10:23 Nietzsche

Nietzsche said "We are like shop windows in which we are continually arranged, concealing or illuminating the supposed qualities others ascribe to us - in order to deceive ourselves".

“I want a dog”, my friend blurts out at a coffee shop last night. We are surrounded by friends, most of them with at least a cat or dog in their life, and then as I look around, I see the vultures waiting to decend.

“Paul, dogs are expensive, they chew on furniture, they require a lot of your time, and you have to groom them”, I respond in a supportive, non-judgmental way.

As I’m speaking on of my friends is passing Paul an “adopt a pet” document from the SPCA. My words dissolve, nobody listens, and I see Paul become engrossed in the paper.

“Ok, fine, well I want a pet. How about a cat?”

“Paul, remind me…aren’t you the same person who has banned all the neighborhood cats from entering your house? Aren’t you the same person who claims that cat scratches will give you worms? You can’t even pick one up.” I’m becoming on edge, only because we are moving in together in a month, and I’m not sure if a cat or a dog will benefit my life in anyway.

I want a dog, I really do, but I don’t think I have the time or the patience to own one. I want clean furniture, I do not want to come home and discover Spike chewing on the leg of my table, or dog hairs on the couch. I don’t think it’s going to happen.

“Paul you have to be realistic about this…you told me you don’t even know where you are going to be in six months. You maybe teaching in Japan or headed to England; I’m just wondering how a dog/cat fits into this?” I plan on exhausting this conversation, I want to know a dog or cat isn’t going to mysterious going to appear in my life one day.

“Until you can commit to living in Victoria, or at least the West Coast, you can’t have a pet”, there, that’s that, end of conversation.

I guess I feel like I’m parenting at times. We are the same age and our thought patterns are very different from one another. I approach things cynically, rationally, and I think out situations before I jump into them. I wait a day before I make a big purchase and I check my bank account to ensure it won’t make my life uncomfortable.

Paul jumps. Paul can hit the town on a day of shopping and buy things on sight. I love the guy to no end, but I pray we don’t clash when it comes to responsibility.

I am open to a dog. I am, but I’m not going to let him know that, it would open up too many opportunities to be impulsive. And, I always worry about people with new puppies; there is this stigma that people with new puppies have emotional issues. Whenever I see someone with a new pet, I think, oh no, I hope he’s ok. We all know animals are sometimes used during emotional periods for comfort and security.

I just want to make sure we are both ok before a cute, little puppy comes into our lives. And if I do get a dog it will be from an animal shelter, there are so many dogs out there that need homes, it breaks my heart.

We try but we don't belong

I’m having a hard time getting through Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker’s Creek”. It’s a good read, very descriptive, but I don’t think it’s my style.

The entire book is about Annie living in Tinker’s Creek and taking in the nature around her. She talks about egg casings, bull frogs, spider’s that spin webs, and the passing of the seasons. I’m all about nature, mind you, but I am having a hard time figuring out how this novel won a Pulitzer Prize in literature. I would have given the prize to her other work “Holy the Firm” instead.

The book speaks of human conditioning and our relationship with the Divine. I must admit her prose does wrap you up in the event. Every time I pick up the novel, it takes some time me to get into it, but once I do, I am deeply involved and taken on a journey. And, the references to physics, literature, numerous religious traditions, anthropology, medicine and folklore are astounding.

The book itself was indirectly influenced by a near fatal attack of pneumonia which she was stricken with in 1971. After she recovered, Annie decided she needed to experience life more fully. It’s debatable whether or not spending four seasons in a creek would be “living more”. Life is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

I had a Tinker’s Creek when I was younger. It was my sanctuary, a place I could go and see the world for what it is, without the confusion of cities, commercialism, crowds; it was my sanity at times. As I get older, I want it again, but I feel the draw of urban life and am conflicted.

I wish there were balance. I wish a city planner like Jane Jacobs could make my dream a reality. Jane is now dead, and a lot of her ideas will be rendered useless, because Mrs. Jacob’s was the driving force and we are a world without leaders now. Our leaders are greedy and power hungry.

“There is a quality even meaner than outright ugliness or disorder, and this meaner quality is the dishonest mask of pretended order, achieved by ignoring or suppressing the real order that is struggling to exist and to be served”

–-Jane Jacobs

"But look what we have built low-income projects that become worse centers of delinquency, vandalism and general social hopelessness than the slums they were supposed to replace. Cultural centers that are unable to support a good bookstore. Civic centers that are avoided by everyone but bums. Promenades that go from no place to nowhere and have no promenaders. Expressways that eviscerate great cities. This is not the rebuilding of cities. This is the sacking of cities."

-- Jane Jacobs

I miss her...

The Coast Line

Even if I'm shouting, even if I'm shouting here inside.
Even if I'm shouting, do you see that I'm wanting,
that I want to be so,
bright,
bright,
bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.

It's over the hump day at the company. Today, because of a 5KM Cops for Cancer run last week, we are having a Salmon BBQ. I do realize I have sold out to Corporate Canada, but I really like Salmon. Is it wrong for me to get excited about these things?

They say 30 is the age in which you cannot be trusted. It was coined in the 60's during the revolution (AKA Hippy Movement); the premise was when you hit 30, you are no longer free-thinking, and you have sided with the man.

