Wednesday, October 27, 2004


You're doing what I want to be doing. You're living my life, driving my car, writing my blog. You're content with the illusion of freedom; I've fallen and I can't get up.

To exist today is to be lost. You know this.

You are too free. Part of an entire generation of apathetic, do-nothing twentysomethings. Things were better when you had no choice - even just fifty years previous. If your father was a doctor, you became a doctor. If your mother was a midwife, you became a midwife. If they wanted you to do something else, your parents put you through school and told you what you'd become. Now, you can be whatever you choose. So you choose to be nothing.

This is where you are. You've chosen to pursue a life of, what, sentences? Words? Letters? What if all that's left at the end of your life is a body of unfinished work? A collection of half-finished novels, a number of roughed-out stories, a couple pages of disjointed dialogues? Will you have accomplished anything? Will it all have been for nothing?

That fear that lives inside you: that you will never have an idea. That you're playing the wrong slot machine. That someone won big on this very machine right before you sat down, and as soon as you're gone someone will win big again. That there are no ideas waiting for you; that it's simply not your time.

That you will expire long before the idea machine pays out.

Can you ever know if you make the right choices in life, if you live your life properly? Will you know in that last second, right before everything fades to black?

You do not believe life could be so cruel.

And by you I mean I.

Saturday, October 23, 2004


Today stalks and kills Yesterday. Tomorrow, perhaps even more vicious, will dispense of Today in the same cruel manner. Time is an assassin, a murderer, a butcher.

By typing this out I am, in a sense, slipping into the role of butcher, myself. I have destroyed an idea. An idea that should have, perhaps, remained in my head, pure and unsullied. Now, put into type, it is corrupt, contaminated, distorted. What choice did I have though? Should I allow all ideas to remain in my head where they are susceptible to the vicious undoings of Time, allowing them to unravel, deteriorate, and decay as the days, weeks, months, and years slip by?

If only you could have seen her there - my idea, flawless and unclouded, frolicking in the sanctuary of my imagination. She was beautiful, then.

It's a chilly moonlit night, just before the witching hour, and you stand at one end of a crumbling stone bridge. You see two cloaked figures near the other side; one of the figures is walking briskly up behind the other. There's something menacing in his body language. You want to call out a warning, but the water rushing below you, filling your ears, also sweeps away your words.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is drawn from Tomorrow's cloak.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is quickly plunged into the back of Today.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is tossed into the river below.

Moira tosses in her sleep. Tonight she dreams of nothing.

Thursday, October 21, 2004


It's Tuesday, March 30, 1993 - The last day the Canadian dollar peaks above the psychologically important level of US80 cents, until eleven years later on Wednesday, October 20, 2004.

I'm seventeen years old, still living with my folks (until I turn 18 in November), and am about to graduate high school. I won't go to my graduation ceremonies, though, because I do not give a shit. I've got chin-length blonde hair, which I tend to keep tucked behind my ears. Like everybody else in the known universe, I wear flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and Converse High Tops. I drink Big Bear beer ($3.20 for 1.14 litres of %8 alcohol goodness) because it's all I can afford; I don't have a job, because I'm just that cool. I have a curfew of midnight on weekdays, and 1:00am on weekends. The curfew matters little though, as I sneak out of my bedroom window nightly as soon as I enter the house. I'll find out some years later that my parents are well aware of this habit, and that I am not nearly as sneaky as I think I am.

My favourite book is The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. Other important books read this year will include The Anarchist Cookbook, Crime and Punishment, and Bright Lights, Big City.

Nirvana's In Utero has yet to be released, so Bleach, Nevermind, and Incesticide are still regulars on my stereo. Also played are Mudhoney, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Pennywise, Radiohead, Rage Against the Machine, and Porno for Pyros. At the 1993 American Music Awards, Pearl Jam beats out TLC and Arrested Development for the Favorite Pop/Rock New Artist award. They also beat out Mr. Big and Ugly Kid Joe for the Favorite New Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Artist award. The Favorite New Rap/Hip-Hop Artist award goes to *shudder* Kris Kross.

In the news, on March 1, federal agents besieged the Texas Branch Davidian religious cult. Fifty-one days later, on April 19, the F.B.I. will ambush the compound; the resulting fires will kill Koresh and about 80 of his followers. On March 29, just yesterday, five were arrested for the February bombing of the World Trade Center. Eight years later, in 2001, "they" will succeed in bringing the towers down.

All around it's a decent year for movies, with Dazed and Confused, The Nightmare Before Christmas, So I Married an Axe Murderer, Falling Down, and Groundhog Day being my favourites. In 1994, Tom Hanks will pick up the Best Actor Oscar for Philadelphia, Holly Hunter will take the Best Actress Oscar for The Piano, and Spielberg will take Best Director and Best Picture awards for Schindler's List.

Entry from my journal:

Back from Calgary.

