My father and I have been exchanging emails for a few weeks about how God doesn't directly communicate with us because a genuine connection is hard to achieve and words are so difficult to infuse with real meaning..."if that were not so, even God might have a blog!"
Some days I wish that God did have a blog. Imagine if we could gain access to God's innermost thoughts and concerns! Perhaps this is just wishful thinking, however, that God would blog about his feelings. Maybe his blog would consist of healthy living tips or of amazing photographs...each one accompanied with a proud "Yeah, I made that. Lets see anyone else try to do better."
I believe in God. I have believed in God since I can remember. I grew up in a Christian household and went to church every Sunday. It was only in my late teens that I started to doubt my religion. I never doubted God I just doubted the fact that I called myself a Christian. I have never had that "a-ha!" moment that Christians tend to have with God. A time when they felt him so close and so dear that they decided to dedicate their lives to him. As a camp counselor in high school for a Christian camp I had to give my testimony on a yearly basis, on why I was a Christian. I can't even recall now what I said. I felt that the camp experience should be about showing those kids love and showing them that good can exist in the world rather than just forcing them to learn a handful of bible verses.
The abuses of the church and the hypocritical nature of some of the Christian institutions that I have attended and the behaviour of some (not all) Christians towards me have forced me to think long and hard about how I label myself. I would never call myself a non-believer but I certainly hesistate to call myself a Christian. I do not expect perfection from myself or anybody for that matter as I believe, as humans, that we are frail and fallible creatures. Some of the best people (my parents, my siblings) I know are Christians and have set such an amazing example of how to live one's life to the fullest and I have nothing but respect and love for them. Simply put I am just choosing a different path.
I have always questioned what I would believe had I been given the choice; if I had grown up in a secular home and as a twenty-something was confronted with Christianity or simply the idea of belief in a god. In university I sought out electives that would educate my one track Christian mindset about alternate religions. I immersed myself in the teachings of Buddha, scratched the surface of Hinduism, Jainism, Confucianism, bought books on Zen Buddhism, read Sufi poetry, analyzed the differences between Christianity and Judaism...I could go on and on. It all came back to what I was raised to believe, that there is a God and what all religions have in common is that they believe in God and believe in living a life that is good. A common goal, a common people.
I strive to live a life that is good but I am still trying to figure it out and I believe that it will take a lifetime. In the meantime I will hold out hope for a blog with some answers!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Oh. So. Romantic.
"I'm a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
Unfortunately romantics still feel. But better to hurt than to feel nothing at all, right? Right?
Afterthoughts.
You see. My love. My lover. I love you the same way that you love me. Sexual feasting of the body. I writhe. My fingers. Into your. Liver. Entwined. Intestine. Quivers-
Sway like. Wheat. Gyrate. My hips. And thrust. Into your. Canvas. Moan and. Lick and. Twist and fail. To mention-
I love you. I love you . My love. Just. Not. Enough.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Love (or lack thereof) Poems
“In a perfect perfect world you could fuck people without ever giving them a piece of your heart. Every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of your heart you’ll never see again.” –Neil Gaiman, Bitter Grounds.
The Poetics of Desire...
Of course like all real life love stories the issue isn’t love or lack thereof. It’s about how one behaves in the confines of a relationship that really makes or breaks the couple. Time lays heavy on those with heavier hearts. Slog through each day and search for the light at the end of tunnel that I am told exists. I want to believe that it exists. Don’t fight, don’t scream expletives at the top of my lungs, choke back tears that steam in October air because in the end they are wasted. Don’t say it—I love you—I love you. I said don’t say it. Empty words like empty air explode like firecrackers on Halloween night. The unresponse like rain but colder.
I’m not built like a computer on command. I can’t press exit, there is no delete button, no return to previous screen. If only I could re-wire my hard drive. Become more like him. Then I would still feel it. Then he would still feel it. It’s all about you—it’s all about you. Next time can we make it about me? Press command button relax. It’s there. Search harder. Search deeper. It will all be okay in the morning. But what if it isn’t?
Dear Future Lover
Dear future lover:
Please forgive me
for the mistakes I will make
while trying to get you
to love me.