In today’s age, I'd say it's now 40 or even later, people are no longer turning to the man after a quarter of a century of living. Have I sold out to Corporate Canada? Am I now one with the man after 27 years of living? I really hope not.

I still think of myself as the "Carney in the coal mine", I will expose all social dysfunctions and feel like I'm a contributing member that doesn't conform. Yes, I will be eating the Salmon and veggie dogs, but I assure you I won't be making small talk, I will be real, and the company will be secondary to my need to get to know people on a more personal level.

I was inspired by another blog to come up with a really fetching catch phrase or slang. I'm rooting it over in my head...and I have ascertained that all the good ones are taken. Wicked, Cool, Sweet, That's Hot, Eat me...I need something that'll raise eyebrows and be used day to day.

Maybe I'll just bring back the high five; people didn't really give it an honest effort. I think if the right people were high fiving, it would be cool.

Architecture

The Fall is here

Heaven holds a sense of wonder...

The Fall/Winter is coming. Our fall is winter…yeah. Anyway, I was at the coffee shop tonight after working, then working out for close to two hours; I wonder where I’m going with my life.

Yeah, so the coffee store. As I was biking down Cook Street I see Diana, and she yells for me to come over. I quickly veer my bike over and catch up to her.

We head down the coffee store only to meet Michael, another acquaintance. I am amazed that in the short period of four years…I finally am able to recognize people on the street and form relationships. We talk, we make jokes, and after a couple of hours at the coffee shop, we head to smoke a joint.

Now, mind you, I’m not a drug smoker. Two puffs of a joint and I’m completely high – in a manageable state, but stoned nonetheless.

We talk about the coming fall. We talk about why it’s so enthralling to be in such a beautiful place as Victoria, how lucky we are, and how we handle the winter. I have to give you some background first. In Newfoundland, as much as it snows, we can see the stars on winter nights, the days still have Sunshine, and the only thing that stops living is the snow, which is unbearable at times.

In Victoria it’s different. It rains, the sky disappears, I can’t explain why we are sometimes covered by clouds for weeks on end, or how I wonder if the Sun will ever shine again; I can’t tell you how many times I have woke in the morning only to see it pour, and to see the clouds so low to the ground, almost to the point of making me claustrophobic. That’s how we feel. That’s why I need to head away and find places where I can see the sky again.

There is an upside, a beautiful and agreeable one. The fall helps us to gather ourselves back together. I lose myself in the summer, in the weather, the beaches, the biking, hiking…and everyone else around me is active. It’s a time when I forget everything. In the winter, I regroup, recharge, I start to reorganize my life and take care of myself again. I get to write, to think, to once again feel as if I’m completely involved in my domestic and personal lives. In the winter, I am now focused.

We talk about these things, and we all agree we are lower, and we lose apart of ourselves, or do we just feel human again? I don’t look at it as a stale time. I think positively about the upcoming season. And I also see a different side to these two people. They are complex and somewhat unhappy beings.

The more people I get to know, the more I think, am I one of the few happy people out there? I mean, I have my bouts of problematic thoughts or situations, but really, deep down inside, I am content and happy. And saying it just validates it more.

I do want a boyfriend though…

Something that's never been done

Shorts, originally uploaded by copeseticnature.

I'm a coldplay junkie today.

Oh brother I can't get through...
I've been trying hard to reach you cause I don't know what to do
Oh brother I can't believe it's true
I'm so scared about the future and I want to talk to you.

Are you lost or incomplete?

I'm going to stop there. As great as coldplay's music is, the lyrics are fucking awlful. Whatever happen to great lyrics? "You can climb a ladder up to the sea...". I cringe everything I listen to the lyrics, although the Thin White Duke Remix is pretty amazing.

The song speaks of wants and needs. Although ineffective, I can see a lot of teenagers hugging into their pillows, dreaming of a world outside of the norm they are bought up in -- tears and the periods...yeah.

I think my friend was right when he describe coldplay...two types of people like his music...troubled 13 year old teenage girls and homos.

There is this gardener doing landscaping on our company grounds today. Lets just say I really don't need to see it today. He's a walking sex machine; hairy legs, redneck tendancies, in shape, well tanned, and I'm sure he's a lawn mower: No fair!

I was bold enough to flirt as my lunch crew walked by...

Smile on his face

He’s got a rose in his smile
He says he knows and he does

And his mind aches
And his heart breaks
‘Cause he’s silly

Gonna teach him to sin
‘Cause I’m always knowing where he’s been
Livin’ on the wrong side of the tracks
And you know he’s never
Coming back

He’s got a smile like a flower
He looks so fine by the hour

But his mind aches
And his heart breaks
‘Cause he’s silly

Gonna teach him to steal
‘Cause I’m always knowing
How he feels
Livin’ on the wrong side of the tracks
And I know he’s never
Coming back

Nature

"The world is full of creatures that for some reason seem stranger to us than others, and libraries are full of books describing them--hagfish, platypuses, lizardlike pangolins four feet long with bright green lapped scales like umbrella-tree leaves on a bush hut roof, butterflies emerging from anthills, spiderlings wafting through the air clutching tiny silken balloons, horseshoe crabs...the creator creates. Does he stoop, does he speak, does he save, succor, prevail? Maybe. But he creates; he creates everything and anything."

