And I kept thinking that as we were all getting older, only some of us are getting prettier.  The rest of us are losing our hair and finding curves in the places where new hair is forming, taking the place of the ones on our heads.

I keep stumbling upon pictures on social networks of your receding hairline and the school that you now teach at is the same one that I went to so long ago.

I keep wondering how so many of you finished up with the classroom so quickly, and how so many of you just don’t care that you’ve escaped it entirely since high school…

I keep thinking about how many of us are left in limbo still, just hoping to see the finish line.

All of a sudden Fall came back again today, blew in the door, and made all the houseplants shudder in their pots.  The clouds floated curiously on top of all the blue that is left on the horizon, and kept us secretly warm from the air pressure that’s been knock knock knocking since the end of October.  I’m reminded of Halloween last year, the cold, the body paint, the strips and strips of movie film that I’d sewn onto that black t-shirt of mine.  This was long before I knew the meaning of clothing that fit well, all the while just displaying my belly button to the world.

This was all long before New Years, the night that redirected everything.  The night I met so many of you.  And it’s cliche and simple to think that on a night like New Years we should be so redirected, but when I look back at the pictures, I certainly look older, simpler, and more worn out.

And we’ll all find the wrinkles to form on the back of our hands, and I’m sure that if I ever combed my hair there would be bushels of hair between the teeth.

For now I’ll ignore these signs of a wasting mind, and just continue to build upwards, skin tightening, hair thickening, eyes brightening.

If only the Jar Hippy really knew that she was the subject of so much of my writing.  The quiet woman who fascinates and infuriates my days at school, surely deserves a thank you, even if she never receives it.  Somewhere under her facade of wool and patchouli, is I’m sure a tender soul who thinks nothing of the mason jar that she totes from class to class.  And me, the frustrated, overworked fellow in the front row could use some of your chill, adverse attitudes about the pace that we take in life, and the vessels in which we drink from.

And you help me to wonder, Jar Hippy, just who is following my every move?  Just how many people take notice to me speed walking around this fair Vancouver campus of ours, scarves trailing, shoes clicking??  How many observers are completely filled with rage to see the texture of my jackets, the countless disposable coffee cups that I also tote around?…  How many of them would want to consume me too?? Or completely deconstruct me?

There is something about those of us that silently sit in the corners of the room, looking still and transfixed by the books in our hands and the music in our ears, while completely hypnotized by the bodies in the room and the jars that they drink from.

And I’ve watched you run across 49th, and I’ve seen your body move in ways that a gay gold star would never understand.  For the male form in all of its simplicity would never know the complexities of your layers and layers of feminist propaganda, or truths, or sentences that surround the center of every page and each period; all of it padding for something deeply interesting and intriguing inside.

I’ve learned how to walk in my best saunter, and still, I’m standing tall, strong, and new in this skin, and some might care to tell me that it’s all temporary.

And still, I must wonder, Jar Hippy, if I can feel such rage and fascination towards you all these months and days,

then surely there is hope for this new happiness too…

This newly formed vegetarianism, I return once again to my roots.  Only the liquor, the beer, the merriment, time and time again seem to bring me back  to the hot dog.  These menageries of meats, encased and enclosed, smothered in cheese and condiment, they sate me, and disgrace me.  But these sauces are not the only things that I wear on my hand, and I am far from disgraced from this.  The developments of this city, the long, cold walks through these streets where it seems there is not another who is home and awake.  This city ascends beside me, while I, in time am awaken, by these developments in my self.

Apparently, these “two dudes”, and the congee noodle house’s poor sign once again know the taste of the pavement.

I think you may have tried at once to carve our names into a tree, and the outcome seems a foreign thing.  I cannot seem to piece it all together, although I know that we were certainly those people who cling to the terrace and cling to each other.  And perhaps we disgusted the masses, or brought them to curse obscenities to love, and tell it to go and fuck itself.  And for these things that would have normally disgusted myself as well, I am far from concerned.  I am newly comfortable, I am newly aware of the changes in myself, and the recollection of feelings that I’d almost given up on.

