Gee, I'm glad it's raining.

Rain.

The streets glisten with it. It falls, gently; the soft pat each drop makes upon impact blending into a subtle cacophony that fills the senses of hearing and touch. On my jacket, I feel each individual hit as time balloons and expands until the drops no longer fall, they float. Gently, gently, they float, and I with them.

Life moves in slow motion as the moment lasts and lasts, drowning my cares in awe.

I turn, quickly as I can, yet slow, slow. I see an oak tree, old even by the standards of oak. It is vibrant with life, even in its age, its colours seeming to brighten the more I stare. The rain kisses the leaves, the bark, and each solitary drop, hitting, makes a basso rumble as sound slows, like everything else. Everything is still now, except my mind. It seems to race ever faster, practically shaking with the effort of recording, of taking in.

The oak tree is no longer just an oak tree. It is somehow me, now, and my body is strong. I am firm in the earth and my roots feed me, richly, from the soil. My branches reach for the sky and my leaves trade with the air. The rain is a blessing, and I am calm, filled with the satisfaction of being; satisfaction that does not fade, cannot fade.

I see everything around me in minute, precise detail. I see the park around me, lush and green with tended life. I see cars, parked and, on the streets, beginning to move again as the moment contracts. I see the streetlights and the buildings they illuminate. I see an old man on his side, lying on the sidewalk; a brown paper bag lying next to him, spilling brightly coloured vegetables. Carrots, lettuce, and radishes. A bag of frozen peas has burst, little green spheres rolling this way and that. Among them, on her knees is a young girl, no more than eleven years old, face twisted into a grimace of loss. The young girl reaches her hand out to the old man's face.

Somewhere very far away, so distant now, I seem to feel an urgent touch, but I see no one near me. It's not important. I am an oak tree, and though I am ancient, I need only to be. I am so, so happy to be.

Somewhere, still very far away, a voice whispers, "grandpa." For a moment the sorrow in the voice touches me, but it is only a moment, brief and fleeting. It passes and again I am a tree, and it is enough. It has always been enough.

The rain falls, but it will stop. When it is finished, I will see the sun.

Stuff I wish someone had bothered to tell me when I was 17

People like to talk a lot about high school being the best years of your life, or college being the best years of your life, or the time you spend travelling, or your first new town and new job, but what they're really saying is this:

The best years of your young life are the ones in which you start to finally become your own person. When you start to try new ideas instead of the ones the authority figures in your life tell you you should. It is the time when you make your own mistakes, learn your own lessons and make your own discoveries. it is the time in which you really start to learn your body and your sexuality. It is when you learn the limits of what you will do in the search for a good time. You will never again be as outgoing and fearless in your life as you will during this time, and that's usually because life hasn't had a chance to shit on your head and teach you fear, humility and respect, but that doesn't change what it is - your coming of age.

This is what people mean when they talk about the power and beauty of youth. This is what old people mean when they say that youth is wasted on the young. This is a truth that most people won't learn, let alone be aware of, even as they go through it in their own way.

It is different for us all, and the same. This is the time when you learn who you are, what you are and why you are those things. This is when you will try to make yourself into a completely new person, and yet, in the end, probably still become one or both of your parents. It happens.

Try everything you want to and at least a few things that scare the living shit out of you. Pay close attention to the consequences, not only of your choices, but of the choices of everyone around you. Learn why things go wrong, and why things sometimes go right. Learn that most of the time, things will work out if you let them and that most of the rest of the time, things will work out if you put in the effort. Learn that sometimes there is nothing you can do. Learn that money is necessary, but not important. Learn that not all friendships last forever, and that the ones that last forever aren't necessarily the best ones, or the ones that will define you.

Some nicknames never go away.

Public speaking is a lot easier than it seems. It's still scary as fuck for most people.

When you're twenty, you think you'll be able to think that way forever. You can't. Everyone gets old eventually. Fight it and keep an open mind.