-- Annie Dilliard, Pilgram at Tinkers Creek

I enjoyed taking walks along the shore, along the banks, coast land, and the only road our town had. Most of the time, especially in the summer months, it’s quiet, vast, entrenched, and slow. The lakes were always calm along the single road that made up the seven or eight villages that were slung together. Einstein said “The human mind is not capable of grasping the universe. We are like a little child entering a huge library”, and as I think back to these times and agree. I see so little of nature, only bits and pieces, with life working it’s intricacies in the background.

One day on a trek along one of the small lakes that we boast are pure and clean; I hear a splash. Normally you heard birds chirping, the sound of the wind brushing against trees and leaves, the occasion call of an animal, but a splash was something different. As I look into the lake, I see a ripple, it’s small and I know that the object that made this splash couldn’t be that big. Then another splash makes me jump, as I peer out past the cloud of black flies in my vision, I see what’s finally happening. The trout are jumping out of the water to catch the mess of flies that have infested our neighborhood.

These beautifully flecked species, glinting in the lowering sun are making their way of the lake to feast, and unbeknownst to me, it was a common occurrence. Suddenly the whole lake is alive with splashes, clouds of flies hang over the puddles, and now I get it. Quoting Frank Lloyd Wright, I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.

Some of the happiest times in my life, and the most isolating, was when I made these treks around the small community I grew up in. I was surrounded by nothing and everything at the same time. There were days when I was hiking up the marsh only to find a litter of wild kittens, with their ferocious mother, crouched, knowing full well she has to fight for her kittens. All we see are domesticated cats; it’s rare to meet others who have seen such sights. Upon finding the cats, I ran back to my dad and told him and all he said was “leave them alone, let them find their own lives”. Sometimes it’s better to leave nature alone, let the life around us have free will. Who are we to takes these wild cats out of nature, the place where they belong.

Other times while swimming in Business Pond with my dog Reno and friends there would be beavers allowing along by our sides. My father would never scream at us and tell us to the leave the lake, he would only say don’t get to close. Even Reno, our dog, would be respectful of the animals. A beaver, I’m told, are found to be gentle; there is even an Indian word for “beaver-like” which means “affable”. Their tails would always crack the water and their stride was amazing. Even though they are a very dense creature they are able to rake through the water at a very surprising speed.

I miss Newfoundland.

Short Shorts

I think the last few entires have been way too serious. I just want to show everyone I'm not a complete turd.

I did this on a dare to myself while visiting Montreal.

Morality

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done. Finished! If you bring it up one more time, I swear, I will delete you from MSN”, it’s three days into this news and I have to constantly fend off the nice people in my life.

I think I am a giving person. I think of myself as an open person who is caring and compassionate. If you look at it through the viewpoints of my friends, I have far to go; I'm not afraid.

“I’ve been thinking about this situation I’m in Jake (Mark, Paul, whoever). Initially I was 95 percent sure that I am completely sound and there is no way in hell it can be me”, as I take a drag from a cigarette and let my mind wander even further. ”The more I think about it, the estimate declines and anxiety sets in...”, my words disappear as my eyes lower to my knees.

“I think I’m scared and when I have time on my own to reflect, I keep losing my sanity, it trails behind me, and I grasp for sight, smell, origin; I hate it”.

I think I’m a hopeless romantic that welcomes these monumental events. Otherwise, there would be no purpose, my life would be predictable, and dullness would set in. And now, after one life changing event after another, I wonder if I am strong enough for it anymore.

This is one of the first times in my life that I have let myself be vulnerable to others. The only other time was my ex, he would dismiss whatever emotions I felt. Now I feel as if I can let go. My friends will listen and support me, and the fear of rejection that causes us to be guarded, is waning away.

I have let them in and this time I see that the people in my life do care. I see genuine concern and emotion. I know that I’m in a good place; finally, I have people in my life that love and care about me.

The greatest struggles in life occur when there is a battle, of the mind, body, whatever; I don’t need to define it for you. My struggles occur when I feel my life is put on trial or when I am given a challenge. It could be losing a loved one, or winning the lottery, or in the worst case scenario, having to come to terms with our own mortality.

I don’t live that way. I don’t think about the negative things and I push most problems out in the open so I can pick them apart, so they no longer seem intimidating. But, how do I handle the unknown? How in the hell can I justify this?

My friend once told me there is a lot of good in me. That it would be unfair for me to be giving a restriction on life…and I think about these things and wonder, why not? I am no different than anyone else. I am not special. I am the same as everyone else in the world. If anything, I am more fortunate, which isn’t a good argument for a person in my situation.

So why not me? I can’t answer the question; the next ten days of my life will be retrospective and careful. I will avoid any self-destructive actions and I will pray to my God with every spare minute my life has to offer. I mean, what else can I do?

I won’t bore you with the spiritual rant that I save for people who are fortunate enough to see me drunken and nonsensical. Today is a day of glory. For now, I know that whatever happens to me, I am without fear. I will relish in any struggle thrown at me, and conquer it with the fierceness I am known for. I will not be a victim and I will not let it destroy me.

And, I’m saying this while sitting on Cook Street in a small coffee store, surrounded by cigarettes, idle conversation, and the steady stream of vehicles passing me by. There is an eclectic mix off people as usual, and now, just because, I finally feel normal.

