Twenty-five Things

I have been trying to write critically about the “25 Random Things” craze on facebook for several days now. My intent was to tie the critique in with one of the issues I have with the site itself. That is its function as a real-time gauge of what is and is not socially acceptable (facebook not only presents cool it also directs it (lame is the new cool if this idea confuses anyone)). But as I read more of these "notes" I found myself engaged in a guilty obsession not unlike my guilty obsession with video games. The latter is a guilt I have almost reconciled with the realization that a video game, created with care and intent, has the potential to be something good, even artful. Laughing unacronymizingly out loud at some of my “friend's” lists I began to wonder if something similar could be said of this self-indulgent phenomenon.
Tom Robbins once said of Leonard Cohen that no one could speak the word "naked" as nakedly as the master poet. However reluctantly, I’ve come to feel that nothing whispers "naked" as coyly as our collected confessions do bundled so snugly in packs of 25 (two baker’s dozens minus one or a shiny shiny quarter). Presented in the right context (a Chuck Palahniuk or Kurt Vonnegut novel?) some of the introspective things people pounded out on the web could pass as creative character descriptions. How far of a stretch would it be for one to isolate a portion of their note to create a loveable protagonist or even a contemptible antagonist? The desire would have to be there and a talent for the written word, which, like a carpenter’s electronic stud finder, provides a writer with confidence and enables proliferation. The proper imagination functions like mechanical intuition. But these tools and skills are mostly utilized to give art its form. The essence of it remains a propensity to suggest the profound. Self-reflection must be a part of discovering the profound and, at the very least, can play the old hammer in the carpenter/art metaphor (head dented like a steel drum, paint splattered on the wooden handle). In an attempt to better articulate this idea I fashioned together a few of my favorite notes. I transferred them into the third person, stylized them only a little and for shits and giggles (at Kundera’s expense) have named the character they created Tamina.

She has virgin hair but does not own knives. She does not cut tomatoes rather smushes them (an annoying tendency to keep doing things inadequately when the solution is incredibly obvious). Tamina likes winter and feels the need to admit this to people. Crisp cool days out in the snow; the burning feeling in your face and hands when you come in from being outside reminds her of being a child. As a child she believed all dogs were males, all cats were females, and that they had babies together. The girl babies would be kittens, the boy babies dogs.

When I reread that bit (contemplating on how we create (and recreate) ourselves on facebook and in our analog lives) I found myself embracing a sentiment not that we are all writers but that we all have a potential writer inside of us.

