hmm...

What if God were not exactly truth, and if this could be proved? And if he were instead the vanity, the desire for power, the ambitions, the fear, and the enraptured and terrified folly of mankind? (Nietzsche)

My point is that from the fact that someone is convinced that something is true, however firm his conviction may be, it never follows logically that it is true. .. Except in the rare cases where the truth of the statement in question is a logical condition of its being believed, as in the assertion of one's own existence. (Ayer)

I see the light!

"Go to the light..."

Actually, I have a problem with seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D.), and I've recently started light treatment everyday for about 15 to 30 minutes. It's really helping. If you ever have a problem with coping during these frigid winters, start treatment immediately!

I'm off to Vancouver tomorrow morning. I'm going to see my cousin.

I got attacked by a dog today while I was on my run today...
Here's a picture of me running. Those shoes are my car... I take wicked-ass jumps in them, and they get really good mileage. I actually need a new pair; these ones are almost a year old, and they say to replace them every few months. Well, since "they" is the people who make money off saying stuff like that, I'll just wait till they fall completely apart.







(me jumping over a fence to loot free stuff)

beautiful us...

my family and me.

I'm all, like, tired. Ya know, there's a word in the vocabulary of people aged 0-30, and it's "like". It's really overused.

I'm guilty of it. My pre-New Year's resolution is to never use it again.

Unless I'm making, like, similies.

my parents in the mountains...

Mount Edith Cavell, 2005

Christie ruined the true meaning of Christmas...

merry xxxmas...

ha ha!

AY LINE TOURS

I used to always have obsessions with different things in life: from limousines, to tractors; Reba to sirens; rose bushes to army uniforms; or Foucault to hardcore sado-masochist pornography. (Ha ha, just kiddin' bout that last one!)

If I were more of a pscho analyst, I'd probably try and figure out what was going on in that little head 'o mine... Like, when I was obsessed with limousines, maybe I was beginning to realize how diametrically opposed the capitalist mentality is to basic egalitarianisms.

Or, like, when I was obsessed with postmodernism, maybe I was worried that my own trivial discourses were marginalizing the other (um, by "other" I think I mean, like, people that aren't like me), so I tried to learn- and change.

Or, like, when I was obsessed with rose bushes, maybe I symbolically related the thorns to that head thingey they put on Jesus Christ and then killed him. And then he got alive again. And then died. Again. And we're waiting for him to get alive again. I think. I forgot to read my bible.

But none of that's really relevant anymore. I like to learn about all paradigms of thought by actually believing and living them... Christianity (I used to be a christian!(??)); communism (I used to be a communist! (??!?)); rascism (I used to be a rascist(!!?)); sexism... Well, no, actually, I was never really any of those things. I'm lying.


My shoes are black, and I gave myself a pedicure the other day.

dans le meilleur des mondes possible, tout est pour le meiux!

Well said, Panglosse. I don't know if I agree with it, but well said. Vous etes optimiste. In the eyes of kids like me and my bro, tout était pour le mieux.

Wow, today I am so lazy and happy and funny. What I did today: got up; showered; opened presents; ate breakfast; played on web; soaked in hot tub; treated my herpes; went for a run; had a fondue; and lastly, wrote this.

Go to sleep, Roddy

I

In the words of Chris Rock, "I'm tired, tired, tired!

bok has a stalk, suey does not; i made this rhyme cause i always forgot.

My own implicit antagonisms:

Okay, so… like, yeah.

could you imagine this:

I dreamt last night that I was a chemo patient, probably about to die; although, I don’t think I was aware of my rapidly approaching confession of immortality; instead, I lay next to my death bed, convulsing from pain and thinking of my friends and family, not fully convinced they had completely abandoned me; but I didn’t feel completely betrayed; it felt as if I had already done the betraying; I was the antagonist in my own dream.

Hmm; all my world please die; I’m glad that I’m alive; but almost dead; lying next to my hospital bed; and when I get really sick, I try to puke; but I can’t summon the will power; afterall, I’m almost dead; dead. Dead.

Is this what it’s like to be dead?

The nurse comes into the room and holds my back while I cough; it reminds me of holding this girl’s hair back when she got too drunk at some random keg party; but, mostly, I’m not coughing, I’m just dying; and everyone knows it; and she wonders where my family is; she wonders where my friends are.

When I finally wake from my nightmare, I’m crying and all, like, about to jump from my hospital floor; jump onto a life something like the exact life of current me; I cry myself awake. Happily.

La vie, c’est belle; la vie, j’aime ça. Vive la vie.

Je t’aime.

yum, yum...

In a few hours I'm off to a Sociology XXXmas luncheon at Packrat Louie's.

Wanna be my date?

Love,
Rod

You know what I NEED!?

You know what I totally need to make my life that much more bareable? You know that computer lady that started working at Telus, and she always is saying, "I think you said 'Residential'"; or, "I think you said "Make a referral payment"? Yeah, well I need her to come work for me.

Can you imagine!?

