A bit of a tirade

I find it extremely difficult to find beauty in the world these days. All you ever hear about is death. Of course, there is some beauty in death but it’s complicated and not easily found. I hear about war and famine and disease. I realize that living in Canada I miss out on ‘experiences’, as I will call them. These ‘experiences’ are the shitty things in life. Living in or moving from a war-torn country. Being the victim of hate crimes or racism. Living in poverty. These atrocities (perhaps this is a strong word) do exist in Canada but are minute in comparison with the world at large.
I’m writing this as a therapeutic exercise that, strangely enough, I have performed for the last two years. I lose track of the beauty in the world. I stop appreciating everything I have. I’m sipping a glass of wine and listening to choral music for god’s sake. How many people do that on a Friday night? I ask you how many people would never dream it possible to do that on a Friday night. How many people are right now getting up for a janitorial shift? How many people are cleaning up all the crap we created this week? How many people will be getting up for last call to clean up the crap we’re about to make?
Questions but never answers. That’s what life constantly delivers. A stream of ‘why’s’ but never a ‘because’. I’m constantly caught up in these questions. Why can I live my life openly as a gay man while hundreds of people are persecuted, jailed and executed for loving someone? Why do I make over $11/hr in retail while the sweatshop worker making the clothes – making my livelihood – gets paid $5/hr? Why do I feel it necessary to go out partying and get drunk merely because I am 18 years old?
Questions but never answers.
Tonight I discovered something beautiful. This morning I had grand ambitions for a night of partying. I was gonna get druuunk. But then something happened. One: I bought my dad’s birthday present and spent the last of my pay check (the part I wasn’t saving). Two: I rediscovered my pre-indie-acoustic music. Three: I sat down and relaxed (truly relaxed) in a completely empty house. These combined to create the night I am having right now. I am writing. I am drinking a glass of Chardonnay. I am listening to Eric Whitacre. I am not ‘living it up’ but I am, for the first time in weeks, living.
I have been so caught up in training and trying to be out of the house every night and work and keeping up with my friends that I had forgotten how wonderful it is to shut down facebook and turn off the TV. I had forgotten what it was like to blast classical music and just sit and write. I couldn’t even write a short story. I couldn’t even continue one that I had already started. I had become so immobile and sedentary and comfortable in the monotony of my life that I couldn’t summon a creative thought.
Back to the beauty I found tonight... I rediscovered my passion for music. Real music. Instrumental music. Choral music. So what if it isn’t cool? It is the most beautiful thing I can imagine. There is heart and soul in every note. Every chord oozes with brilliance and passion. Every time I listen I remember what it was like to sing. To play. To put my heart into something that wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about being good. It wasn’t about competing. It was just about love and passion and beauty and truth. I sound like a love-struck teenager but I truly feel that way about music.
Then I found my writing. I have loved writing for as long as I can remember. I love some of my work from as far back as Grade 9. I can’t believe that this year I won’t be pursuing writing anymore. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t think it’s time to move on and I don’t think that I can’t make a feasible career out of writing. But it’s falling by the wayside. Like music, writing is beauty. It is truth and it is passion. My life has been pretty great. It’s been really great by many standards. I don’t have much insight into life. But I will still write. Even if all I write about is the mundane middle-upper class life that surrounds me; there is still life there, albeit privileged.
I don’t know what else to say. “Stop and smell the roses” is far too cliché. “Live today like it is your last” falls short as well. Maybe just find something you miss. Miss it. Love it. And really live for once.

I'm active...

for my boyfriend.

The silly commercial for Wii active whatever came on and seeing as how it is already late for me AND I just finished training I'm going to talk about exercise instead of Bill 44. My rant will come eventually.

Anyways, I did a long swim today and a 45 minute bike on top of an 8 hour shift and staff meeting. It was a LONG day. But somehow it was incredibly relaxing. I think there is something special about endurance sport that you can't find in any other athletic training.

I always hear people talking about how their "jog" or "workout" gives them a chance to think. This is the wrong approach. If you still can think you are not training long enough. When I train - and other endurance athletes please back me up - I don't think. The only thing going through my head is my caloric intake or the number of laps I've done.

But the beautiful part of my training is the magical 'white noise' stage I enter. After about fifteen minutes when my muscles relax I get into this zone. And everything else disappears. That's why I call it the white noise stage: my head literally fills with a fuzzy static.

Now, to why this is relaxing and why everyone should strive for 'white noise' bliss. First an anecdote. Men. We have perfected tuning women out. AND we are always happy. When have you seen a man sitting on a couch tuning the world out with a frown on his face. I'll tell you when...Never! Now imagine recreating this glorious state of being without pissing off every member of the opposite sex. Yes, it can be done.

And besides, endurance athletes usually have six packs. Which is why I'm active for my boyfriend :)

Bill 44...

I am really really really tired tonight and haven't written my post for Friday. That being said this is just a preview of the wonderful rant I will go on about Bill 44 the the Alberta Legislature has just passed.

By preview I mean this is all you're getting. Stay tuned for Monday and extreme sarcasm and cynicism!