I can see my face getting older. I see the lines, slowly becoming more real, although I have the face of a child, the lines of my forehead are becoming more pronounced, and to the point I know that I am no longer youthful. My eyes change color depending on my mood, depending on the season, and they give far too much away with respect to my emotional well-being.

Adulthood seeps in without warning, my eyes, and my mouth, they are forming lines; it’s because my life has been good. An old buddy of mine said “whatever expressions you use in everyday life will be carried over to your senior years” and I believed him. If I ever see an older person, with a blank face, naked of lines, I’d worry about them. I’d wonder how many times they have smiled, how many times they expressed ire, or angst, I’d wonder if they have even lived at all.

The multitude of emotions any one human could express is staggering. I cling to the good ones, and embellish all the others; no one has ever accused me of being inanimate. And, as I look around, that is what I see, emotions, some more subdued, more quite gregarious, but I am surrounded by expression and am thankful.

I’ll leave you with these thoughts as the Chestnuts fall around me announcing the end of summer, as the blossoms of nearby bushes fall on my table, and one of the last remaining summer nights this year beings in the first inklings of the cold winds ahead.

I want you to know, I will not take my life for granted anymore.

Shades

The Last time...

We had a company event where the booze was flowing and free. Company events are great because a) everyone's guard is down; b) I get to see people in a different light; and c) there is a new coop that is fucking sexy.

Regardless, we took it to the next level and after the get together I met up with some friends on the street and it just got worse. I did something I consider ethically wrong - and his boyfriend would agree - and today and feeling bad about the whole situation.

There are a few things that are in the back of mind this early Saturday morning. One being the disease control center that phoned me asking me to get tested for HIV - it was abrupt and scary, I still don't think I'm over that episode. It turns out someone from my past has contracted the virus and my name was given out.

When I think back to the past year and my past test, I'm OK, I mean, I'm very sure I'm completely healthy, but the thought still lingers in the back of my mind. I don't think I have done anything risky since I had my last set of results back. I should be fine.

Secondly, my grandpa who passed away... Grieving is a funny thing, now I'm starting to wonder about the distance I have put between my family and I am thinking about who I hold dear. It's been close to four years and I need to see them. My life is passing me by at times and without my family, my base, I am nothing.

Third, dating! What can I say? I was turned down for the first time in my life this week...and it hit me hard.

Even when I avoid being busy - I am still busy - and escape from this 'busy' lifestyle is maddeningly impossible.

Passing...

It’s hard living 7,500 Kilometers away from your nearest relative. As independent as I am, as much as I tell people I’m better off without them, I’m not.

My grandfather, who shares my same name, passed away a couple of days ago. When I first heard the news, I simply lashed out; holding on to grudges and refusing to even feel a bit of remorse. This is the same man who didn’t attend my cousin’s funeral when he killed himself. I forever held on to that grudge…until now.

He was funny, smart, and wasted most of his life away drinking. People stole from him, people took advantage of his drunken state of mind, and all he ever did was put up with it. My grandfather wasn’t someone I bragged about, and when people told me how much I was like him, I would cringle and become deeply offended.

Still, he was my grandfather. The one thing I did this week was let go of grudges. I let go of the fact that he wasn’t an ideal grandfather, I have forgiven him for not attending my cousins funeral, and I send home a goodbye for the church to read aloud during service.

I was respectful and I made an effort to look at the positive things.

My grandfather sailed around the world twice; he served in World War II on a navel vessel off the coast of Germany. He became on of the first millionaires in my small town and had a knack for taking advantage of opportunities. He painted, made fantastic blueberry wine, and when he finally sobered up, made great efforts to seek forgiveness.

I didn’t do it until he died, but now he has it.

There are so many funny stories I could tell you, so many pictures I could paint with the whimsical stories surrounding this man, he was a legend and everyone knew his name. I will leave you with the assurance, he was the only person I found intriguing throughout my childhood and it shames me I didn’t spend more time getting to know him.

Death to me is different. I have seen so many pass. I have lost my uncle to a drowning, my grandmother to a botched operation/possible suicide, my first cousin (who I regard as a brother) to suicide, two first cousins who were caught at sea, a classmate from leukemia, and so many more. I no longer mourn, I am totally desensitized to it and I am respectful that it was their time to go. I am sure they are still out there someone, although I can’t saw where or how, but they are, and I will see them all again.

I was happy he passed. No more suffering, no more old age homes, he is now in a better place, with the people he held dear in his life…hopefully sober.

I love you grandpa.

Death...

My grandfather passed away two days ago.

I owe him an entry besides the previous "My Grandfather's a drunk" blog:

http://copeseticnature.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-grandfathers-drunk.html

I wrote this entry some time ago. It is very characteristic of him and I have no doubt he would find it amusing.

Stay tuned...

Last night in Victoria

You’d have a happy life, if you did the things you like.

Its quiet today, quiet and I feel completely absolved to the world around me. Since my trip to Montreal, my life has been out of sorts, coming home only to have more obligations, more company, and my domestic life is suffering. I am down to my last pair of underwear, my sports socks are all used; I am wearing t-shirts that I would consider worthy of the Salvation Army Thrift Store, and I’m fine with it.