Bonsai - (Haiku series)
A bonsai, Chloe.
I gave her to my boyfriend.
A housewarming gift.
His house was too cold
for Chloe to survive in
so she lives at mine.
Bonsai should bring luck.
The longer she lived with me
the less that he called.
He left me last month.
My life changed, hers stayed the same.
What luck Chloe has.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
It's kind of random but YES!
The week in review: Christy Clark became the new Liberal leader much to my chagrin. However, this piece of depressing political news was offset by my acceptance to grad school not only by UBC but UWO also. The news of my acceptance was followed by fifteen minutes of jumping up and down whilst screaming unintelligible words at the top my lungs which led to a friend on the phone asking how many people were with me in my apartment at the time. It was just me.
Not wanting to get my hopes up I figured I wouldn't get into the Masters of Journalism programs that I had applied to because of the extreme competitive nature of the schools and my lack of experience. But now, faced with two acceptances, I have to decide where I should go to school and yes I am losing sleep over the decision. A friend advised me to follow my heart. Solid advice except I no longer trust my heart. I have spent my life following my heart. My heart has led me to move to Abbotsford and that should have been warning enough. Sparing the gritty details of the last eight years of my life I have spent the last year with my walls and guard up. From one extreme to other. If I am honest with myself though I miss letting go and letting myself feel without fear of consequence. I miss the excitement of not knowing but of falling into my decisions head first without looking back. For the first time in my life I am making this decision based on myself alone without letting extraneous factors affect my head. Or my heart. I am letting go. I am saying goodbye. I will be moving across the country in less than two months, (hello UWO!) and I am utterly terrified of leaving everything and everyone I know behind. I am also more excited and feel more alive than I have in. A. Long. Time.
Some found poetry. For my [scant] following! The first two are from articles in a New Yorker mag (date or month I cannot recall)
Absurd person singular
With three kitchens,
shoutin'
he da mythic man
low class geechy concedes
progressive bravado.
Sizzle in daft potency and
penetration.
Wife
Eloquent, iconic,
white society stick figure.
Flinging hodgepodge
racism.
No understanding except of
notional, prefab kitchen.
The Wife.
Theatrically satisfying.
A placebo.
An ass.
Relationships
Honour.
Sex.
Use me in church
while maids co-habit with men.
God danced dizzying
and said
take your time single sister.
Don't love half heartedly
and lose me baby.
Champagne?
Hell no.
Use spring as your alibi
don't fall prey
to sparkling caribou
leaving gold nuggets
on the gold trail
for self service.
Make your way to the blue barn
in this shady bus.
Become a used bookworm
or, perhaps, sales merchant.
Just don't look at the catalogue first.
Revel in this flea market
that was once an amber emporium.
Not wanting to get my hopes up I figured I wouldn't get into the Masters of Journalism programs that I had applied to because of the extreme competitive nature of the schools and my lack of experience. But now, faced with two acceptances, I have to decide where I should go to school and yes I am losing sleep over the decision. A friend advised me to follow my heart. Solid advice except I no longer trust my heart. I have spent my life following my heart. My heart has led me to move to Abbotsford and that should have been warning enough. Sparing the gritty details of the last eight years of my life I have spent the last year with my walls and guard up. From one extreme to other. If I am honest with myself though I miss letting go and letting myself feel without fear of consequence. I miss the excitement of not knowing but of falling into my decisions head first without looking back. For the first time in my life I am making this decision based on myself alone without letting extraneous factors affect my head. Or my heart. I am letting go. I am saying goodbye. I will be moving across the country in less than two months, (hello UWO!) and I am utterly terrified of leaving everything and everyone I know behind. I am also more excited and feel more alive than I have in. A. Long. Time.
Some found poetry. For my [scant] following! The first two are from articles in a New Yorker mag (date or month I cannot recall)
Domestics
A Wife.Absurd person singular
With three kitchens,
shoutin'
he da mythic man
low class geechy concedes
progressive bravado.
Sizzle in daft potency and
penetration.
Wife
Eloquent, iconic,
white society stick figure.