Almost done

I got home from work today and still needed to do a 30 minute recovery run and then I watched "So You Think You Can Dance" and forgot about my Wednesday post. Therefore, I'll add a little bit to the short story I've got going on....

“That’s the worst written shit I’ve ever read.”
His voice sings like a choir of eunuchs. It rises loftily between us like an aria rising in Carnegie Hall. God it makes me melt.
“And I can’t stand your fucking singing.” I stared coldly into his eyes.
A lopsided grin split James’ face. His cheeks dimpled and his crooked front teeth glinted in the afternoon daylight.
“You know you love me.” James stood up on the table. He kicked our lunch onto the ground. He spread his arms like an angel ascending and lifted his face to the sun. Then he smiled at me and started singing. “Some enchanted evening...”
“Get off the table you stupid queer.”
But it was heavenly. He climbed down regally. His nose was pointed upwards and his scruffy hair curled cutely against his cheek bones. People across the street were pointing and laughing.
“Fucking knobs,” James muttered.
“Yeah.”
I looked nervously across the street. I couldn’t help it but my toe was dancing on the pavement. I scratched my arm self-consciously and sniffed softly. James caught my guilty eye. His gaze dug into my skin. It felt like he was reading my confession off the inside of my skull. I stilled my foot. I chewed my bottom lip and James looked away. I stood up.
“We should get going then.”
“Yeah.”
James stood up and walked around the table to stand beside me. He looked at me carefully.
“You’d tell me if something was up. Right?”
I nodded. We started walking down our side of the street. My arms hung dejectedly at my side. Toothpicks compared to James’. I watched the pavement roll under our feet. Cracks burrowed deep within the sidewalk tearing the concrete apart. I sniffed. Scratched my arm. James’ even stride fumbled beside me. I looked up.
A man stood up the street. His face was hidden in the cowl of his coat. His arms jerked clumsily into the pockets of his jacket. His head was bowed, praying for our redemption. Praying for his. James stepped out in front of me. His burly frame hiding my wilted form. The man looked up. Dead eyes stared from beneath his hood. He caught me looking. Recognized me.
“No money, no stuff.”
James looked at him. “Fuck off,” he spat.
The man shrugged. “Later this week, then.”
He looked at me. His eyes, vacant pits in his skull. Then he bowed his head and shuffled markedly away. A faint chant muttered under his breath.
“Nothing you want to tell me.”
It wasn’t a question. James stood facing me, his frame casting me in shadow. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

James’ voice sings in my head. I sit on my couch and untangle my limbs. I scratch my arm, an unconscious tick. I’m clean thanks to James. The wind rattles my door again. Footsteps now in the hall. The dark presses in on me. Filling my lungs with ink. I gasp and scuttle to the bed. My feet catch in a pile of clothes. Lights burst in front of my eyes. Stars illuminate all at once. I rub my forehead and close my eyes. They are pressed tightly shut as I crawl to the mattress. My hands sweep the floor in front of me like a man searching for his glasses. They scratch over the coarse carpet tickling my palms. Clothes to my right. Shoes to my left.
I slide forward on my knees. I make it to the bed, the sharp corner of the box spring digging into my shoulder as I grind my way onto the mattress. My hands find purchase in the lumpy mattress and I’m able to pull myself up by a tumorous growth. I lay panting on the bed, my face moist with sweat. My breath whispers against the cool plastic fabric of the mattress. I clutch my hands together and they jerkily placate themselves with the twisted hem of my comforter. A rosary.

There is still more to the story (yet to be written). But so far I've been keeping up with the posts. YAY!

Recruiting....

...and why I am horrible at it!

So today I was at work and it was really slow. So the logical solution to pass the time was to go recruit for Roots. Yes they have me recruiting. I am a walking billboard that also dispenses cards. (Just as a side note, I really enjoy working for the company)

Anyways, I began by walking down 17th towards the nearest Starbucks thinking, "they always have friendly staff at Starbucks, I'm sure I'll find someone there." But I was wrong. The service was excellent, everyone was wearing smiles, but my drink was empty calories and empty of heart and soul.

Undeterred I vowed to find someone worthy of working for Roots. I began walking to the nearest trendy clothing store. I figured that on a slow day (God it was slow, did I mention that) I would find someone who would treat me right in a retail operation. I walked proudly into Le Chateau and.........wasn't even greeted. Two people were at the till and neither said a word to me.

I hastily beat a back track out of the store and wandered the street until I found another, even trendier, store; Purr. I walked in, my head held a bit lower, but I walked in with my toes crossed for good service. Nadda. I did get a "Hello" this time but no further assistance.

At this point I was thoroughly angered at all service people everywhere. Not to too my own horn but at Roots we greet everyone (the occasional person does slip into the store un-hi-there'd) and we make conversation with them at some point while they are in the store.

I practically stormed down the street and headed for the nearest shoe store, a little boutique. I walked in and received excellent service. I felt like this man should own the store. We held a great conversation, I bought a great pair of shoes and, most of all, I felt relieved that I had finally found my potential recruit.

The only problem; he did own the store