Dunbar's Number

  

This is what real problems look like, in case anyone was wondering.

Sorry, no hip photos. No wise quotes. Just reality.

These are photos from Abu Ghraib, a prison in Iraq.

American military personnel ran the prison.

Years ago, a bunch of pictures surfaced of American military police torturing prisoners. Prisoners who weren't yet convicted of any crimes.

This week, I've seen photos of Libyan people virtually cut in half, likely by bombs delivered care of their own leader.

I saw a video of a police officer get hit in the head by a petrol bomb at a riot in Greece. 

If I had the means to do so, I would assassinate Gaddafi myself.

And that's what it comes down to; my means of capability to help defenseless and innocent people.

Now what does it mean to have these means?

It means money.

Every fucking thing come down to money.

I don't have the money for plane tickets to Africa.

I don't have the money for a master's degree.

I probably could. But I am ferociously capitalistic.

I'd always choose money over love, over fame, over happiness.

Every one of my dreams; I need money to achieve. To help people. To buy my mom a house. To own a condo on every continent. My entire life's purpose is to get rich. It's not a true, heartfelt purpose but it's something to live for. I'm okay with that conclusion because I think existing is an absurd notion and has no purpose whatsoever. There is no heaven. There is no god. I can't fathom the mental gymnastics of people who try to keep their faith when all logical signs point to "God is a fairy tale." Many people are fascinated by the powers of the mind. Things like epinephrine, our healing functions, learning, and dreams. I don't think it's powerful. It's strange, yes. Fascinating, sure. But you can put a man in a room with no sunlight for a few days and watch how weak the mind really is. Name-calling is driving people to kill themselves in our strange times. We learn about history in high school so our society might have the chance of avoiding repetition. But we still have dictators. Countries are destroying themselves. There are as many earthquakes as there has always been, but now there's just too many fucking people. Humans are not built to live in the societies we currently exist in. And we haven't had enough time to evolve.

We have wars, religion, social programs that don't work and plain, fucking idiots all over the world. 

This is your rapture. These are the revelations. 

I wants. Why am I such a consumer.

Semantic Satiation

Life is rough, so you gotta be tough.

Freedom, Zenos Frudakis

Why do I get so angry? How do I get far enough to make my body shake?
My hands quiver and I can't hold anything. I just want to make fists and swing.
I've never screamed so loud at my mother.
What mad person have I become to wonder why it is illegal to set someone on fire?
I suddenly hate everything I love.
Today, I almost lost what I've spent weeks dreaming about.
My prized project that I spent all day creating, only a day away from completion, and I nearly destroyed it.
You really ruin everything.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
When I was young, I used to pray to God to take away my mother in place of someone else's.
Someone who really loved their mom. One of those people who say "my mom is my best friend."
I've never felt like that about mine. And my heart bled for those kids on the news who would cry and cry for their momma and their dad would talk about how great she was before the accident.
I used to be certain that I was adopted. That there was no way I was birthed from my own mother.
I would get angry and I would scream, "there's no way you're my real mom."
When I was a little older, I tried to plan a murder. I wondered how likely it was that I could get away with killing her myself. Another ridiculous over-reaction.

But I stopped believing in a god. I started liking my mother more.
I still have my bleeding heart. I'm trying to maintain my integrity.
I want to live by myself. I don't want to live at all.
I want to live in a cave, in a dorm, in a room with no beds.
I think I was born wrong.
My mother once told me that I was born in a peaceful environment.
But it's incongruent. My life feels something like free falling down a finite hole while in my arms, I'm holding the screaming, starving infant that is my existence. I can't pull myself up because I'm stuck in the middle of nothing.

In theory, I'd probably be a sociopath but in reality I'm rather empathetic.
I don't understand why people feel so differently from me.
I hate the sensitivity that comes with being a woman.
I hate this in other women.
I hate this in my mother.
I don't understand why people don't like books, or go to church, or fist fight.
I hate these weaknesses in people. Still I somehow do not hate people. I just don't relate to really anyone.
I fell down here from space and cannot find a purpose. I flip like a switch and every little part of me is a polar opposite of another. My entire self is a formation of extremes and reactions.

I really like making lists and plans.
I don't always follow them perfectly, but that's not the point of them for me.
It's just how I sort my mind out when there's too much going on.
Anyways, I usually write them out. Physically. But my journals are not where I am so I suppose I'll leave my lists here. This is basically what I foresee in my life until June.