Flinging hodgepodge
racism.
No understanding except of
notional, prefab kitchen.
The Wife.
Theatrically satisfying.
A placebo.
An ass.
Relationships
Honour.
Sex.
Use me in church
while maids co-habit with men.
God danced dizzying
and said
take your time single sister.
Don't love half heartedly
and lose me baby.
Champagne?
Hell no.
On a broken down bus in Clinton, BC
Use spring as your alibi
don't fall prey
to sparkling caribou
leaving gold nuggets
on the gold trail
for self service.
Make your way to the blue barn
in this shady bus.
Become a used bookworm
or, perhaps, sales merchant.
Just don't look at the catalogue first.
Revel in this flea market
that was once an amber emporium.
Friday, February 25, 2011
My Grandpa's Stories
I am blessed with family. It is rare for someone my age (25!) to have both sets of grandparents still around. However, on my last visit to my Grandma and Grandpa, I was unsettled by how diminished my Grandpa looked. Watching some of the fantastic movies that have come out this year (Barney's Version, Another Year) led me to think hard about my mortality, and with that the realization that my grandparents won't be around forever. I have become accustomed to the fact that they are always there, and always have been. Perhaps not in the same shape as when I was a kid, (I still miss Grandma Enns' wareniki) but simply there.
I am not sure why this last visit affected me so much. My Grandparents are old. They have been married almost seventy years, have four children, eighteen grandchildren (not counting wives and husbands) and countless great grandchildren. They have led full, interesting lives; the stuff stories are made of and have been made of. It shouldn't come as a surprise to me that my Grandparents are aging, but it has.
When I got home from brunch I tried to put into words how it felt to see my Grandpa in the state he is now, but the story sounded too much like poetry (or as some may say too much like CanLit). For the past couple of years, in order to stop my poetry writing from stagnating, I have decided to play with form. I cut up the story I attempted to write about my Grandpa, put it into a bag, shook it up and dropped it onto the floor. The lines of the poem became where the pieces fell, with a bit of tweaking of words so it makes sense. Dada poetry. Here it is:
My Disappearing Grandpa
His secret is that he is more than a human being
but the fact is that when I hug him
he feels more like a lesson on anatomy.
(that is the spine...)
And when he tries to speak
urging his mouth to form words
they tell us that my Grandpa's kidneys are failing him.
(the tailbone is located there...)
To me, however, he's just my Grandpa
and I wonder what the failing kidneys would think
if they were in my place.
I watch him. Coaxing the thought in his head to reach his mouth
He can barely lift his skeletal arms
but he still eats three muffins and I wonder how he stays so thin.
(those are the shoulder blades...)
Two pieces of ham and egg soufflé later he hesitates.
I want to tell him that I miss his stories but I'm failing him because
if he were to hug me goodbye, it's connotation would be dying.
And what scares me the most is.
(those are his rib bones...)
My aunt has brought us brunch.
I am not sure why this last visit affected me so much. My Grandparents are old. They have been married almost seventy years, have four children, eighteen grandchildren (not counting wives and husbands) and countless great grandchildren. They have led full, interesting lives; the stuff stories are made of and have been made of. It shouldn't come as a surprise to me that my Grandparents are aging, but it has.
When I got home from brunch I tried to put into words how it felt to see my Grandpa in the state he is now, but the story sounded too much like poetry (or as some may say too much like CanLit). For the past couple of years, in order to stop my poetry writing from stagnating, I have decided to play with form. I cut up the story I attempted to write about my Grandpa, put it into a bag, shook it up and dropped it onto the floor. The lines of the poem became where the pieces fell, with a bit of tweaking of words so it makes sense. Dada poetry. Here it is:
My Disappearing Grandpa
His secret is that he is more than a human being
but the fact is that when I hug him
he feels more like a lesson on anatomy.
(that is the spine...)
And when he tries to speak
urging his mouth to form words
they tell us that my Grandpa's kidneys are failing him.
(the tailbone is located there...)
To me, however, he's just my Grandpa
and I wonder what the failing kidneys would think
if they were in my place.