Hello, thank you for calling Rod. To speak to Rod, say, "motha-fucka"; to leave Rod a message, say "sweet-ass motha-fucka"; to get Rod to call you back, sing "doncha wish your girlfriend was a freak like Rod?!"; if this is VISA calling to find out why Rod missed his last payment, please hang up now.

Kee hee.

girlfriends

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?

that song, 2 much fun 2 dance 2, with 2...


right, santa?

okay, so, maybe it's that i'm a bit apathetic as of lately, but i don't wanna follow the elections and stuff...

one of the profs in charge of the student-teacher lgbtq alliances started, like, almost crying at this lecture i went to last week, and then he said the campus isn't as gay friendly as one would think, and then he said that the political atmosphere reminds him of the waves crashing on the shore in newfoundland and that everything's getting stirred up and is turbulent and, yeah, it really sucks, but you know, there's always going to be opposition, right? not everyone's going to agree that we should all be so goddamned gay.

the prof from U of S had an awesome study that she did on homonegativity, showing that, much like racisms and sexisms, homophobia is a changing ism- malleable, if you will- and that sometimes it can be a little more implicit, or, shall I say, harder to see. like, for example, instead of agreeing with "Gay people are disgusting", it's agreed that "Gay people should stop pushing so hard for equal rights." that's homophobic, and the same thing happens with race issues. neoracism, neohomonegativity, neosexism.

well, i haven't noticed that on campus. but the minute i do, i'm quitting my job and moving to brazil to be with cute brazilians.

cheers, me.

fat fuck. holy hannah jesus murphy.

I think I'm fat. Well, actually, I know I'm not fat. But why am I always so goddamned concerned about weight. I'm really fucking skinny.

I went to Buddy's with a fun-minded friend of mine a couple of weeks ago. It was really funny, cause we were both like, "Do I look fat?"; "Can you see my love handles when I'm dancing?"; and, "Do these fuck-me boots make me look grandiosé?"

We were able to step outside of our fat fucking heads for a couple of minutes to laugh and realize how fuckin' crazy we were being. Hmm. The funny thing is, my friend is also a colleague at the University, and she's working on a research project examining eating disorders... Not that I think either of us have eating disorders. Cause you should see us whenever someone brings in chocolate. We all ov'r that shit.

Okay, so if 25-year-old-kinda-have-it-together faggots are falling victim to this socio-pathological (is that a word?...) aneorexia trend, what's happening to all those teenage girls we're supposed to be worried about?

Well, I dunno. I'm too busy looking for boyfriends. :-)

I love you, Margi.

my plant

I have this plant that I bought years ago. It's been through a lot, really: it's been out in -30 degree weather in my brother's car; it's been on my parent's patio in +30 degree weather; it's broken a limb everytime I move.

I always think that the plant is a representation of my current state of psychosis. I guess this kinda worries me, cause it doesn't look too healthy right now. It's kinda lop-sided, with leaves falling off, one by one. There's one giant stem that completely died during my most recent move, and all attempts to fix the asthetics have proven futile. Well, I should really just water it. I haven't watered it in a month or two. I guess that means I must be neglecting something in my life right now. Hmm... what could it be?

Everything I own is disposable. I can guarantee that, sooner or later, I will throw everything I own in the garbage. Or in the recycle bin, but honestly, isn't it the same thing?

I'll throw out my food wrappers; my toaster oven; my bed; and my cat. I'll chuck my computer; my shirts; my chairs; and my tent. I'll discard my calculators; my fridges (I don't actually own one, so I'll have to hold off on that!); and my university textbooks. I'll abandon my nail clippings; my empty lip balms; and my broken coffee cups. I'll get rid of my scarfs; my rotten milk; my Xmas lights; and my newspapers.

Well, maybe not everything... I probably won't throw out my diaries, pictures and memories. Those'll all get chucked when I die. But nonetheless, one things for sure: my stuff all is all destined to go to the dump.

Hmm, kinda reminds me of a song my dad used to sing: To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump. To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump... (goes on for infinity).

a broken back

There's a lady in the city that sends new immigrants to my office for employment. She's a real gem.

Today I interviewed one of these gentlemen. I think my heart broke when I asked if he had any family in the city and he said he is saving his money to bring them here. He is over qualified for the position. We hired him. We don't pay that much, really. I mean, we don't pay that much if you're trying to become established so you can bring your family from overseas.

I asked him how he communicates with his family: Via email and telephone, he tells me. Well, I guess he'll be spending xmas alone. We invite him to our xmas open house, telling him he'll see the people he gets to work with.

He looks at me with so much respect, but it's really strange: it makes me feel ashamed. I don't deserve this respect from him. And I don't think I'm just being ageist thinking this... I don't think I should be showing him respect just because he's older than me; instead, I feel ashamed because of the degree of control I hold over him: if I give him the job, he'll start establishment; if I don't, he must keep looking for work...

Oh yeah, the building I work in is screwing all the windows shut.

at work...

Working hard or hardly working? Well, if I'm on my break, I guess I'm working hard...

