Thursday, 27 September 2007

The Monstrous Green-Eyed Monster

Jealousy is a very strange thing. There is no other feeling that compares to the bitterness that leaches onto a jealous heart. The emptiness refuses to fill with any kind of supplement, stubbornly demanding whatever you can’t have.

Envy can attack from anywhere and by anyone, and though some of its forms are abstract and vague, there are a handful of sources that become blatantly obvious as time passes us by. My heart and my ego were afflicted this afternoon by a revelation of a terrible kind. I am jealous of my best friend’s boyfriend.

For some, this climax is perhaps slightly disappointing, because I am not jealous of him, per se, but of the time he gets to spend with her. It sucks. With no eloquence of speech, that is exactly how I feel. I cannot explain why I feel and think as I do, I can only describe how. How doesn’t help my problem; but neither would any answered question about it. I just miss her, clear and simple.

If I had the decision, I probably would not have placed us 330 kilometres apart for so long. Unfortunately, I am unable to reorganize the globe, for all of the times I’ve tried. I know in my mind that it is a good thing – an important, necessary, growth full thing – to be away. My heart doesn’t seem to care about what my head says.

So, to the ‘him’ in all of this, know that you’ve got unique and coveted access to something that is so valuable, beautiful, lovely, fabulous and so many other adjectives that you will discover as time goes on. Know that she’s in high demand in many contexts, and loved by SO many hearts. Be careful and care full. You’re an envied man.


Have you ever wanted to tell someone all of the ridiculous, unnecessary details of your life? To explain the things that have happened in your day that are mundane or strange and have them listened to, without a critical or belittling stare? If only we were encouraged to share our lives with one another in this way. If only I could express, without fear of judgment (or worse, indifference) the smallest aspects of what occurs in my mind. I could speak of the importance of my stocking rebellion this morning and the bitter consequences my toes are now facing. I would tell the world of my camera's dead battery and the artistic frustration I feel at present, as I glance over top a colourful forest of leaves. I would explain that my thoughts are flying in and out of movie plot lines, leaving crossed images of knights and pirates and ballrooms. I could tell you of the three hour class that felt like nine, and the intriguing creatures I penciled during that time. There are metaphors everywhere. Life seems incredibly symbolic this afternoon. But I can't tell anyone this. No one wants to listen. We're all too busy for this kind of thought. So I keep silent, without a whisper of conversation at this depth. Thought is a blissful and lonely place to spend so much time.

Tuesday, 25 September 2007

Shelf of Memories

Memory, memory. How often does the mind begin to wander and dream, dancing on thought and emotion of past experience and event? From this waltz with time we eventually awaken, though still dwelling on a rediscovered something from the past. Every reflection is archaeology of the mind. We can come across anything, really; a trinket of history or a lost civilization of sensation and idea. There is so much that we bury in time. But time has its consequence; no ruin can ever be truly restored.

The excavation of the mind is founded upon a bittersweet philosophy, in the sense that some of our histories have buried and suppressed with good reason. If the world discovered Pandora’s Box, it would be best to leave it alone and avoid a present day re-enactment of this legendary disaster; however, everyone has a box like this. It is our hiding place of terrible confessions and actions that at some point diseased and tormented our personal world. Leave these destructive memories to rest under their stones. Pain is not the aim of this dig.

Our purpose here is to uncover the neglected, not the rejected. The idea is to dust off what has been shelved for too long; to remember the glories of the past, for surely everyone has something worth reliving. A happy thought, however distant, is found in even the greenest of Grinches.

There is an obvious place to begin, or perhaps it is only obvious to a heart that has been somewhat void of such an attention. I have no embers or ashes of a love that is my own, in one sense and context. In another, my life has been so blessed and so full that my shelf of love seems to be many layers deep in many places. It was the spark of one of these smaller loves that began this exploration of my memory only an hour ago. A relatively short acquaintanceship in the grand scheme of time, though it has had a lasting impression on me. This memory is a beautiful, musical, colourful blur and blend of conversation and local adventure. There are others woven in to this memory, whom I will never forget, or something more true, whom I will continue to remember. It was a time in my life of leisure and laughter and love, of a kind. Is there anyone else who can claim this memory? Yes. Smile that kind of smile when you think of me and I’ll be blessed for a lifetime.

This is a single frame in the film of my mind, and each picture has a story worth sharing, for another time and place.

What does your memory say about you? At what point do you pause first when you search your mind? What piece of the past is on your heart in a heartbeat? Memory expresses what is inside of the soul. Sometimes what you find yourself looking at is a shelved trove of treasures. Sometimes it’s a box of secrets. Maybe it’s time for you to do some digging and rediscover the world under the dust.