The past few days I have been gingerly exploring two new acquaintances in my life. They are quiet, hesitant, and pure in mind and spirit; I am the loud one, who makes decisions, who dictates likes and dislike, and I am the one who was trying to break their shells, just to get a little more depth.

They are gone, and now, I’m sitting at my office, chewing my finger nails, haunted with the realization that it’s time to get my ass in gear and organize my life again. The weekend will be sunny and brilliant though, maybe I should put it off…yet again?

Last night we went to the Empress, which is a well known and very formal dining area in Victoria. The food was amazing, and Ben, one of the visitors with me, gets fifty percent off the meal and drinks; the meal now is reasonably priced.

I love the Empress. We are surrounded by the higher echelon of society. We are surrounded by turn of the century architecture, impeccable service, great food, and the expectation that we know the etiquette associated with formal dining. We do, and I think the night turned out to be fabulous.

I love looking around the restaurant and seeing the different groups of people. There are a group of boys, all under 18, who are well dressed and polite; their posture is commendable, and the only thing I could critique are the cans of coke sitting around the table. I’m surprised cans of coke would be outwardly displayed at a restaurant like the empress.

Around us there are singles, eating their meals, and I’m guessing they are on business. I hear thick American accents, I see the older, social elite in Victoria entertaining out of Towner’s, and a mix of people who are dressed well, who know which fork to use, and who are intelligent and worthy of the pleasures this life can grant.

It’s nice to step inside of this environment at times, to dress up, approach it with sincerity, and enjoy what it has to offer.

To even out the night, after the meal, and a lost parking ticket that was to be validated, we head to Big Bad Johns. It’s another ‘must see’ tourist spot in Victoria; and now, instead of lush wallpapers with polished diners, agreeable teas and deserts, we are thrust into a completely different environment.

The floors are sticky and littered with peanut shells, the people are bordering on redneck, and the ceilings are covered with women’s bras. I think people get their tab paid for if someone is willing to strip off their brassiere.

We sit around, drinking, more loosened up after two days of hanging out, and a fake spider falls onto my friends shoulder. We all start laughing and look up and see that there are small inventions, such as the spider, supported by a string that is controlled by the bartender.

Our last night in Victoria…we go urban-sophisticated and then redneck.

I think they had fun…

Dating...part II

This is the beginning of the third week of being asexual…

There is one problem: I have a visitor from Winnipeg and he has a crush on me. I mean, it’s fine, and yeah, I have self-control. I let him stay at my place last night after we hit the town and had one too many drinks.

We both agreed beforehand, that if he did stay at my place, it would be purely platonic. There would be no kissing; no nakedness, no fooling around, and I think we held true to the majority of those agreements. I don’t think I’m asexual anymore.

This morning, after waking up way to early and being hung over, we snuggle some more, we kiss, and I am left feeling guilty. I’m guilty because a) I also did the same thing to his ex about two weeks ago, b) I’m not even sure if I want to do this with him, and c) I have broke a promise to myself.

In the long run, it will be meaningless, and just another experience, but now, it’s causing me to think into this situation far too much.

“Can I sleep over again sometime?” he asks as I’m dressing for work.

“I don’t know. We’ll talk about it later, ok?” I go over to him and give him a hug goodbye, not knowing how to approach this situation.

We had a fun time yesterday. I left work and met him and a friend at a sushi place downtown. Mostly, I talked to Doug because Mark was too shy.

He was just sitting there smiling and being fidgety. At one point after Doug and I gave summaries of our lives up to this point, I put Mark on the spot. He turns red, fidgets even more, and proceeds to give us the quickest overview out of all three of us.

I shouldn’t tease him so much. I know he is shy and I guess I’m prodding him a little so he can come out of his shell.

After sushi, we go for a run. We start on Dallas Road, running about 4KM along the ocean, over to a breakwater where a single lighthouse – painted red and white – stands. It’s a beautiful backdrop…and, I think we both appreciate the here and now.

Later that night, after a work out and a shower, we head downtown. The streets are empty for the most part; it is Tuesday after all. Even at eleven some of the local tourist shops, gelato houses, and small pubs are still open for business. I don’t venture down here that often on the weeknights, so I guess I’m pleasantly surprised.

We head to a pub called Irish Times and order a couple of Guinness. The pub is nice, quoted as being Irish, but the architecture, and interior, well, I’d hate to say it, but it’s more English.

The take away is the fact there is a stunning performer on stage. The minute he starts playing our conversation with one another stops, and, I’m drawn into his beautiful Irish ballad. His voice is pure, and it reminds me of a Celtic Bob Dylan without all the frills and tangles. He’s wonderful and I’m taken back to the good ole days in downtown St. John’s.

I think he had a good time. I mean, I know he had a good time. I always enjoy it when two strangers, who barely know each other, get together and discover whether or not they can actually be friends and tolerate one another. I think we can.

Dating...Part I

“So, how did you meet him?” I ask, and he thinks I’m prodding. In a way I am, I mean, I want to know how this man spent the last 38 years of his life before me. “Did you meet him while cruising the park?”

“No, of course not”, he replies, acting as if it’s the most hurtful and disgusting judgment I could ever make. He sneers at me and upset with the question I asked.

