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.

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.

I often dream of the fall.

The slow and graceful escape from the hands of gravity and the float that supports my legs and arms as I drift toward the ground.  The mall in Bangkok and the 7 story atrium that twisted and screwed its way toward the ceiling and the freedom that I found in the fall from such heights.

The unfinished artwork and stories that followed it are now lost in the depths of twisted scribbles in journals, housed in boxes, in stacks, in the living room.

This spring has been enveloped by the scent of decay.  And we’d all be fools to argue that we didn’t see it coming.  The conversations that had been held, the cards that had been pulled, and the endless thoughts that ran through each of our minds… of things coming to an end and new possibilities potentially beginning… this season has surely been ripe.

The weddings that have been planned knew no place in their registers for events such as these that have followed.

I’ve managed to go so far as to create a new story: the ending of the stream of breath.  And all too soon seen the consequences that have manifested themselves.  I’ve blamed my relentless partying on past events, and in turn become the witness of some new tragedy.

Only weeks ago , sitting with you there at the bottom of Main, I was trying to find the words to reassure you that there were fresh beginnings and epic transformations that would show themselves as soon as the gray clouds cleared from the horizon.  But I was telling you the only truth that I knew then.  Because I haven’t quite figured how to separate the real from the fiction. 

Because now, this week, I am the one who fell.

Eyes stricken, and ears that can’t stand the sounds of the street party any longer.

Lips letting loose.

The slow and graceful escape from gravity… The inevitable rush… The speed that confuses the dreaming mind, is something we only know in our waking wanderings.

The bridge and the wind.  The way it must have felt to go rushing and not gliding towards the waiting tide.  And the impact and the way in which the water must have mutated you right there.  The fondling arms of our fair aquatics and your fragile frame.

The loss.

The dream.  My graceful fall from grace.  The gigantic Christmas tree and the waiting arms of every coniferous bow that waited with its fingers outstretched.  The way each and every arm broke my fall so slowly.  And the eventual impact, so graceful… The slide…

And my unscathed body…

That stood, to walk away.

As posted on homorazzi.com

Last year I bought myself a desk.  I thought that at least if I had the proper tools to accomplish my daily writing and reasoning, that perhaps, some actual work might be accomplished within the walls of my home.  Since then I’ve gone to such lengths as to blame the lack of natural light, the absence of fresh air, or even the sound of the neighbours below me when it came to my feeble attempts at getting work done at home.  So as I sit here in the coffee shop far and away from my home, pondering the considerable funds that I’ve dispensed towards just setting up a place to work, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps, for some of us, there will always be an incapability when it comes to getting anything done at home.  Perhaps for some of us, we will never fully settle into the places that we dwell in, and we will always be looking for a better way of life, or an excuse to rationalize why we haven’t met a personal deadline, the perfect mate, or why we haven’t arrived at where we feel we should be in our lives.

It all started at an early age in my teens.  My parents lived far away from the “hustle and bustle” of downtown Calgary, and for someone who developed an early addiction to the noises of street traffic and chaos, finding any sort of relaxation in my quiet little bedroom at the edge of town was impossible.  Along with my entirely self-created, angst-inspired imprisonment, I was also looking for any excuse for more socializing and more caffeine.  And none of this would be accomplished far and away in the suburbs; a place where I was more likely to hear the sound of a horse’s out breath, than the sparks and excitement of an impromptu street party, or the gentle words of a handsome fellow sitting beside me in a coffee shop.
So I learned over the years the skills and abilities that it took to somehow successfully get work done amongst this “hustle and bustle”, this chaos.  I adapted and adjusted my headphones accordingly, and learned to be completely content for hours on end plugging away at some piece of work; a glance at a hot guy walking by, my only distraction or break.  So when I inevitably tried in my mid-twenties to start trying to get things done around home, you can see that I was in for some struggle.  I sat myself at that new desk of mine and within minutes found myself up and about, making tea, or out on the balcony watching the cars drive by.

So when I take all these bits of information, these repetitious patterns and I start applying them to other aspects of my life, things suddenly start to make sense to me.  I look at the fact that I have lived in no less than 10 different homes and 3 different cities over the past 10 years.  I see the failed relationships and the mental barriers that I’ve built: always looking out the window for something or someone who I would consider a better “catch” or a greater frontier.  I see my anxiety and my lack of focus, and I wonder, for a person trained in the relaxing and fulfilling practices of yoga, meditation, and western herbalism, how truly zen I am.

So I’ve taken this weekend off.  I’ve given myself the rare gift of space from the city and all of its offerings.  Instead of spending my nights surrounded by bumping stereo speakers and the chaos of downtown, I’ve instead surrounded myself with the covers of my bed and the comfort of a constant stream of warm cups of tea.  Perhaps once in a while for the strongest and most durable of us, it takes complete denial of the sensory overload of the city for us to realize that we are not as invincible as we would like to think.  Perhaps, our weaknesses are all too easily hidden below the chaos of a hung-over mind, and the perpetual buzz of our blackberrys.  Once in a while it does each and every one of us a lot of good to take a step back and look at the patterns that we continue to repeat, and the things that we deny ourselves.