People who have done the same thing - the same job, the same friends, the same hobbies, the same sex - their whole lives are usually afraid of new things. They don't think they are, but they are. That's why sudden changes in clothing, hair, music and acceptable sexuality offend them so much. Jesus doesn't hate fags, they do.

The less you learn, the harder it becomes to learn.

You are not the first person to have the feelings you are having. You're not even the only one having them right now. Your life will not work out the way you think it will, and even if you think you have no idea how it will work out, you're still wrong. You are a beautiful and unique snowflake with beautiful and unique experiences, just like everyone else.

A relationship without trust is not worth having. Some people will stay together because they don't know any different. Actually, lots of people stay together because they don't know any different. Love isn't possession. Love is a best friend who wants to play with your naughty bits as much as you want to play with theirs.

chicken tikka marsellus wallace

Time can move awfully quickly when you aren't paying attention to it.

Another slow night at the offsale has come and gone; I find myself on the couch at 4:07am, central time, with every reason in the world to go downstairs and get into bed. Yet, here I am. Of course, I let it slip that I had a blog today, which led to me taking a gander at it myself when I got home and being confronted with the fact that I just haven't updated in a while.

This will be more of a journal entry than an exercise in creative writing, simply something to get the words flowing.

Having had a recent consultation with my physician, it would seem my medical condition is no better nor worse than it was four months ago, which is both good and bad. I have some new meds to try out, but the fundamental core of my treatment remains the same: a pillow case over my head, a sock over my junk (just like the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to do), a UVA booth and about an hour of my time twice a week. Once again, he used me and my complicated condition as a pop quiz for a couple of gorgeous medical interns. The first time he did that, I was actually quite nonplussed and more than a little self-conscious. Now, of course, I'm so used to being scantily clad in front of the range of women that largely constitute medical personnel that I felt no traces of my previous discomfort. I am fine with my body. It wasn't exactly the way I would have wanted to meet those med students, but that's the way the stethoscope HOLY DOODLES COLD.

Well, of course I was attracted to them. They were comely, charming and intelligent. I like women who can hold their own in a conversation. Stupid is not attractive. But being nigh-nude and getting used as a conundrum, a query, a dilly of a pickle, if you will, is not conducive to romance. "Say there, sweet thang, you want to continue this diagnosis back at my place? Lay your healing hands on me, baby." Oh yeah, smooooooth. I had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

I've been to some live music. Bought their t-shirt and was largely deaf for two days, but man, what a great show.

School, of course. Midterms went well, assignments are doing well; I had to give a five minute speech in my rhetorical communications class, and while it didn't go as well as I'd hoped, it was certainly better than it could have been. I now have to write an essay based on the topic I used for my speech, which I'll probably post here when I am finished. It's something I find quite interesting: alternative medicine.

More to follow tomorrow, I think. It's 4:30 now and I my bed has become more eloquent and persuasive in its arguments.

I wish my wife was this dirty

Ah spring.

The sun is out, the streets are covered in slush and cars everywhere sport poorly scrawled cocks and "wash me" jokes in the ubiquitous layers of dirt. Also, since this is Canada, lost civilizations of extension cords that once powered the block heaters of our fleet of automobiles begin to peek through the rapidly thinning snow cover.

I like getting my extension cords back.

On Climate Change and the Irresponsible Use of Science

I see a major part of the problem being that opinion seems to be considered just as valid as research. Yes, our understanding of the effects of greenhouse gasses has changed since the 1970s. Yes, new conclusions have been drawn. This is how science works.

To quote Dara O'Briain, "[s]cience knows it doesn't know everything, otherwise, it'd stop."

I, personally, find it an obvious conclusion that human industry, including agriculture (and by extension, cattle), can and have had a significant measurable effect on climate. I'm starting to hate that word. Let's say weather instead. Our species is changing the weather.