I feel bad about the comment, thinking, maybe his life was normal and he wasn’t as big of a sex addict as I thought. Maybe I’ve been looking at him in the wrong light; I can only go by the stories and relationships that he has told me.

“I met him in a bathhouse”, he replies.

“Oh, yeah that’s much different than looking for sex in a park. I’m sorry I made that assumption …and I thank you for the clarification”. I’m thinking the whole time this man is a diluted asshole.

Why is it so hard to meet somebody ‘normal’? Why has the gay culture taken away wholesome and meaningful events like monogamy, dating, trust? Why can’t I find ‘Mr. Right’ at coffee stores or social event?

I guess the biggest question of all is: “Why do I still care?”

The Seasons

Rocky crags littered the coast lines. The rocks were worn, discolored, and suited no purpose but fending off the large vessels that tried to settle this wasteland upon its discovery in 1497.

I was a lonely child. I would sit upon the shores while the other kids were out biking together and playing guns; I would become one with the ocean. I would smells its salts, watch its movements, and take in the water and its surroundings as if I were mapping it out in my mind.

Along the coasts of Newfoundland you can smell the sea salt miles away. The humidity in the air would spread the familiar stench throughout the community. It would also spread the salts to our vehicles and homes, and after a few years, corrosion would set it. Most everything rusted after time, the bottoms of cars would be eaten away; the windows and siding on houses would turn brown and rot. Even the faces of people couldn’t resist the elements; aging set in quicker, and although salt is usually a preservative, it would deteriorate the living.

The crippled coast line had little aquatic life. The sea barnacles would attach themselves to the crags and build up mountains of white, crusted life. The marine life consisted of scopies, rock cod, shrimp, lobster, and the occasional jellyfish plotting they way along the shore. We could pick mussels and cook them during the summer months – provided the ocean was clean of red tide.

There were four seasons in Newfoundland; this is a long withstanding joke, but a truthful one nonetheless: winter, still winter, almost winter and construction.

In the summer, instead of a barren wasteland of snow, there were barren wastelands of bog. Up behind my house, there was a trail, forged so long ago by my ancestors, which led the way to the bogs that surrounded most of Newfoundland.

In order to get there, I had to pass behind my grandfather’s hotel, and trek for some time through the rocky and sandy trails. There were two large hedges of weedy trees, thinking back, I remember calling them alders, but I am not sure what the appropriate name would be.

There was nothing special about the bogs. They grew bakeapples (or cloudberries to some), blue berries, pitcher plants, marsh berries, and was a breeding ground for black flies and mosquitoes. In the summer clouds of black flies would torment us. Camping, although plentiful in these areas, was discouraged during certain times because of the abundance of biting insects.

I was a lonely child, and I would go to the bog for refuge. I would sometimes grab a gallon bucket and pick berries for my mother. I would fill her in on my expedition and tell her I would grab some bakeapples for her, and with that said, she would run for the bucket.

The bog was so barren the only things that lived on it, or inhabited it at times, were black bears. I think there was a dump nearby and the bears would forge these areas for berries. Most of the bog was acidic though, not even pine trees would grow there; if they did they would only be stumps and would only grow a few years before their bark turned white and started rotting.

About 20 minutes of hiking would bring me to a solitary lake. Nothing surrounded it, and it was like an oasis in a desert. The lake would reflect the sun beating down from the blue sky above; all that surrounded it was the brown, orange, and red boglands, no trees, no life, just berries as far as the eye can see.

Sometimes when I sat around the lake, a pool of water with no life, and I would hear the call of a bear or moose. It was the single to pack up and leave. A bear could easily out run a person if the need arose, and because their food sources were limited, I wouldn’t put anything pass them.

The winters here would transform the bog into a ski-doers paradise. There were many intersections and roads, the plows would smooth out most of the main routes with a small donation from community members. And, after school, the bogs, and most of the community, was transformed into a very unique transportation system. Everyone had a ski-doo, and if they didn’t, they would find a friend who would take them out.

Most of the road systems that we had would be covered in snow, so taking the snow mobile out would be the sensible option to getting around. Gas stations would be lined with motorists, people would go to grocery stores on ski-doors, to the liquor stores, and as you make your commute on the ocean or lakes, groups of five or more people would have their snow mobiles parked together having a yarn or scoff (a talk).

This was not a men’s only environment. All walks of life would be out around; bankers, teachers, fish plant workers would all be out, they are equal, and the only thing that separates the middle class from the working poor are the quality of your ski-doo and the type of dress. Women would float by, their hair done, make-up applied, speeding down the trails just like everyone else.

After a long day of ski-dooing we would head in, with our hands nearly frost bitten, our noses red from the cold, and would relish in the front of warm air as we barged into our home. Our mother would be waiting, smiling, and asking if we were cold. We would sit down and have a cup of coffee and home made bread to set us right.

One winter, I’m guessing because of the harsh cold, the arm (Inland Ocean) had frozen over, and seals were making there way down to the shores on ice sheets. Driving along the loop where we lived, we could see one or two battered seals strewn out on the ice-laden shores. Their blood would soak the white snow, their pelts dirty and unkempt, and someone in our small community ended their life, just because they could. The seals were a harmless nuisance.

The occasional polar bear would find its way down also and the communities affected would be put on alert. They weight a ton, are very wild, and if they want to get into a home, they will. Most polar bears that found there way down to the coast were shot on site unless an animal rights activist found them first.