I watch him. Coaxing the thought in his head to reach his mouth
He can barely lift his skeletal arms
but he still eats three muffins and I wonder how he stays so thin.
(those are the shoulder blades...)
Two pieces of ham and egg soufflé later he hesitates.
I want to tell him that I miss his stories but I'm failing him because
if he were to hug me goodbye, it's connotation would be dying.
And what scares me the most is.
(those are his rib bones...)
My aunt has brought us brunch.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Hello Again Jimi
"All I'm going to do is just go on and do what I feel" - Jimi Hendrix
I have one memory of Jimi Hendrix. I was ten years old and trekking with my family in Nepal. Now that may sound pretty rad already without throwing Jimi Hendrix into the mix but yes folks, believe it or not, it does get better. This particular day we ended up at a lodge called the Jimi Hendrix Hotel. Calling this place a lodge is a bit of a stretch for the received accommodations but this was Nepal and in Nepal anything goes. My sister and I climbed up the rickety stairs and entered our even more rickety room. This particular room consisted of two beds, (once again for lack of a better word), a side table and a pair of the dirtiest, [once upon a time] white pair of pants; the type that soul searching hippies favor purchasing from Thamel (tourist district in Kathmandu that consists of shops, bars and guest houses). These pants weren't just randomly splayed on the floor as a forgotten souvenir by some lazy tourist but were tacked to the wall with a signature on them. The signature belonged to Jimi Hendrix.
At the time I had no idea who Jimi Hendrix was. Surrounding those pants were the scrawled messages of hundreds of fans. I remember reading the messages, questioning what the word "cock" meant or wondering how come "cum" was spelt wrong (even back in the day I was a precocious speller). I remember wishing I could write on my pants without receiving hell from my mother. I remember thinking this is more than just a room.
This was my first experience with feeling connected to someone or something famous. And even though I had no idea who Jimi Hendrix was just being in that room was somehow enough to sense greatness, achievement and, although I didn't realize it at the time, failure and hardship.
I came upon the quote at the beginning of this post eating the world's best nachos with some friends at Foundations. So far removed from my first memory of Jimi Hendrix it brought about a rush of emotion and, alas, a rush of uncertainty. To do what one feels. To go on and just do what I feel. Can I trust what I feel? Could I trust what I felt that day? An innocent ten year old with no idea of a world beyond the haven she had built for herself in a remote part of the world? I have spent my adult life making decisions based on feeling, based on idealistic notions about how my life is supposed to turn out. I have had success but I have also had bitter failure. How do I go on doing what I feel when every time I think I have it figured out, that this is the direction my life is supposed to take, everything changes? I doubt what I feel daily and yet here I am still making choices and failing to be sure of anything that I choose to do and still thinking "what if?"
I wish I could return to the Jimi Hendrix Hotel. Stay in that same room, look at those pants and hope that inspiration hits me (and this time understand the innuendo). Perhaps, however, just being there would be enough. Enough to learn to trust in the twenty five year old me that is not so far removed from the ten year old me after all.
I have one memory of Jimi Hendrix. I was ten years old and trekking with my family in Nepal. Now that may sound pretty rad already without throwing Jimi Hendrix into the mix but yes folks, believe it or not, it does get better. This particular day we ended up at a lodge called the Jimi Hendrix Hotel. Calling this place a lodge is a bit of a stretch for the received accommodations but this was Nepal and in Nepal anything goes. My sister and I climbed up the rickety stairs and entered our even more rickety room. This particular room consisted of two beds, (once again for lack of a better word), a side table and a pair of the dirtiest, [once upon a time] white pair of pants; the type that soul searching hippies favor purchasing from Thamel (tourist district in Kathmandu that consists of shops, bars and guest houses). These pants weren't just randomly splayed on the floor as a forgotten souvenir by some lazy tourist but were tacked to the wall with a signature on them. The signature belonged to Jimi Hendrix.
At the time I had no idea who Jimi Hendrix was. Surrounding those pants were the scrawled messages of hundreds of fans. I remember reading the messages, questioning what the word "cock" meant or wondering how come "cum" was spelt wrong (even back in the day I was a precocious speller). I remember wishing I could write on my pants without receiving hell from my mother. I remember thinking this is more than just a room.