This is not the first time we have demonstrated our capability to alter global systems, nor will it be the last. Fishing industries around the world have devastated what once seemed an infinite resource. The need for cheap beef has sundered the rain forests. Strip mines and clear cutting left great swaths of land naked and scarred. There is a lake in Russia that is so radioactive it kills anything near it in minutes. Our people have done these things. Why does it seem so far-fetched that we could affect the atmosphere? Especially since we already have, notably the ozone layer, which is now full of holes due to the use of chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs).

Looking at the advances in our understanding of the global climate over the last fifty years, and focusing specifically on the staggering increases in computing power and hence our ability to build more accurate models of the world, we should expect that recommendations will change. It was a decade ago already that more powerful computers finally allowed scientists to begin to accurately model the sun. Previously, they had been unable to simply have enough particles interacting. Similar problems have plagued climatologists.

Unfortunately, there is a great deal of money and power at stake, not only for the industries who are affected by attempts to moderate their unintended side effects. Naturally, the men who run these industries will be skeptical and just as naturally, they will put their money and power to work on efforts to prove the opposite.

With carefully chosen data, you can subtly skew the results of a study to say just about anything you damn well please. Big tobacco has demonstrated mastery of this. This is pernicious, wrong, and evil. Corrupting science reduces trust in it, and trust in the leaders who make decisions based on it. What we are left with, now, is a legacy of confusion where clarity is badly needed. Worse, we are left with little hope that clarity will ever be found.

The worst part is that the most fundamental truth of the situation is being ignored. That truth is this:

Whenever possible, we should strive for efficiency and a lack of toxic byproducts. In industry, in society, globally. It is irresponsible, ignorant and idiotic to do otherwise, no matter what you believe.

derivative humour

Today, in math class, my professor humped the podium unconsciously for about two minutes while telling a story. He did it in a completely nonsexual way, like a five year old might. The story he told was also slightly humorous.

Pork, the one you love.

Today continues my time off, but with a crucial difference: this is reading week, “spring break” if you will. I'm neither healthy nor wealthy enough to be travelling anywhere, so what I'm doing is just catching up on the work and the people that I missed last week.

I cooked today. Brilliantly, from what I was told by those who partook. There was a pork tenderloin roast, marinated in garlic sauteed in olive oil, with paprika, cumin, thyme and white wine. Baked tomatoes stuffed with bay leaf in basil, garlic and balsamic vinegar. And finally, a mixed green salad with radish, cucumber, cilantro and apple, with a sauce made from lime juice, olive oil and tahini.

It met with rave reviews. My favourite being, and I quote, “If you ever decide to give up women, I would go gay for you. Mmmmmm, gooooood.”

Apparently, I cook so well it'll make you rethink your sexuality.

Capital, simply capital!

I need some more mineral oil. I use it on my skin after showering, its a godsend. But today is St. Valentine's Day. Can you imagine a man going to a pharmacy by himself, today, and buying a large bottle of what is essentially an all-purpose self lubricant?

Naturally, the cashier would say something like, "And how are you today, sir? Any plans for Valentine's day?"

To which I might reply, offhandedly, "Oh certainly, certainly. I've a long evening planned of stroking myself while listening to The Ride of the Valkyries loud enough that the vibrations traveling through the sofa are actually my primary impetus to orgasm."

or perhaps,

"The missus and I were just settling down for a lovely bout of anal intercourse, but when we reached for some lubricant - very important, you see - we were fresh out. Quickly now, I must hurry back."

Both of which seem to be in the accent of those two warner brothers' chipmunks, "Capital, simply capital!"

I think I'll wait until tomorrow.

Sushi.

I had sushi last night. I love sushi.

There's something about the texture of the rice, the way the seaweed wrap tears under your teeth, the creamy-squish of raw fish and the pop and crunch of raw vegetables: carrots and cucumber. Of a certainty, the person who made the decision to put avocado in sushi for the first time was a human of higher order intelligence.

I love the accoutrements of sushi. The chopsticks, the varied and many little plates and rectangular dishes. The salty tang of good soya sauce and the rush through the sinuses of real wasabi, not that horseradish facsimile found everywhere. The burst of flavour from the pickled ginger.