It’s a raw environment. There were no wal-marts, sport checks; commercialism never existed until I moved into the city at 17. If we were bored, we would go on hikes, explore nature, or hang out with friends and play some sort of sport. I still don’t understand the need for people to shop; I don’t understand the need for people to surround themselves with this ideal accumulation. I don’t understand television, being idle, or complaining about life. I understand the simple things, and although I live in a moderately large city, I think the life I had, shaped the life I have now.

Montreal

Slowly, slowly, I am drifting.

I am back from Montreal and my mindset is different.

It took me a week to write this entry, only because I have been recuperating and bringing my mind back to a more positive place.

I had a great time, but most of it was in a haze of drugs, without food for periods of 12 hours, without sleep at one point for about 48 hours, and myself, partaking in superficial relationships that came and went as the days passed by. I am without remorse.

The gay scene in Montreal, especially with the Out Games and Pride taking place was something I haven’t witnessed before. There were streets upon streets blocked off; events all day long, people from around the world, athletes, mind you, participating. Masculinity, real men, everywhere.

The parties were fine. I saw some of the most prominent DJ’s in the world, rubbed elbows with the elite in our community, and met some accomplished people. At the end of the trip, I was so polluted by my surroundings; nothing was real anymore. I was devoid of emotion, four pounds lighter, stripped of morals, muscle, body fat, and was just a shell of a man. I was a shell that once was in love with the world and myself.

Now, I have witnessed debauchery at its worst. I don’t want to go too much into it, I’d rather talk about the city and how beautiful it is.

The churches in Montreal are amazing. Montreal itself is 95 percent catholic and the entire religious base is utilities these old, architecturally stunning cathedrals. I went to the church of Notre-Dame one day with my friend Clay. Walking in to Notre-Dame was like walking into some sort of illustration. There were stunning blues, reds, elaborate carpets, stained glass, pews and pedestals, it was a dream. I couldn’t imagine how a group of architects and builders could produce something so beautiful.

I knelt at the alter of Notre-Dame and thanked whatever force created this magnificent structure and teared up. Maybe it was the past night without sleep and on E. Maybe it was the fact that I know: this is living.

I then went old Montreal. The streets are filled with cobblestone, the buildings are old; Old Montreal consists of significant period pieces in a city that is fending off change. The streets are lined with tourist shops, old brick walls, fine dining, churches, and to the right a magnificent waterfront filled with activity.

Mont Royal, which is actually a hill in my option, was ok. We hiked it in no time at all and ended up in a circular view point which overlooked most of the city. Some of the banks, apartment buildings, and businesses were house in sky scrapers that towered over the remained of the buildings in the city center.

To be taken out of the gay scene and St. Catherine’s, even if it was for a small period of time, centered me briefly.

The city is beautiful. I just can’t get the images and sounds out of my head. The pounding dancing music, the men who are so stoned they forget who or where they are, and the couples…couples from around the world who should be proud and monogamous, finding their next fix. Everyone had a drug of choice, and because of the number of people, everyone was packed together for each venue.

I did some things I wasn’t proud of. But, at the same time I met some wonderful people and it helped redeem my faith that there are decent people out there. One man in particular, a gay Newfoundlander, who shares my birthday – Christmas Eve. I think I’m going to visit in Toronto during thanksgiving.

Urban Redneck

“You’re an urban redneck”, my friend points out to me as we stagger home drunk on Saturday night. He mentioned this after a few too many drinks, then taking my shirt off on the way home, and cat calling men.

I would shout “Nice ass, dude!” Maybe I should be a little more subtle about it all. I remember walking home one night with a bud and seeing this drunk hunk on the street. We kept joking out loud, “No, we aren’t going to take him home. He’s too hot. I don't think I would be able to handle it”. “No Paul, we can’t take this hot stud home, I don’t care how much you want him!” And so on. He over hears and gets upset.

I’m not afraid. And, the redneck in me would welcome a fight. After he turns to me and replies “What did you say?” I eagerly reply “Fuck off dude”.

Then there was the time with the cops. We were eating pizza early in the morning on a busy street and these three cops were doing crowd control. I couldn’t help but stare at one of them and challenge him. We made eye contact, and would look away, only to make eye contract again.

The officer didn’t know what was going on, so he asks me if I have a problem. “Is there some problem?” I immediately turn to him, walk to the three cops slowly and face him. “No, there’s no problem officer. I was just telling my friends how hot you were”.

“Oh,” as he steps back two feet, and visibly uncomfortable, “well, never mind then”. I could have sworn he blushed. I turned away smiling, and thinking, this is total freedom and abandonment.

I could recite stories for hours. They are all the same. Myself having a big mouth and being drunk, getting over my head in a situation, and using my intelligence to get out of it. I can’t help but lust after straight men when I drink. I can’t help it. The asshole in me doesn’t give a shit and it makes for a fun night.

I didn’t realize until now, I’m a urban redneck, and proud of it.

Reno

Everyday I approach the zenith of manhood with repugnance. The crisp air stings my cheeks, the cold ground frosts my boots, and there is no amount of cotton or Gore-Tex that can protect me.