Broke up with XXXXXXXX last night. Well, I suppose "broke up with" might not be the right collection of words - I kind of just left town for the weekend without telling her. My disappearance made her angry enough to initiate a fight with me on my return, which enabled me to present her with the option of a split. She was more than happy to accept, and now I'm free of that nutter. How is it that you can chase a person for years, only to find out when you catch them that they're not right for you at all? It hardly seems fair. I need to learn how to properly break up, that's all. Am I a bad person?

Missed school yesterday, but it really could not be avoided. Sunday night is Cheap Drink Night at the Republic, and lucky for me they don't seem big on the whole IDing thing.

Instead of going to math today, I took a long lunch and went downtown to walk around and drink coffee. Who are the people you pass on the street? Do they all have destinations? Are any of them as lost and lonely as you?

Think I'll call XXXXXXX tonight and see what she's up to. Haven't seen her around for awhile.

XXXX is sick again.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004


A romantic's idea: that life is exciting, an adventure, that each day brings something new. And each day does, in fact, bring something new doesn't it? Just as a supermarket restocks its shelves each and every day, filling in bare spots, making all the boxes and cans line up nicely, tidying up the pyramids of oranges and tomatoes, so, too, does life. Sure everything is different - but it's also the same.

Take that half-hour subway trip to work every weekday morning; it may be a different train, but it's an exact replica of all the others you've travelled on. What about your fellow passengers? Different people, to be sure, but do you even notice? Does their uniqueness matter? Think of that tomato pyramid in the supermarket; different tomatoes every day. Same pyramid.

You get to work, (after stopping to pick up a medium coffee, one cream, one sugar, and a muffin. You change things up and get the chocolate chip instead of the bran, and this just might be the most exciting [and, indeed, most important] decision you make today), and you take your place in the sea of cubicles. On your first day of work you were excited to see your cubicle - your own little area! Almost an office! You decided you would personalise it by bringing in pictures of family and pets. You put up a wacky Dilbert calendar. A few motivational posters make their way onto the half-walls. You have a joke coffee mug. Your cubicle has become so very unique that it looks just like all the others.

After work you go out for drinks with some co-workers. You order a beer, a premium beer, in fact, but you order the same beer every day. Sorry, scratch that - different beer, different mug, but it looks and tastes the same as every other beer you've ordered. You don't know it, but the waitress is pouring your drinks as your group walks up the sidewalk. (Between 5:35 and 5:45 each evening.) After a few pints, your group likes to argue politics. You have the same debate every day, and nobody seems to wonder why nothing is ever solved. Nobody ever wins or loses. And nobody cares.

You go home later and eat something prefabricated and showered in microwaves. Then you waste time until you sleep. By wasting time I mean you surf the net, you play computer games, you read books of questionable intellectual value, you watch reality television, and you sit out on your balcony drinking and watching people lead far more interesting lives than you. Sometimes you sit on the couch and do nothing at all.

Ah yes, life is an adventure isn't it? Lately you've been cluing in though; the monotony is finally getting to you. You decide you're going to do something different this year - you're going to the Bahamas. You're getting a package deal. It's just better that way; you don't have to worry about booking your own flight, you don't have to concern yourself with picking out a hotel, and hell, you don't even have to worry about buying your own food or drinks.

A prefab getaway for a prefab person living a prefab life.

That is, until you meet your prefab end.

When you die, your loved ones will order you the #7 funeral special; a nice white-lacquered coffin, (made by the thousand-lot in someplace in the Midwest), and their choice of either the #46, the #33, or the #17 flower arrangements. Of course they'll get to look through some catalogues first to make sure the flower colours complement your box.

Then it's off to your prefab afterlife. Enjoy, sucker!

Monday, October 11, 2004


t's getting late and I'm floating in the nothingness of space somewhere in the 8.5 minutes between the moon and the earth. I can somehow breath yet I'm in a vacuum. Looking at the blue planet from this crazy ether armchair, I'd say I'm looking down, but, as anyone knows, such terms do not apply out here. I'm watching as our planet is being turned inside out. It's like a rotten apple lying beneath a tree, infested with bugs and being eaten from the inside out. For the first time ever, I see it like this. Our bloody planet is rotten - the decomposition being hastened by too many grotesque insects. Too much rock being brought to the surface. Too much oil. Too many fish pulled from the oceans. They're killing everything. A volcano erupts.

I start to panic. I think consciousness will comfort me. Forcing my eyes to open, I immediately take in the deep quiet darkness of the hotel room. There is no comfort here. As I lie awake in bed, three thoughts romp around my mind:

1. I haven't heard a decent song since Johnny Cash died.

2. I haven't had a decent meal since Julia Child died.

3. I haven't had a decent thought since Jacques Derrida died.

Three important Js.

Haiku for today.

Two Pizza Pops and
A bottle of Steam Whistle:
Thanksgiving dinner.

Sunday, October 3, 2004

Haiku for today.

Down a leaf-lined autumn street,
A hung-over stroll.