Levers and Pulleys

I have been thinking about coincidences. And not in the theological sense, where questions as to how an all-knowing deity could allow us room for things such as coincidence and free will, questions that are unanswerable and at a level almost blasphemous to be asking in an (online journal)--although that might have been something of a spark.

What I am thinking of is how our bodies move. We awake, we lift ourselves up and set ourselves off to spin, swirling around one another throughout our every day. We might choose obliviousness to some and attend others. But what is this choice; or, is it choice?

There has been an instance several years ago where I sat in the same room as another, probably even whisked directly past each other, but was entirely unaware of that person. But only at that time, for that whisking, that swirling, eventually spins you right back through a pair of doors to a position where, odd--you do interact.

There is this dance we play out during the day with others, and it might be best to welcome them to your dance floor, rather than stiffen at their stepping on your toes.

A tangle of mysterious prejudices.

We stumble into our homes in a humbled haze late at night and in despair cut off our hair. We want a new outlook through a new body.

We finish and look upon ourselves in the glass. We nod, approve, but we only see a half. Another appears behind and fixes the parts we can not see. This one sees it all, trims to form, approves. A friend will have our back.

"brightness falls from the air"

It is late in the evening. I am sitting in my orange coloured room after a day of motionlessness and contemplation. What I am wondering at this small moment is about what makes people happiest. The borders in this house are thin, so I am listening to a group of friends playing Jenga in my kitchen overhead.

Last night I was upstairs with my friends in my roommate's purple room and, though having such a desire to write, could think of nothing existing of which to write about.

Right now, however, I listen to my friends and know, of course, that having these people I care about is quite a brightness. But it is odd, I think, to not have this at the front of a person's mind when surrounded by them and to instead realize this only when separated and sitting in a dim and empty room.

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.

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.

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.

"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.