Things I need to buy:
- SM58 + XLR cable (maybe a stand, if it's cheap)
- Sasquatch ticket
- First Aid Course
- Headphones
- Easel
- Steel-toes
- Random tools
- Chalkboard project stuff

Things I need to learn/practice:
- WHMIS
- Knots
- Feedback frequencies
- Wireless mic techniques
- Acoustics
- Scoring

Things I need to do:
- Clean and re arrange bedroom
- Clean up basement
- Write and record some songs
- Intern/job shadow
- Get a real job
- Design a proper diet/exercise plan
- Turn my little wimpy brother into an intellectual and athlete.
- Pay off rest of student loan

I finished school on Friday. I'm certified in audio engineering.
I've studied and soaked up everything related to sound for an entire year.
No one really understands what it is I've gone to school for, and I don't find it easy to explain.
I learned how to turn music produced by instruments into electrical signals and digital data.
I know why the kick drum sounds like it's punching you in the chest on your favourite songs.
I know that it's not the drummer who is responsible for it.
I could compose a symphony, strings, brass and all, with a keyboard and computer software.

Going to school kind of ruined the way I listen to music.
Everything is analysed. I point out technical faults in everything. And technical wonders.
Music is no longer an art. It's a science now.
I don't even like listening to a lot of my favourite bands anymore.
I listen for production value instead of musicianship.
So basically everything sounds like pop music. Except orchestral.
Everything about orchestral satisfies my ears wholly.

Regardless of all this, I'm glad I did it.
I have to be. I have to be happy where I am, no matter where it is.
Everywhere I go is exactly where I've put myself.
It's easy to wish I had gone for a degree in psychology.
But I have this problem with commitment. With staying in one place. With authorities.
And with that, I accept that I am in the best possible place I could be.
I thought today that I am actually pretty happy with life.
I realized I haven't felt that way in a while. In fact, I don't remember what it's like.
The last time I remember being entirely happy was grade five.
Obviously I've felt happiness since, but overall I've been a rather depressive person.
Which I have no qualms about. I'm perfectly sociable. I have a creative mind and an intellect that surpasses most common people's.
I can only describe it like living with a mild bipolar personality. Not to flippantly compare to the seriousness of a disorder, but I can remember specific moments in my life that paralleled what people describe to be manic episodes, followed by crying for hours. I still do that.
Given the circumstances I was forced to develop under, which I won't elaborate upon now, I'm rather pleased with what I've done with myself. And I firmly uphold the thought that I will only make myself better.

Look at all these little boys
who live like they can't die.
It's funny all the shit they do
and seem to stay alive.
The pills, the drink, and getting sick.
Then sex and cigarettes.
Teenage boys will get their kicks
and take all they can get.
Living fast then dying young;
that isn't always true.
The world is full of sick old boys
who live to sixty-two.
Adolescents save their tears,
for the day they swear;
"If I had known I'd live this long,
I'd have taken better care."

Look at all these little girls,
they could be even worse.
They toss their hearts at little boys,
and cry when they get hurt.
Skimpy clothes and sappy notes,
they give it all away.
The stupid things they seem to do
all to make him stay.
Ladies look you in the eye
and say their heart is ripping.
But it's simply never true,
if the lady's living.
So then these girls turn into wives
Debts, kids, bills and work happen.
They'll say "What a silly teen I was,
I thought I had real problems."

The Perfect Fit

I can't change my name
but I could be your type.
I can dance and win at games
like backgammon and life.
I used to be the smart one;
sharp as a tack.
Funny how that skipping years ahead 
has held me back.
I can take a vow
and I can wear a ring 

and I can make you promises but 

they won't mean a thing.

Can't you do it for me? 

I'll pay you well

Fuck i'll pay you anything

if you could end this hell.

Can't you just fix it for me? 

It's gone berserk.

Fuck i'll give you anything 

if you can make the damn thing work.

I haven't felt like writing lately.
Not because I'm uninspired though, there's actually too much in my mind that each thought is almost indistinguishable from the next.
I can't express my delight in the fact that I'll be done school in two weeks.
I'm moving back home soon.
I'm in my tiny Vancouver room that I've been away from for three weeks. And it's depressing.
I need to decide if I'm a capitalist or a socialist. I need to decide if extremism is all that bad.
I need to get 90's on my exams and final projects.
 I'm going to be alone for two weeks.
My future paycheques are going towards a student loan.
I need to start packing and I'm thrilled about it.
I need to get fit this year. The healthy way.
I need to take better care of myself because I fear that one day, I may be old.

Now that it's all out, I can try concentrating on one thing at a time.
It's funny how it doesn't look like all that much on paper, but I find myself magnifying each of these thoughts into a multi-faceted enigma. So essentially, my next few blog entries should encircle these puzzles and my attempts to logically solve them.

But I'm okay right now. Not depressed, but not overjoyed. Not yet suicidal but not quite living to the fullest.
This is bad. But I'm optimistic.