As expected, even with this thought, a theoretically complete concept of what a writer might be still escapes me. It's something I often struggle with even though outwardly I find myself surrendered to the reality that I will never be paid for my thoughts or my articulation of them. In spite of this, I inwardly embrace the struggle and continue to write, to dream of publication and the power of words.
I strongly dislike the word nice and usually anything regarded as nice. Niceness is often a veil. It obscures truth. Disney, fruity martinis, Sunday school, and sushi are examples of things I passionately avoid because of this.
As nice as they appear fake breasts make me sad. Once, a number of years ago, I spent a short time in the presence of a very large pair. They are still the only breasts in my life that I do not look back upon fondly . Nonetheless I am guilty of (many) erections inspired by these silicon jubblies and am probably, in some people’s minds, guilty of objectifying women; a concept that I also struggle with on a daily basis.
My guilt is probably the most destructive force in my life. It chokes my inspiration the way Seoul’s smog choked my breath and I often find it as oppressing as I do American law. It is directly connected to my catholic upbringing though not necessarily the fault of my parents rather a school system that was probably one of the last denominational school systems on the continent. The change to a non-denominational system happened when I was in junior high but not soon enough to curb my eighth grade teacher’s religious vehemence. She harangued the class constantly about the sin of masturbation. Because of this I stopped these joyful releases for almost six months until I neared a state of self-combustion and xenoglossy not unlike that of a particular burning bush.
I lived in Korea for almost a year. During that time I developed a strong dislike for modern Korean culture. This is not because they sometimes teach their children to dislike foreigners or because many of them believe that if one sleeps in a room with a fan on and the doors and windows shut that it will create some sort of oxygen void vortex that will kill you. It is also not because of the pervasive nationalism that during international sporting events borders on insanity. I dislike Korea because of its never ending cities and its peoples unrivaled love (Japan excepting) of technology. Like no other place I’ve seen I felt a deep tragic remorse for the remaining Korean country side with its rolling hills and temples tucked so neat and beautiful in their wooded crags. On one of my many hikes I was invited into one of these temples. Out of respect I knelt and bowed, dropped some Korean deniro with its excessive zeros into a box then walked back out to watch the sun disappear behind a hill. The sky was an electric orange brightened by Seoul’s drifting pollution. I wept, not for any religious reasons, but for the monks and the infinitesimal blot that their delicately cultivated countryside occupied in a country almost equal in size to my delicately populated Newfoundland.
My travel experiences are not as vast and numerous as I wish they were but I have seen a few different parts of the world. These experiences helped me to realize that if I had to choose a place to grow old I would choose Newfoundland. Not for the people or culture, though I am sometimes fond of both, but for the tuckamore tress and an ocean that fills me with fear and wonder.
I do not intend to "grow old".
At a younger age than most my hair started to fall out. Until recently I always looked older than I was. Sarah insists that the long-term effect of this is that I will appear “timeless”. I do not know if this is true but it makes me happy that she thinks so. In any case, I have never been that attached to my head hair though I like to think that if I had any it would be longish and bedraggled.
I sometimes think of myself as a hippy.
I went to Alaska when I was twenty-one to explore my hippy side. During my first day there, wandering about Anchorage, I saw my first magpie. There is a very acute image in my mind of this black and white bird taking flight (plucky maverick of the corvid family with blue secondaries as flashy as racing stripes). I was aware that it was the first magpie I had ever seen though I did not know it was a magpie. I’ve been intrigued by birds ever since.
On that same day I asked a girl named Cat whom I had just met to go on a date. It was the first time I had ever spontaneously asked a girl out. Subsequently the date ended poorly.
I am not a ladies man.
To convince Sarah to go out with me I had to drive her across Canada. I think I had her attention by Ottawa (on Canada Day), her interest by Banff but wasn’t certain of any of it until we got to Victoria. The trip took seventeen days. Every moment was intoxicating (not intoxicated). It is my favorite love story.
I love to be intoxicated.
One of the most memorable drug experiences of my life happened on the beach near where I grew up. I was in the company of some of my closest friends and a hefty bag of Newfie shrooms. The skies were clear and filled with countless sparkling mysteries. My brother, an astrophysicist, tousled our brains throughout the night with anecdotes of distant planets and galaxy formations.
Sometimes I think that I would have made a good scientist. The problem is that my work ethic peaked when I was in Grade 8. At the end of that school year I received an award for Academic Excellence and another for Consistent and Dedicated Effort. I was utterly disappointed. The only award I wanted to win was Athlete of the Year. It was the last time I received an academic award.
As my academic success declined my true calling in life began to reveal itself. Unfortunately shepherds have become obsolete.
I do not have a profession and have no interest in any (excepting the aforementioned shepherding). In the past ten years I have been employed as a day camp councilor, a breakfast cook, an electrician’s helper, a baker’s assistant, a kayak guide, a river guide, a housekeeper, a security guard, a teacher (ESL), an environmental worker, and most recently (ever so briefly) a fisheries observer.
There was a time when Jack London was my favorite author. I have read “White Fang” several times.
I named my second car Buck. It was my first standard shift. I drove it very poorly. It was a very fitting name.
My first car was a ‘86 Buick LeSabre. I purchased it in Boston for a hundred dollars. My friend Sully and I drove it back to Newfoundland. We made it to the island but just after Deer Lake I turned on the cruise control and fell asleep at the wheel. The Buick went off the road at about 120 km/hr and rolled over twice. I spent three days in intensive care, a catheter firmly in place. Sully still has the scar tissue on his forearm. I thought that this was a remarkable story until I went out into the world and heard more of other people’s tragedies.
I enjoy hearing other people’s stories almost as much as I enjoy telling my own.
The older I get the less concerned I am about whether or not other people enjoy my storytelling. Because of this development I tend to indulge more and more in my long-windedness.
The last time I tried to read the Bible I got as far as the Book of Numbers got bored and had to skip ahead to the book of Joshua. Between the Book of Joshua and the Second Book of the Kings I thought there were some pretty good stories though most of it was just prattle. Somewhere in the First Book of the Chronicles I had to put the fucking thing down.
I don’t believe in god, especially Abraham’s, but I do have a strong impulse to believe that everything is connected.