This was my first experience with feeling connected to someone or something famous. And even though I had no idea who Jimi Hendrix was just being in that room was somehow enough to sense greatness, achievement and, although I didn't realize it at the time, failure and hardship.
I came upon the quote at the beginning of this post eating the world's best nachos with some friends at Foundations. So far removed from my first memory of Jimi Hendrix it brought about a rush of emotion and, alas, a rush of uncertainty. To do what one feels. To go on and just do what I feel. Can I trust what I feel? Could I trust what I felt that day? An innocent ten year old with no idea of a world beyond the haven she had built for herself in a remote part of the world? I have spent my adult life making decisions based on feeling, based on idealistic notions about how my life is supposed to turn out. I have had success but I have also had bitter failure. How do I go on doing what I feel when every time I think I have it figured out, that this is the direction my life is supposed to take, everything changes? I doubt what I feel daily and yet here I am still making choices and failing to be sure of anything that I choose to do and still thinking "what if?"
I wish I could return to the Jimi Hendrix Hotel. Stay in that same room, look at those pants and hope that inspiration hits me (and this time understand the innuendo). Perhaps, however, just being there would be enough. Enough to learn to trust in the twenty five year old me that is not so far removed from the ten year old me after all.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Begrudging Blogger
After spending three days in Victoria last week watching the first season of Californication I have come to this conclusion: my blog will never be as cool as Hank Moody's. I have come to face the facts, my life is hardly a blogger's dream. A twenty something that is constantly bemoaning the fact that she isn't writing yet isn't really doing something about it? Cliche. A middle aged writer who is constantly bemoaning the fact that he isn't writing yet is living it up with sex, drugs and rock and roll? And lots of it? Hilarious. Poignant. Depressing. Worthy of our attention. Granted the latter may be conditional and the rock and roll part non-existent (as this is no longer the sixties), but there is something to be said for the fact that this television show is a hit.
As viewers we should hate Hank Moody if for no other reason than he hates us. He is the embodiment of everything that is wrong with our society: the drugs, the laziness, the lack of respect for humanity in general and the sex coming from every direction. I am not naive I know that many people would disagree that there is anything wrong with the list (or parts of it) I have just laid down, but there is something to be said for living a life in which these certain pitfalls can be avoided. So why don't we hate him? Why is he so entertaining to watch? Because it is a life that one cannot get away with living? Or, at least, not for very long? Are we just bored? Using television as an escape from the rules and regulations that we impose upon ourselves?
In his first blog post to Hell-A Magazine Moody is raw as hell. He is witty, stimulated, and dirty to the core. It is fantastic. I only wish that I could write in such an I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-me kind of way, and he isn't even a real dude. I continue to drink his antics in and don't even bat an eye when he buys a Porsche, despite the fact that he hasn't written a book in seven years, and doesn't even wince when it is stolen at gunpoint.
I do not watch a lot of television but this is one show that I will continue to follow, at least until internet data usage charges slow me down.
As viewers we should hate Hank Moody if for no other reason than he hates us. He is the embodiment of everything that is wrong with our society: the drugs, the laziness, the lack of respect for humanity in general and the sex coming from every direction. I am not naive I know that many people would disagree that there is anything wrong with the list (or parts of it) I have just laid down, but there is something to be said for living a life in which these certain pitfalls can be avoided. So why don't we hate him? Why is he so entertaining to watch? Because it is a life that one cannot get away with living? Or, at least, not for very long? Are we just bored? Using television as an escape from the rules and regulations that we impose upon ourselves?
In his first blog post to Hell-A Magazine Moody is raw as hell. He is witty, stimulated, and dirty to the core. It is fantastic. I only wish that I could write in such an I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-me kind of way, and he isn't even a real dude. I continue to drink his antics in and don't even bat an eye when he buys a Porsche, despite the fact that he hasn't written a book in seven years, and doesn't even wince when it is stolen at gunpoint.
I do not watch a lot of television but this is one show that I will continue to follow, at least until internet data usage charges slow me down.
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