It’s hard not to jump.  It’s hard not to want to dive in, swim, and just dissolve into solution.  And there are those that would tell me to slow down, to take it easy, to embrace this pace.  And I’m trying to calm this racing mind and the things that want to keep fighting and flighting all the way to the end.  I know the feel of my adrenals, I know the temperature of my stress, and the way it tastes.  I know the eventual return to the masses, and the feelings inside when all the voices get at each other.  I know how easily happiness and sadness change into madness, and every step in between.

I’m standing still.  The diving board is quivering under the weight of these feet and legs.  My toes grip the surface, feeling curiously sandy and aware, of the texture of everything. And the sand might like to simmer and boil just like the tempers of all those cursing profanities at love, telling it to rot on the edge of the board and never quite test the temperature of the water.

The spectators disturbed… by the sound of the cars, or the pace and the taste of the wind on the first of November, all of them distracted, fail to notice my knees.  The joints and the muscles all bending, descending toward my calves.  And my arms spinning backward, my wrists facing frontward, I bounce and rebound, and sail furiously forward.

I’m fascinated by SEO–the curious illusion I have in my head about the spider that crawls through the system, back and forth between laptop and computer, desperately looking for some pattern or connection worthy of his time.

I knew from the very beginning that this forum, stinkwallet, would most likely become a muddled mess of confusion.  Like my very brain, I imagined this place to be a raucous of thoughts, pictures, and useless tidbits of information.

But SEO and all that it’s taught me about this new universe, has tonight taught me something about myself too.  Out of all the tidbits, the crumbs, and the graffiti on the wall, this spider has found me to be a significant “not onlyer”.  I won’t even write the two words directly beside each other if I can help it (“not” and “only”, that is), for fear that I might keep this spider well fed on the fuel that I’ve been feeding it.

But what does it say about myself?  It certainly leads me to believe even more that I’ve no sense of my personal brand–that this place is more of an experiment in the ways of the internet, than something of any true value.  It certainly has me believing more than that though.

The unconscious writing on the wall.

The writing that’s hiding behind the heavy, sloppy, oily graffiti.

The writing that’s begging for another me to suddenly show itself through the muck and the mud.  That, dare I say it, I have been doing one thing while all the while looking for something else.

It all sounds frighteningly too familiar if you ask me.

Sure I’ve done my fair share of writing about the state of the #3 bus route on Main Street.  Sure I’ve ranted and raved,  I’ve stomped my feet in tangents of tangents.  I’ve bitched and I’ve moaned, but through it all I’ve managed to take a deep breath and just walk instead.

But, you know, when I see the following at 11am on a Sunday, it all has a way of rushing back in a hell-storm of anger and frustration.

Glasnost at POP UP...the Shop

POP UP… The Shop, located in the heart of Gastown is an exciting concept in Vancouver retail. POP UP provides local designers, vintage dealers, and retailers the opportunity to showcase their wares for a couple of days in their very own shop.

On October 16th and 17th, local designer Stephanie Schneider will be unveiling her Fall Collection to Vancouver. Her line, Glasnost, consisting of skirts, shirts and jackets complemented with leather work designs including hip-sacks, wallets and custom flasks for the gents will all be priced to sell.

Come down and check out Stephanie’s exciting new line on October 16th and 17th between 11am-9pm.

glasnost.ca

More information on POP Up… The Shop:

Located in the heart of uber-hip Gastown, this unique concept store offers an ever-changing installation of retailers and products from emerging designers & vintage dealers to bigger brands blowing out discount stock and samples.

It’s not a wonder that I struggle to get so little done in so much time, but not only do I find the time to watch my daily dose of garbage television but I also find the time to reminisce on ways in which I wasted time as a youth.  It’s a multi-level approach to the wastage of time in which I now find the time to write about it.  They say repetition breeds habit and routine, so here we go.

Even better, check out the arabic version. Don’t forget to sing along.

In this house with the grapes on the table and the grains on the floor, it’s no wonder that this infamous mouse of ours, so raucously named Mortimer has found himself to wander back and forth.  I set up shop here tonight with these weary eyes and all of my excuses and I wait for you Mortimer.

Perhaps it’s my too anxious steps, or the things that I talk to myself about.  Perhaps it is these things that I discuss that make you, Mortimer, all too anxious yourself.

