Monday, December 24, 2007

The Greatest Man Says.

"To make a Christmas best," says my Great Uncle Herman, "it is up to you to decide. The entire purpose of the season is joy. It has nothing to do with gifts or food, but with giving thanks and praise to life and to those in your life. That's Christmas. To love."

I made a tremendous effort at the Christmas spirit this year, an attempt to counter a dragging preconception that it would be the worst Christmas. Quite a failure.

But I was speaking to Herman at the big Christmas dinner one side of my family has every year, and his words showed me where I went wrong. Well, everyone seems to dislike Christmas. But it seems that what everyone dislikes about it are the things Christmas is not even meant for. People stress out to purchase obligatory gifts. But when gift giving is supposed to be a representation of that thanks and praise a person ought to be sharing, this stress has no place. So cast it aside. Focus on the enjoyment of your company; feel the love focused upon you; reflect it back.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Yesterday today.

There is this unfortunate website that goes by the name of Facebook, a website you may have heard of. There are many things that have been said, and can be said, about it. But a most recent occurrence has caused a wave of...something, to press upon me. A curious mix of past and present.

Over the last several days there have been a flood of people of yore that have reinstalled themselves into my life. Perhaps only in a manner of speaking though, I suppose, because many of them I have not seen or spoken to for about six or seven years, and I am unsure as to whether or not they would see or speak to me some more now, aside from looking at those pictures of me on that website or editing some detail concerning how they know who I am.

If they wish to cross paths once again, then I would, of course, love to. But this entire occurrence has made me wonder at how much I have changed since being an awkward boy with too many joints. And how much I am the same as a man.

How strange it is. When the paths of two peoples' lives part ways, no longer paralleling each other, and as one continues along their particular path, the other person doesn't entirely go away. The image they keep tucked away, the memory they have of the other person, stays frozen at the point before they parted. I have forever remembered these people as children, just as I was, with crooked teeth and eyes of inexperience. New eyes, ones that have not yet experienced that dry, dark chocolate taste of adulthood. Those were eyes yet excited with wonder. I find myself looking at the eyes of those in the photos of today to see if they have changed with experience. Some are very different, but I am warmed on a cold night like this to see that some yet shine the same.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Can you still feel the butterflies?

Someone I know said to me, "A heart is precious, but so is time."

One of the most wanted and most dangerous things for a person is love. It's wanted enough for some people to reach farther than they are able, and dangerous enough for some people to stay away from making that reach.

The first girl I loved was someone from long ago. And I never told her, though I carried those feelings for many years. I was much too terrified to do anything with those feelings always trying to push out against the inside of my young, growing ribs. And an odd thing for me to admit is that, even though I haven't spoken to her in at least six years, I think of that today and, knowing it's far too late, regret never telling her. Not because I thought anything could happen. But just so that she knew. Only so she knew.

So after that, I decided any time I felt love, I would say so. And anytime I've said so, the statement would be disastrous, and I would be returned broken. And, I suppose, more educated, but never feeling used up or jaded. There is no sense in giving in to wear when there is life left for love upon your breath. Love is life's brightest butterfly to hold in hand.

It is, quite bright. But, of course, the most recent time I chose to unveil the entirety of my heart, I was beaten. And it's left me half-made--my body is mine, but my heart no longer belongs to me.

And that's what the danger is. Time moves safely, a heart does not. Are you prepared to be unmade? It's a high flying butterfly. Maybe you feel safer with your insides intact and inside. Or maybe you think you should throw open those doors and let fly your feelings. And even if you fall to the earth with empty hands, it might be worth the jump.

Friday, September 28, 2007

"to refresh the mind of man"

Anyone who knows me also knows that I love music. And if you don't know me, let me begin by telling you a little something about myself. I love music.

There is something very curious, however, that I have noted among my friends and, to a point, about myself as well. This is that music tastes change. They especially alter in the short span of, perhaps, about 17 to about 22, give or take a couple years. And I am always wondering why this is. Of course, a lot of things change in a person between those years--their entire lifestyle changes from a teenager with generally no responsibility to a university student or full-time worker, out on their own. Convictions grow or, unfortunately, convictions wither. But I wonder what a changing lifestyle has to do with a changing taste in music.

