapped in my favourite blanket. I really want to read, too.

I spent the last two hours fighting back another anxiety attack. Victory is just within my grasp, but I'm getting tired and concerned. I've been having this acute pain on my left side, just below my arm. It usually bothers me in bed, but the pain flared up while I was on the bus. So, imagine struggling with intense fear on a very crowded bus that's speeding down the street. Yeah, fun. The anxiety persisted when I was in class, so I had to take deep breaths and focus on the lecture. My approach worked, but how's that for commitment, huh?

Hey, the snow is back.

ALL CAPS = SERIOUS

IF I SPILL ONE MORE IOTA OF FOOD ON MY CLOTHES I WILL THROW MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE. RIGHT AFTER I SET MYSELF ON FIRE.

Some notes on the terror of determinism.

The fatalist versus determinist argument will never cease to fascinate me. I've involved myself in this debate many times, either by design or by consequence. The argument is not necessarily a purely metaphysical one in this case; rather, I'm asking if human beings are ruled by expansive, pervasive biological impulses that are predetermined by a genetic master plan. So the question is, are we conscious? Do we possess consciousness? Is consciousness a clear view of our world and of ourselves, or is it merely a constrained window, pried open by our will or desire to survive, yet does not allow us to see all the contours of material or mental life?

We are terrified of not having control, or the presumption that we do have control over our bodies, our relationships and our psyches. Individuality is a valued sentiment in our society; that is, the individual's needs and desires are paramount, and we value our uniqueness and strive to maintain it (for further explanation check out Simmel's work on eccentricity). In this case, I would refer to this value in terms of morality, in the sense that it frames how personal character should be constructed and expressed. So, if burden ourselves with the knowledge that "outside" forces coerce us, then our moral framework collapses under the weight of existential despair. Well, possibly.

However, we cannot dismiss the potential harm of implementing social, political, economic or cultural reforms founded on a deterministic ontology. However, I'm still thinking about this point. There's more to come, I'm sure.

I just remembered I have some material on defining common sense somewhere. I should dig that up.

Burroughs archive in New York!

Some excellent news and another incentive to visit the Big Apple. The Berg Collection of the New York Public Library has acquired William S. Burroughs' archive, which, according to BoingBoing, includes "11,000 pages of writings (published and unpublished), correspondence, collages, diaries, notebooks, photographs, and 50 hours of unreleased tape recordings." Now when I conduct my genealogical research I can browse through this collection with the intent of planning my master's thesis.

An open letter to professors and teaching assistants.

Discombobulated. That's the word that best summarizes my day so far. I missed my English class this morning and I didn't bother going to school yesterday. I read and bought comics instead.

So, an open letter to professors and teaching assistants: sometimes students get burnt-out, exhausted, confused or terrified. Students must endure these feelings as they progress through their academic career. You, as the teacher, have already gone through this stressful, difficult process already, how did you cope with the struggles as they appeared in your undergraduate years? Your students can't always produce perfect work or give a stellar performance during class. Some have obligations outside of school, like families or health issues that prevent them from being the ideal student. Do you find that students don't take advantage of your office hours? It's because of the obstacles I just mentioned, not because they're lazy or unintelligent or shy. Although, sometimes those are the reasons too. So, dear professors and TAs, keep these circumstances in mind before writing off a student who you think is simply slacking off.

A fine balance.

Although I feel as though I'm keeping up with the readings and assignments at school, my creative output has declined.

Maintaining a balance between academic responibilities and personal responsibilities is definitely an issue for students, particularly older students like myself. For me, writing is a personal responsibility, because it acts as an avenue of self-expression academic writing doesn't properly fulfill. I get irritable and abrasive if I don't write something or procrastinate on projects. So, the pieces I'm working on are clearly displayed on my desktop to remind me that they will not get finished and eventually published if I simply stare at them. Thoughts?

Notes towards a sociology of literature.

I've had this conversation before. The problem with my proposal is that it contains a two-part dilemma. First, there isn't much going on with literary discourse in sociology. Discourse analysis is prevalent, and it's a favourite topic of mine, but this type of analysis focuses on the utterance rather than the text; although, the analyst must rely on the textualized version of the utterance. Second, literary analysis and discourses on position and context can be self-referential, like the snake eating its own tail. The problem of presenting tautological arguments is subtle, yet real.

So, how does a text express the social processes one experiences in a society? Can a text reveal social inequalities in society? Although literary scholars are more than capable of addressing this question, the vocabulary available to scholars in this field is lacking, and it does not have the same texture and strength inherent in sociological discourse. However, sociology lacks the textual analysis critics take for granted, and has little to say in regards to literature.

Is literature a social process? Do writers, readers (or consumers), publishers and merchants participate in a social institution, a literary institution? Should we apply use-value and exchange-value to these processes?

Some texts are accepted into a canon (or the canon) and some are not. Hence, there are cultural "gate-keepers" at work, allowing some texts to be allowed entrance while other texts are neglected. I realize this is a very crude statement, but it's only the skeleton of a larger study. I was fortunate enough to hear a lecture on this topic at Simon Fraser University for an English grad student conference, meaning I'm not totally alone in this territory.

Thank you, Widgets.

Today, W.E.B. Dubois was born in 1868.

On the day I have to write a sociology exam.

I will wage war on gravity.

Don't you just hate it when you finally get a stubborn stain out of a shirt or a jacket, only to spill some food on it again? Yeah, I just did that. I was eating a vegetarian antipasto sandwich when an oily piece of eggplant slipped out of the baquette and tumbled down the front of my raincoat. Now I have to go the bathroom and scrub it down.