So I've never actually seen "The Office," but I pretend I'm playing it all day at work these days...

heternormatizingly getting better... i'm getting married, not.

After an electorate-based rejection of gay marriage in 11 different US States, the re-election of another Tory majority government here in Alberta, and the tiptoeing of federal liberals around the issue of gay weddings, I find myself worried about the future of the homosexual. I’m not trying to suggest that there’s an imminent end to the history of the homosexual’s fight for equality, or even that there will be an escalation of intolerance towards the GLBT community. Instead, I worry about the pressures of heteronormativity on the homosexual, in all aspects of life.

(And no, I’m not saying that gay marriage is wrong because it’s a breeder’s institution; instead, I’m worried about the discourses spawned by the ultra-right’s political/discursive dominance in popular culture/media).

Lesbians, transgendered peoples, bisexuals and gays are all different than heterosexuals. As Harry Hays is well known for arguing, queers differ from heterosexuals much the way other ethnic groups differ from Euro-Americans: we have our shared values, modes of communication, historical heritage, psychological orientations and behavioural patterns. Indeed, there are similarities, but it is not on these like comparisons that the meaning of Gay Pride is founded; instead, our pride is founded on diversity and variation; on differences and dissimilarities. We can deviate from the norm, and not worry about it.

The problem is, when we deviate, we’re doing it in a society that has actively fought against our rights, a heterocentric society that can make the most trivial of differences into fundamental moral dilemmas. A lot of queers don’t want to deviate from the heteronorms for fear of continued persecution. And it makes sense. Let’s do a paradigm shift! And not into the postmodern pomosexual circular/lack-of reasoning paradigm… Let’s do something absolutely different! But I don’t know what yet. I’ll think on it.

my apartment that i moved out of one year ago...

"No one will hurt you anymore, sweetheart." Written on a power line tombstone just outside of my new apartment, this headline caught my attention immediately. A few meters away, blood stains a parking lot stall, reminding us of the violent end to her unnaturally urbanized life. I never knew her because I didn't move in until August; she was already dead.

A few days after I first started seeing the ads pleading for help, asking for any information, hoping for eyewitnesses, anything, I met my neighbour, Albert. He told me a buddy of his had died.. He wanted to show me where his buddy was killed, as he cried, in cold blood.

Turns out the "buddy" was actually a bunny (a soon-to-be frequent misunderstanding had taken place between Albert and I, with our perverse franglais). The previous dwelling of the victim: a small door leaned up against our vintage brick entryway.

To Albert, this was the most devastating event of the century; the most inhumane act humanly possible; the end to his dear friend’s candid life. To me, a sense of relief washed over. This was not another killing of a street person or prostitute that had perhaps lived in our foliage (I use the "our" for the building, as it now feels like my home, too).

The police had investigated, but with no surprise there was little more reprisal than a handful of paperwork, which I’m sure did little justice for Albert and the rest of his friends.

Although I never knew this rabbit, I feel like something was stolen from me. I wonder what it would have been like to have a bunny living at my building’s entrance, waiting for some scraps of bread or looking for friends in her concrete palace. And each time I ponder the idea of having a rabbit living outside in such circumstance, far from a natural habitat, I think to myself: but isn’t that dangerous? I guess so.

seasons...

The seasons change so fast; it seems to get faster every year.

Fall
It feels like yesterday I was jogging through the river valley, picking coloured leaves for my scrap book. Green leaves, touched by dashes of orange and yellow; red leaves, reminding me of my friends in Ontario; and dauntied leaves lending memories of a trip to Castigliano di Fiorentino to meet a lovely boy. Leaves, touching the flesh on my hands- my flesh feeling the last signs of summer's vivacity.

Winter
Today I ran hard, passing the other hardcore runners with a quick wave- an informal aren't-we-braving-the-elements-today type wave. For all my fellow runners know, I'm flipping them the bird underneath my mitts. This thought makes me laugh to myself. But they can't tell, so they wave back- perhaps flipping me the bird. The frigid winter air pulls at my exposed flesh. My flesh feels strong, yet vulnerable. It is uninvited, but I can't stop it. I run harder.

When I'm running, I'm always a thought away from a tearful cry, be it from nostalgia, sadness or a simple dash of madness. I've no doubt in my mind I'm completely mad, but this doesn't scare me in the least. I've always known the importance of staying mad: It's better to be completely mad than completely sane. Can you imagine being completely sane?

Seasonless
A careful eye can recognize metaphors in even the most mundane. I fell hard the other day. I didn't realize I was falling until I was lying on my back next to a pile of dog shit, crying and laughing, embarassed to have fallen; aware that nobody sees me... Summer to fall, fall to winter, winter to summer without even recognizing... Falling, unaware... I get up catching a glimpse of my tummy bleeding, poked by a stick. It hurts. I clean the blood with my sweat band. I hear myself asking that quick one-liner I added to my repetoire in grade 5: "Have a nice fall? See you next spring..." I laugh. It would seem time is of relevance. Tomorrow's Monday.