Everyday I wonder if this is it. I’m in an icy prison where the sun is fleeting and the people hibernate. My boots chafe my sock, in turn my socks irate my pants, which hold a belt that hooks my shirts, layered, one by one, atop of a wreck of a man.

My breath is streaming the air, and everything smells so fresh and clean. The sky’s are vivid, filling me with the image of the sun, beyond belief, I open the back door to drift into absolute beauty.

I never realized how good I had it until I left this place. I didn’t realize how much destruction cities caused, how much pollution we are pumping into the atmospheres of urban centers. I didn’t realize that we dumped fresh sewage into some of the most pristine and inspiring waterfronts in Canada.

My dog Reno doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she doesn’t really seem to be aware of anything. I envy her at times. Even at six, I have to worry about my speech impediment, my effeminate characteristics that my father is picking up on, and my isolation, which seems to be getting worse, and my stunted growth.

I’m six and already I feel alone. Reno is too stupid to pick up on any of this. She’s content to live her life in a snow filled, dog house, wagging her dumb tail and panting nothingness. She doesn’t have the same free will that man adopted early on into our evolutionary mess.

I go out to the shed about 5 meters away from the house to check if she is still breathing.

My mother hated animals, claiming, “they are a fucking mess.” Reno would be left out in the elements at times, this rocky, unforgiving climate, and every night, when I curled up in bed, sleeping on my stomach and wishing I had a different family, I would think about her survival.

Some mornings she would be covered in show. A husk of a dog, with her coat completely engulfed with wet, hard snow. I would smile and greet her, and look into her makeshift dog home. I would start to pick off clumps of snow to free up her fur, holding back the tears and I would never shed; I’m too strong for that now. Some of the crayon colors we used the summer before are still standing out on the planks of her poorly construed home.

When she gets me in her sight, she jumps with enthusiasm, knowing full well I will release her. I could never chain up an animal like my parents. I run to her; I am grasping her chain and sliding on the leash, hoping to go for a nice walk; it's sunny out today. Today I will take her for a walk through the snow laid streets and hills. There isn’t a piece of land that isn’t covered with this mess of crystallized water.

I unhook Reno. Suddenly she bolts! I’m takin' off my feet and am being dragged for a few meters, my hands and elbows have been skinned, and I’m laying on the ground screaming “You goddamn fucking dog”, and all I see are the paw prints and a bolt of black furry, running off, hoping to gain as much freedom as possible before hunger sets in.

Being a six year old in a town full of simpletons was quite fun. And, being six in a town where there was no crime, no worries of being kidnapped and cut into pieces, was surprisingly freeing.

I would be the bait. I would follow this dog come hell or high reckon, and I would reclaim what is mine. I have nothing better to do, and I don’t even think Mom will realize I have left the house. She had a tendency to overlook us.

Being six in a town that never changed, made our lives unthreatening and predictable; it made caring for us easy, and non-existent.

I see Reno from afar. She’s nearing the hill close to the Humphries’s house. My mother always said they raised pigs and lived like them too. They ate their animals and were poor off, mind you. Not like us, my father does well, mom never has to worry. But these guys are in for some hard times.

I’m halfway up the hill calling out to Reno in the best unobtrusive voice I can muster. “Come on girl, come on. Let’s go for a walk. You like walks, don’t you?” She’s so close to me now, the leash is almost touching her. One fell swoop and I could claim her again as my own. But she bolts! I’ve never seen an animal run so fast in my life. And I scream at her, “You fucking dog, you’re gonna get it”.

I spent the remainder of the day climbing banks. Hunting Reno in all the recesses of our small village. The snow was so high, nobody ventured outside on this day. The chimneys were towering smoke from the woodstoves most families had. Occasionally, I would see a line of footprints leaving ones' door to the woodshed. Not once did I run into anyone.

Reno, by this time, was wagging her tail as she ran into me, some 4 kilometers away, near Reverend Moss’s house. This man was the strangest church official I have met in my life. Apart from having three strange kids: a hemophiliac who seemed to never have spent a day in the sun, a rock and roll dude (who I had the pleasure of seeing having sex one night as we spied through their window), and Greg, a massive lump of a man, who goofed around on old texas instrument systems programming basic code.

Reverend Moss always reminded me of Rex Murphy. His hair was curly, his voice was high and whiney, and he was skinny at that. I always got Goosebumps whenever I was around him, and would protest every time my mom made me visit his pale white child.

“It’s a sin by’, he has no friends. You should at least be courteous to your neighbors,” as I was pushed out of the house to abide to the deal my mother made on the phone to Myrtle, Mr. Moss’s wife.

I was in fear of Trevor, the pale one, seeing me on this day. I kept having this aching feeling that he was in the window watching, reading to yell out for me to come inside and watch him play with his wrestling figurines.

Rage was building as I dashed after Reno. I kept wondering if she would ever give up and let me win this battle.

I didn’t catch her that day. Instead, after being drenched in melted snow, four hours of chasing the elusive dog of my past, I head home for some baked bread and tea. Waiting at the porch of the house is of course, Reno.

I approach her, staring eye to eye, holding our gaze, only to deliver three hard smacks to the head. All the while her tail wags and she’s looking at me as if nothing ever happened.

I don’t think she was ever a smart dog. Most labs were, but this one, if I had a dollar for every time that fucking dog didn’t listen, I’d have my own fishing boat.