I hate gravity.

An introduction to political philosophy.

I was going to write a tirade about the Conservatives, but writing about politics is like writing about entertainment. If you're not marching in the parade, you'll only get to watch the last pathetic float limp down the avenue as the balloons and streamers peel off its pastel hide.

But keep this mind, friends and readers: when the public refuses to mind the little waves licking the shore, we cannot prepare ourselves when we eventually face the crushing tidal wave as it looms over our heads.

Watch the shores, my dears.

Take your grievances to the appropriate department, sir.

I finished work almost an hour ago, but my reserves were completely tapped. The idea of boarding a crowded, humid bus then being wedged into a corner by a mass of Goretex and backpacks was not altogether appealing. Go figure. After a bag of dill pickle chips, which tasted remarkably like stale cheese, and cruising around the internets like a ravenous shark, I feel up to the task of actually getting home. I've been feeling pretty low since Monday. I'm not used to getting up before noon.

There's an exam on Thursday, and a relatively important assignment for English. I'm thinking of doing an online presentation on Emily Dickinson and her metrical techniques.

Hm. I have to write a quiz in order to further qualify for my exchange. It's one of those common sense quizzes: what would you do if you are set on fire? Yeah, those kinds of questions. I chatted with my co-worker, who also applied to Slovenia, and she was surprised that the exchange office has these incredibly difficult hoops to jump through now. And will the University of Ljubljana actually accept my application? Thank you, UBC. Nothing like keeping bureaucracy the navigable waters it never was.

Oh, bad sentence.

News!

I just received an email from the Go Global Program: my application to attend classes at the University of Ljubljana was accepted.

We will be drinking wine this evening.

This is for the comic book people.

I have two items for your approval. First, for those who love all things Whedon (Joss, that is) then check out his verbal duel, if you can call it that, with none other than Warren Ellis. Read on.

Second, relating back to Ellis, an excellent example of what's to come in comics. This is a part of Ganges #1 from Kevin Huizenga, a title on Fantagraphic's Ignatz line. Manipulating the actual panel is not entirely new, but folding and overlapping it to suggest changes in time is really something to behold.

I got this from Ellis' article on The Pulse, which is very insightful, but there are messy segments in the prose. Click the link and look for The Ministry.

Pay attention.

Jesse = Jess. Yes.

Making goals.

I now have some goals for the rest of the year. I've been revising these items for quite some time, which is good, but I would much rather have a solid schedule than something fluid or ambiguous. When Lisa asked me yesterday what I want to be when I grow up (although I feel I've already lived three lifetimes) I simply said "writer." And then, teach at a university or college to make ends meet. If you want a picture of my future, then that's it. So, here's some short-term goals for me.

1. Return to the Ubyssey. I know, it doesn't pay, but if I'm going to be a full-time student and a no-time writer I might as well be producing something. I'll be emailing the editor today.
2. Finish the first drafts for the three short stories I've been working on. Getting one story published is great, now let's see if I can keep up the momentum.
3. The play. Or plays. Yeah, there's another draft in the works. I'm going to admit defeat, but these projects will have to go on the backburner for awhile. Blah.

I suppose the last one isn't a goal.

How was everyone's Valentine's Day? If you despise the holiday with all your heart then you might as well move onto the next website. Yesterday was a quiet day for us. We slept in, I did some reading, then we went out to our favourite cafe and ate sandwiches and studied. Later, we went over to Jesse's for cake and wine, and we watched season two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I hate to cut this short but I gotta get to work.

I may have misused the word "encroaches," but Reading Week is kind of damaging.

As Reading Week encroaches upon me, I know I have write up a schedule so I can maximize the time made available to me. I'll be reading Frank Norris' McTeague, plus some Durkheim and Wordsworth.

Some good news: one of my students, who I was tutoring in preparation for the Language Proficiency Index (or, the LPI) this semester, passed the test recently. Most students have to write the test in order to qualify for upper-level English classes. So, if you're working out of the Engineering or Science Department, you need six English credits, and one can imagine the horrified look in a chemistry student's eyes when faced with Anne of Green Gables.

I'm a sucker.

Why did I start a MySpace account?

More poetry / prose games.

Consider this an experiment. Write a nursery rhyme, a fairy tale or a common, everyday event you experience (like brushing your teeth or shopping for groceries) in the style and tone of your favourite author. So, for instance, how would James Joyce write Jack and Jill? Try writing either poetry or prose.

Chris, the mastermind behind the The G33k, has an excellent example here.

The exercise is a great way to sharpen your skills and to understand how an author's voice is crucial in writing literature.

Feel free to email your submission to me (my email address is on my profile page) and I will post it later, with your permission. You know you want to.

A while back someone posted some poetry links in the comments. Because I was receiving a huge influx of spam, I thoughtlessly deleted the comment like I was cursed with a nervous tic. I'm very sorry mystery poster!

Submit a poetry-related story! See below!

What was your first favourite poem? Why?

Seth Fisher, RIP.

I just discovered Seth Fisher this year, through his work on Batman and Fantastic Four. Today the official statement was released: he fell off the seven-story roof of a club in Osaka, Japan. Man. His artwork was fresh and vibrant, and he put superhero comics back into the realm of the fantastic. Reading his books reminded me of the wonder and mystery that enthralled me when I first started reading comics over twenty years ago.

Damn it.

The lesson.

My computer? The logic board had an aneurysm. The estimate? Over a grand. The result? Andrew talked them down to $100. The lesson? Computers don't run the world. People do.