Or my sweeping and mopping: the constant repetition of the faucet and the dishwasher.  Do you know that I have nothing left to give you from my bowl, for even the crumbs that make it to the floor, are all too accurately collected after dinner?

It is this mouse in this house, the one that only Meghan can see that calls me back to StinkWallet.

It is not the impending shadow of school that lurks around the corner or the constant nagging of my brain.  It is not the battle with consumption that I have found myself with this summer: the Visa in my pocket whose tummy grumblings have kept me sating it.  It is the mouse in this house, the one that only Meghan can see, the one that used to live in the walls, through the holes inside the radiators.  This is the thing that calls me back.

So Mortimer lurks as I write these words.   He thinks that while he hears the typing in the other room he is free and willing to wander the kitchen and the living room.  He knows that my eyes are not as quick as the youngsters in the building who are forever keeping their ears to the ceiling waiting for the next excuse to grumble about my trampling.  He should know that I care not for the mouse in the house, the one that only Meghan can see, or if he wanders the halls or the piles of clothing, or if he takes up residence in my stinky old shoes, as long as he vacates with just enough time for me to place them on my feet.

I find no problems in these things, but rather my independence.  My resolve to reset and enforce my gut is so strong that I should merely stand my ground and heal as quickly as I set forth upon these things.  The softness of my arms is turning softer and sinew takes up the places where true muscle once wrapped around bone.

We are certainly not entitled to become weaker versions of ourselves.

Certainly not, but all too often rehearsed and acted upon.

Dear little Mortimer mouse, the mouse of the house, the mouse that only Meghan can see.

Dear little Mortimer mouse who finds himself invisible to my eyes: teach me once and for all how to look for the grapes and the grains. Teach me how to take them selfishly away from all those who I might just as easily share sustenance with.

Dear StinkWallet:

I’m sure you can tell that we’re taking a break by the spam that’s been wearing you down.  I’ve been selfish and allowed myself to be unfettered from all these commitments that I’ve accumulated.

Remember that yoga pass that I bought a year ago?  Remember how I let it go at the first opportunity?  Remember how I plunged in and just as quickly let it all slip away?  I jump into things without thinking and before I know it they’re weighing me down.

I’m inspired to write again, but I’m confused about the audience that I should be writing for.  I’m sick of editing my words, I’m sick of rereading things fearing that of all things I should let a run on sentence or a grammatical mishap slip through.  The truth is that I’m full of grammatical mishaps, and I should own them and not let them bury my creativity.

So for now let’s take a breather.  At least for the moment let’s just sit in our corners and create.  I’ll be back before you know it, and we’ll make this work for the two of us.

It’s a shame that I should play the victim to a forum that should allow for just the opposite.  It’s a shame to feel that I’m leaving you here waiting for me.  I’ve been waiting all too much for something myself: a romantic gesture, a turn in the weather, a twist of fate, all to take this humdrum spring and make it into something spectacular.  Except it’s already happened, in fact it’s happening right now, and it’s all about me.

“I’m so sorry I made a mess of it all.  I knew it wasn’t right.”

Sincerely,

Trevor Ellestad

So it seems to be confirmed– not only has Farrah Fawcett departed us, but also Michael Jackson.  On this cloudy day in the midst of our apparent summer, our flesh is not as red as we’d expect and our undies aren’t filled with sand, but we are now part of a world in which Michael Jackson will forever be late to the party.

Memories of a younger me dancing frantically around my living room will never be the same.

The text that spread the news this afternoon confirmed that 13 year old boys around the world would now be safe, and although it’s a tough one to argue, I can’t help but feel a little sore (gross) for the guy.  It’s a shame to characterize a man that brought so much joy to my childhood with the news that’s surrounded him in recent years.

Perhaps these past years he was slowly preparing to fully embody the ghost of all of our childhood dancethons by fading into a sickly shade of white; slipping and gliding into an insanity that only he would have fully understood.

For all it’s worth Michael, I will always remember you as the musical genius that you were…  The scrawny remnants that remained of you in these times, will always be nothing more than your graceful departure from a life of extraordinary circumstances.