Sushi is a food that refreshes and invigorates. It is light, but satisfying.

I especially love that last part. It is light. Which means that when the opportunity arises for an all-you-can-eat experience, you can cram yourself silly and enjoy every second of it.

Ah yes. Sushi.

Stream of consciousness

I left the house this morning for the first time since Tuesday. Which Tuesday is not important. Pay attention. There will be A Test.

With a head full of fog, steel wool, cotton candy and all manner of obfuscating material, I rose from bed against a panoply of better instincts, all of which were screaming at me in No Uncertain Terms that I should go back to bed and stay there. I politely told my better instincts to fuck themselves lightly and with tenderness, then I put on pants.

In the kitchen, our cramped kitchen, all in white and unwashed dishes, I took my Little Pink Pill and drank my wake-up juice. I'm not sure the wake-up juice is working anymore, it's been so long since I started taking it, but I remember it used to make a big difference, so I keep taking it Just In Case. The pills are for my skin. Actually, the pills are for a medical condition I don't have, but the side effects are pleasant, so down my gullet they go, chased by a glass of berry coloured froth. The pills were prescribed for their side effects, I should point out.

I hate the way my head felt.

I had a very strange dream in which I lived in a house where I did not actually have a bedroom, instead dragging my mattress around to wherever there happened to be space for it. My roommates where Unseen, for the most part. Conceptually, I was aware that they were men that I worked with. My grandfather was the seen roommate, and he was an unpleasant drunk who was in the process of acquiring a Gross of alcohol through unspecified means. From what mom says, this might be an accurate portrayal of him. I remember him as a man in blue coveralls with a nose that would strike fear in God's bowels, who would smile at me and pack an ice cream cone to the very bottom with Blue Boy Vanilla. I like that memory.

Aside from the weird place In My Head where I spent part of the night, sleep was as elusive as innocence and virginity in a university dorm. The ability to form complete sentences gradually returned in time for the walk to campus with my roommate. Not entirely, but I could at least pretend to take part in an honest-to-goodness conversation.

Suburbia, in winter. This is what greeted my nonfunctional cranial space past the hermetic seal of the front door. Every picture of generic suburbs in winter that you've ever seen, resplendent with hoarfrost and just enough chill and snowfall to casually turn down the volume of the world, like things are happening just down the hall. It was pretty. It was also mostly wasted on me.

Phototherapy beckoned, the mistress I'd been neglecting. I really must pay her more attention. After all, she keeps the fucking cancer at bay. My life for the last week has been something that would have made a pretty good vacation, if it'd all been my idea. I spent it sleeping twelve hours out of every twenty-four, and most of the rest sitting watching Television and playing video games, until I felt like sleep would accept me again. But of course it wouldn't.

I was having complications with my body.

This happens from time to time. After I've been doing well for a while, I get cocky and try to do the things I used to do. My body then rejects my reality and substitutes its own. Fuck You, my epidermal layers say, We had a Good Thing here, why are you doing this to yourself. Time to learn you a Lesson. I wonder how many times I'll have to pay for the same information in minor organ failure before the lesson becomes a lesson learned.

Probably a few more, but it would be nice to think that I'm smarter than that.

I had my phototherapy, and I clawed against the sleep that I craved to make it to class. An Assignment was due, and I needed to explain my absenteeism to my Professor. He's a good man. “I have cancer.” That was pretty much all it took for him let me off the hook, he didn't even want a Doctor's note. It occurs to me that I don't trust people enough anymore. I did not expect him to be quite so agreeable. I think I'm turning into an asshole.

Then I came home through that Winter Wonderland. It looked prettier this time around.

I ate, I slept, I awoke with the proverbial new lease on life.

Oh, I'm still knackered, but my outlook is very much better. I'm happy.

Also, I've been reading things that affect my writing style. I should know better, but I've been lacking inspiration and they certainly do have the effect of spurring on this sort of verbal expunging of the bits and pieces that are clogging up my word stream.