For the most part, I'm pretty satisfied with being alone. I don't wish for a man or long for arms to hold me.
I fantasize about mountains and the ocean. London Bridge and New York City.
There's no room for anyone else.
What I am scared of is getting lonely. Because sometimes, it drags me in like rip tide.
It's sudden and it's deep and I fear I could drown. I get overexposed to television telling me I need love. To the questions from friends and family; disappointed in my lack of interest in relationships.
But I find being alone isn't what makes me lonely. It's being left alone.
I don't have many friends in Vancouver. I don't have any family.
There's a part of my heart that's full and whole when I'm around my parents. Or my friends. Or anywhere I feel like I'm home.
But when I'm away, when people leave, and when I'm the most alone I could be, that part shrivels up and turns black.
And it seeps toxic drops that poison my heart, slow but constant. This is where I'm taken in.
It could take an hour to get out or days.
But this happens often and I need to make it stop.
I think I miss my family too much. I think this is why most people my age who leave home, fill the time they aren't around mom and dad anymore, with one person they can try to love for a while.
But I can't do this.
I worry that when I'm away from my family that they might go away.
I've never experienced death of a family member. I'm scared it could kill me when I do.
My parents do more for me than anyone. They do more than what I've seen most parents do.
I need to use the time that I'm away from my family to make them proud of me.
I need to deserve the family I have.
I need to achieve even though I'm alone.

Lovely.

Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.

A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals
to waken dreamers in the milky dawn,
while tulips bow like a college of cardinals
before that papal paragon, the sun.

Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars,
where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass
and jonquils sprout like solomon’s metaphors,
my love and I go garlanded with grass.

Again we are deluded and infer
that somehow we are younger than we were.

- April Aubade by Sylvia Plath

I bought the moon from the sky last night
And asked to buy the sun too.
The sky said no, she would not sell,
she said it was owned by you.
The royals crowned me yesterday,
but said I couldn't be King.
Because you were already Queen
You'd taken everything.
A kitchen knife across my wrists,
but no blood did I spill.
For my heart was in your hands;
your fingers held it still.

Arterial Gushing.

I came back home today.
Well. No. Not entirely.
But I'm in the spot I've been all year.
The place I've raised my expertise into what I can only hope is enough to carry me through life.
My flight left YYC at 9:45pm and the airport was virtually barren.
There was a lovely boy at security who asked me where I was going.
I said "Vancouver... home." But it felt false and wrong coming out of my mouth.
"Well, not actually, I just go to school there. This is home. And I'll be back soon."
Truer than my former statement but still somehow awkward.
How do you define home?
Is it where you were born? Where you were raised? Or where you are happiest?
I've lived in Vancouver before. I've lived in two different cities on the island too.
My mother was raised in Africa. She's lived in England.
The family moved to Fort McMurray before settling in Calgary.
What kind of life is that? Would you feel privileged? Worldly? Or deprived and alien?
She had me and we floated between BC and Alberta until I was nine.
I thought it was beyond odd that none of my fifth grade friends had lived in eight houses or moved every year like I had.
Everyone was born here, raised here, under the same roof.
They all had a wall where their parents would measure their height on their birthdays.
Or marks on doors made by the slap shots of older brothers who had long forgotten their dreams of the NHL.
I was raised to crave change. To adapt. To be a nomad. To despise routine.
I feel imprisoned by schedules. Deadlines put me in a box.
I need to challenge everything to stay alive.
I need to move to feel human.
To be still is to die.

I've been back for about two hours.
I've already unpacked half my things and packed another bag because tomorrow, I'm going to the Island.
I'm leaving on a ferry from a terminal I've seen uncountable times in my life.
I'l sail on that same ship to visit my father. In a town called Qualicum. He didn't like Parksville anymore. He stopped liking Nanaimo, Victoria, Youbou,, Richmond, Calgary and Melville long ago.
I'm sure my dad will stay there until his last days.
I'm starting to believe it's not where you were born or where you were raised that you can call home,
it's where you choose to die that defines it.
It's where you, from the deepest trenches of your mind, want to finish your human existence.
I'm nomadic by nature. I'm quite possibly not even born of this planet.
Now I know it's okay that I don't have an answer for "Where's home?"
I just don't know yet.

We make coffins from iron ores
that we dig up from the planet's core
Then we fill them with all our dead friends
And bury them back in the earth again.

Is this heaven?
Is it hell?
Did I do this to myself?

I just want to make the bad dreams stop.

I hate your voice.

Skincells.
What I am made of and barred by.
Me. A prisoner of my flesh.
My mind.
Solitarily confined
for an indefinite term.
An inmate 'til I die,
what world can exist in me?
Which reality can I perceive
beyond these
gruesome walls?
A sentence undeserved
since the moment of my birth.
I feel too big to exist,
and because of this,
I cannot fit on this earth.
Too wide for this space,
I came down from the stars
Across blacks holes and dust.
I touched comet tails and Saturn's rings.
I dug my heels into Mars.
My whetted appetite for perfection.
My insatiable lust to be home.

Christmas Wish List!

• Another Tiffany's charm.
• A weighted hula hoop.
• Double nose piercings.
• Wooden easel.
• Dynaudio near-field BM studio monitors.
• Native headdress.
• DVDs: Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Some Like It Hot.
• Rings.
• An Asian teapot.
• Mechanical singing bird in cage.
• Harry Potter Lego.

“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I’ve been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.”