So it may take a long time to completely come to terms with my short –comings.  It may take me the rest of my life to settle comfortably into a home that I love or a relationship in which I feel total satisfaction.  But truthfully I must allow myself to be open to the fact that I may always be looking out the window for a better home with a better man and a better future.

Last year I bought myself a desk.  And although I tell myself every day that I’m going to start getting productive around home, sitting down and making things happen in the comfort of my office, that poor desk just sits there, alone,  gathering the dust and clutter of my always chaotic life.

As posted on homorazzi.com

I was raised in a loving and structured environment that was founded on the ideals of exploration and education.  Aunts, uncles, and my mother have all found themselves as prominent players within the educational infrastructure of Alberta.  Each of them have toiled to not only achieve the positions in which they now hold, but time and time again, have also struggled to somehow complete their jobs on a daily basis under the ever-increasing set of standards, requirements, and obligations that have been enforced upon them on a daily basis.

I’ve always imagined being an elementary student in one of the schools in which my mother has held a position.  I imagined her to be the type of hard-assed educator that expects nothing less than excellence from every one of her students.  I’ve imagined the students grumbling under their breath when they discover that they’ve landed in Mrs. Ellestad’s section in the upcoming year, knowing that she will be pushing them harder than the other teachers in school and knowing that they aren’t in for as free of a ride as some of the other teachers might have allowed.  It’s only until years down the road that these same students will realize the diligence, courage, and persistence that such educators have instilled in them at such an early age.

And as much of a hard-ass as my mother has always been, pushing her offspring and students to achieve everything that she knows they can, she’s always allowed for the sort of clarity and open-minded thought that this world not only allows for, but also has come to expect.

So when I started hearing the whispers of Bill 44 coming through the news feeds, I immediately thought of the effect that it would have on my family’s employment.  And to hear of Bill 44’s approval this morning, has not only brought a sense of fear to me for the future of education in Alberta, but also despair about the potential of educators in our country to do the best job possible preparing future generations of young folk for the diverse world in which they are a part of.

My mother returned to school in the early 90’s, a time in which the economics of Alberta were not feeling so gracious towards a hard working couple with two young children.  It was a time in which my self-employed father struggled to not only keep food on the table, but also to keep his wife in University.  But through it all she emerged at the top of her class with optimism towards her change of vocation and a bright outlook on the influence that she could have toward a group of young Canadians that would be at the forefront of a bright new future for our progressive nation.

Since that time I have seen my mother struggle and succeed in her position as an educator.  I have come home many late nights to find her sleeping amongst a pile of half-graded papers.  I have seen her spend long sunny weekends inside developing lesson plans, while still balancing all the work that goes into raising a family.  We have learned so much from each other, her strength and diligence has given me the courage to grow into the independent, intelligent gay man that I’ve become, and I’ve hated to see the pressure that she has felt from parents, superiors, and her province when it has come to what she is allowed to say and do. I have seen my mother retreat into her position, prepared to more comfortably act as a pawn of her government, than the dynamic, creative, and loving individual that she is.

I have always believed that some of the most important education that I have received in my lifetime has come to me through my family.  And although I was lucky enough to be a member of a family that embraced and supported diversity, we were never without our faults.  My mother and I struggled through the worst of my teen-angst, but slowly we learned to come to terms with the fact that neither of us were without our faults. But for all that my family provided me, it was my environment that taught me to not trust the first thing that you hear. I ask myself now where I would be if I hadn’t had an extraneous network of strong educators to help me expand and open my mind.  Before I even came out as a gay man to my parents, I had a strong back bone of support that not only came from my peers, but also from the most incredible set of educators that the Calgary Separate School system could have provided me.  Not once did any of them fear that they might have been overstepping their bounds by providing me with the independent adult thought that I so needed at the time.

We are all a part of a network of incredible connections.  We grumble when we are pushed harder than we would prefer.  More than once I’ve grumbled at a professor whose workload has prevented me from partying as hard as I would like, but I’ve always emerged at the end of the term with a greater understanding of the course material and the world around me.  If we allow our education system to be dictated completely by the diverse set of family values that permeate our lives, how are any of our educators ever going to feel free to take a risk, to push their students to question the world around them, or to cultivate the attitudes of acceptance that our world demands?

And perhaps this is why I find Bill 44 so insulting to Alberta and Canada as a whole.  To see a province of teachers once again be restricted in the ways in which they are allowed to operate, not only takes a blow to me personally because of my mother, but also because I pride myself on the free and progressive society that I continue to believe I reside in.

It’s easy to sit back and relax out here in B.C. and consider ourselves unscathed.  It’s easy to look to our eastern neighbors and scoff at the silly conservative structure that they continue to reinforce themselves within.  It’s easy to think that we have it better without their snow and their structure.  But are we really??  Are we really so immune from the attitudes that reside in the places outside of B.C.??

I guess I can only hope that we are.  And I guess that I can only hope that the youth of Alberta who are most in need of an open-mind and an open-ear find what they are looking for in places outside of the school system, because their teachers may no longer be able to provide for them what they need.

So to every educator who ever forced me to push my limits, to every educator who ever threatened to fail me, and to every educator who ever provided me with a fresh outlook on the world around me, this one is for you.

And to my mother…

The most hard-assed educator of all.