I write this in the wake of a series of concerts I have attended in the last few weeks. Seeing Shai Hulud play in the same venue I would later see Rocky Votolato play in is what inspired me to sound out this thought. And the atmosphere the two shows had, though they were in the same place, were entirely different. Obviously because of genre differences and obviously because of crowd make-up and atmosphere. The crowd at the hardcore show was primarily eighteen years old. The crowd at the country/folk show was primarily in their mid-twenties.

I have friends who used to listen to bands like Thursday or Poison The Well when they were teenagers and now sneer at them. The music has not changed though, of course. They have. Now they prefer Chet Baker or The Microphones. The teenage years are a nebulous craze. Definition is often found in an album that a teenage era centres around. I listen to old Stretch Arm Strong and Smashing Pumpkins, or Mineral and At The Drive-In, and still love them because nostalgia is timeless and their music stays in me. So I find it hard to calculate what makes others turn themselves around from the music their younger self was so attached to, simply because they are no longer as young.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

A good read

I recently finished reading The Educated Imagination, a series of lectures by Northrop Frye in which he asks what literature really is and answers what we ought to use it for--questions that tend to be taken for granted.

Frye is, in most circles, considered to be the most renowned literary critic of the 20th Century. He was a primary aid in shaping literary criticism as a discipline several decades ago, claiming that many literary critics perform while maintaining a use of ideology. The critical study of English literature is still a baby. Not like philosophy, which is another of my loves.

The reason I wanted to make mention of this book is because of its presentation. If its reader has the beginnings of an interest in studying literature, this book intuitively presents a method of criticism much more readable to most than some of the other pillar critics such as Jacques Derrida or Roland Barthes. So if you wish to learn about a view of the study of literature, you might want to look it up.

That being said, I have in my mind the idea that perhaps the discussion of literature is a dry topic to some readers. I'm studying English and Philosophy in school, however, so such topics are usually at the front of my mind, or near to it. But if you are yawning, I do apologize. You could always read Harry Potter.

Or, if you need a quick jump. Watch this amazingness:



Listening to:
Matthew Good - Hospital Music
Rebekah Higgs - Rebekah Higgs

Sunday, September 16, 2007

A greeting.

Some of you reading this new journal may also have been reading one or a couple of the other online journals that I've kept over the years, so my thoughts on a screen might not be such a fresh experience as it could be for the newbs. And if you are indeed someone who's been reading along with my life, you might notice a slight switch in style. I already keep a handful of handwritten journals chronicling a variety of categories in thought and events, but I would like to save this one for others. And I insist against calling it a 'blog', because I sincerely dislike that word. So please disregard the name of this journal's domain, as I do also.

The reason I went with this new idea is a result of reading Don To Earth, a man who ought to be respected not only because he is beyond 90 years old, but because of the accomplishments he has made throughout his life. Before The Nature of Things became what we know it as, Mr. Crowdis originally hosted the show on CBC. I recommend visiting his page.

I should also admit that I did not write the story in that first entry, and I also do not know the origin. I simply found it to be quite thought provoking, and worth sharing.

So welcome to my new journal. It's a beautiful afternoon. I hope you have been enjoying it.

Listening to:

Palmsout Sunday Remix 79

Saturday, September 15, 2007

A story.

There once was a man, and he lived quite well. He had a nice fortune, a big house, and a good wife. But he wished to quest for truth.

One day, he told this to his wife. "I want to set out to search for truth."

She said to go, then, and find truth. But to leave her their house and his fortune in case he should never return.

The man did so, and set out to find truth. He travelled far--up mountains, through valleys; across seas; through cities and towns. He was climbing a hill and came upon a cave. He entered, and within he found an old woman with scraggly, oily, grey hair, one yellowed tooth, and broken dry skin like weathered parchment. But she spoke to him, and her voice was deep and pure. "I am truth."

He stayed there for some time with her, learning about truth. And when he felt he had learned all he could, he stood up to go. But before leaving he said to her, "You have taught me so much, what can I do to repay you?"

"When you return and tell people about me," she said, "tell them that I am young and beautiful."