Thursday, 20 September 2007

The Ultimate Art(ist)

The afternoon view from my window
Outweighs any human design
Colours untameable
From the hand of an artist divine.

If you sat beside me and gazed through this pane,
You could not see the same as I do
For the way that I see
Is unique
Just to me
And mine is an intimate view.

To witness the art of an artist
Is to jump right inside of a soul;
Thought and emotion
Small pieces defining the whole.

This is the view from my window.
Art from the heart of my God;
He is untameable
Beautiful, unique and unflawed.

Wednesday, 19 September 2007

Shakespeare Exposed

Is there truly great symbolism hidden deep within the writings of Shakespeare? When he wrote, did he pause and analyze his words for musical meter and flow? Did he ponder the seven possible meanings or interpretations of each beautiful phrase? When this ancient English playwright scrawled out his observations of life, did he ever suspect that his expressions would be twisted and picked at for hundreds of years to come?

Authors write to express, to cause someone to stop and think, or sigh in relation, or evoke something of conviction -- not to be grammatically criticized and critiqued. Art loses it's beauty when it is simplified or summarized the same way that a joke ceases to be funny if explained, or a magic trick loses its impressiveness when the illusion is revealed. If mystery is lost, only knowledge remains. Knowledge is not beautiful -- it is only functional.

Shakespeare's art was one of subtlety. It is filled with imagery and laced with depth, but the balance is delicate, and meant for those with ears to hear it. He wrote in levels so that people of any intellectual standing could appreciate it. Common or king, there's something for everyone, but not everything to any.

I believe that we are doing Shakespeare an injustice by exposing his craft with such a matter-of-fact method. If we are to continue to breakdown every thought and symbol, is there nothing we can do to protect or at least acknowledge the original mystery? Can we not leave anything to individual interpretation? Let imagination fill in what eludes the mind.

Saturday, 8 September 2007


I need to write. I need to express the thought that is flooding my entire being at this moment and, though my topic may seem superficial, hear me out. I may surprise you. I may disappoint, convict or please, but whatever the response, I must first explain.

I just got my iPod.

Ah ha, you think, she is going to brag or rave or ooze all over us, talking about just how amazing this little device is, and how terribly unlucky or unworthy I am to not have one.


I met my iPod this evening with mixed feelings. I was, of course, both expecting and anticipating its arrival, as I had, only days before, ordered it online. With space for 7000+ songs, it is a classy iPod in black, and it literally has my name on it. I fell in love at once. Or perhaps, I fell in lust.You see, I have always wanted an iPod. Always wanted, never needed. Until about two weeks ago, I had never thought of actually purchasing such a thing, and even when my sister’s red Nano was delivered, I suppressed my envy and eventually forgot all about it. Suddenly, in the rush and thrill of leaving for school, a passing conversation caught my subconscious consumer off guard.
“Do you want an iPod?”

I didn’t know that was an option! My response was immediate. In fact, my mind had nothing to do with what my mouth said. Reason and thought were abandoned at the verbalized opportunity to own, for myself, such a prestigious possession. “Yes!” I replied.

Thus my present situation. Only moments ago, a Kleenex-sized box sat on my bed. I also sat on my bed. I took a deep breath, and about 20 seconds later the packaging had found a new home on my floor (next to a few socks and an earring) and I was caught in the deadlock stare of this mysterious machine. Silence overcame both of us, and just as I thought I was going to defeat the threatening gaze of my iPod, something tapped. Something tapped, aggressively, violently, at the back of my mind. “Why do you have this,” it demanded. “You don’t need it and you know it. It’s a little bit ridiculous that you bought it anyway. What now, girl?”

I recognized this voice. It was my white shoulder angel. You know the kind. You may call it something else, but we all have them. Mine is white and cartoon and usually disappointed or peeved. “It’s like this,” I explain. My thoughts are a little bit shaky at this point; cartoon projections so close to your face are even more intimidating than the exceptionally clever iPod. Somehow I find my voice. “An iPod is a very useful thing. It memorizes music better than I do, and I can record myself whenever I have a completely brilliant idea. Therefore, my iPod is an educational aid, not a westernized cultural fad”. I winked at my shoulder angel. He didn’t seem convinced.

So we cut a deal. I told him I would write out the whole drama (while still claiming my sanity), and leave it to my mind for a while. I do like my iPod. We’ve made friends and are going out for a stroll in the morning after I fix it up with a tune or two. I like that I bought it for myself and that it bears my full name and an important personal reminder. The flustration will pass. And yet, something remains subtly unsettled in my mind. Perhaps it is the fact that I am completely under the spell of the media, or the realization of such a fact. Whatever it might be, whatever your mind is concluding from this tale, the story’s been told. I leave you with one last thing and it is simply this: enjoy being spoiled.