Race

Tonight, I was at the Bluma Appel Theatre in Toronto for a performance of Race, work of American playwright David Mamet. And it made me incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe it's becasue I still struggle to understand the darker undercurrents of my African/Caribbean culture which includes resentment and what I feel is some deep rooted internalized self-victimization. So, thank you Mamet. As for you all, the punch-lines, lawyer jargon and sometimes c(rude) language may not be for everyone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. And considering I'm running on an estimated 4 hours of sleep and much coffee, that's saying a lot.

Read more about it here and here.

For now just enjoy the pic :P

Life: Little Things

After being 30 minutes late to your therapist's and talking about fun stuff such as but not limited to being able to draw parallels between your father and a dictator, your death, your emotional distress when things don't go your way (let's say you have mild OCD) and a bunch of other bright lovely things... you don't know what to do with yourself anymore. You try to go find your old dance teacher who could shake you out of any bad mood, but you forgot today's a holiday, and just your luck, her gorgeous son you still haven't the balls to ask to prom is there, but not her. You try to find your old peaceful place, this little bookstore you found once by mistake, but you can't anymore. You spend all of your savings on stuff for your mom. You paid 10$ of food and not only are you not hungry, but you feel like puking the 10$'s worth of Subway and Tim Horton's straight out. Sooo, what do you do? You head home to do your homework. But to make yourself feel better, you choose the ultimate transportation for angry musings and upset stomachs and poetic energy bottled up that hasn't found a way to express itself yet. 

This my friends, is where most of my magic happens. Not what you'd expect, but it's quite good in terms of a chill place to chill after a back-to-back cigarette moment. Cheers to crappy transportation and calming yourself the fuck down.

Life: Going To Good Saturday Mass

Ahh yes... the joyful sounds of a congregation in unity with its God... quite a joyous event indeed, unless you are in what I would call a irritable disposition. Or as others would say, in a "bitch mood". And so at 7:30PM, I dolled myself all up to go join other unfortunate souls that would have to endure 3 hours worth of this. Anyhow, I'm not a total Catholic-hater, even though I've been an official member of the Roman Catholic Church for 17 years now. I was a bad mood, and it just happens that tonight's mass is getting all the shit for it. First and foremost, I would like to say that it wasn't that bad. Actually, the whole celebration was all in all uneventful. Except:

1. The woman behind me shamelessly engaging in social farting, burping and noise disturbance. Kind of reminds me of this. Like, we're in a church, lady.

2. The Little Gremlin shouting "I WANT MY CANDLE BACK" out of his wits during what is supposed to be a special endearing moment with like a thousand lights shinning bright at the same time. If I'm not mistaken, the Papa Gremlin also proceeded in taking pictures of said Little Gremlin (a few times) during mass. Once more, has it not occurred to people that they are celebrating the Death and Resurrection of a guy who'd like a little respect? No? You rather Instagram that shit? Ok then...

3. The choir members who, during their solos, thought it best to abandon all notion of musicality and breath mid-sentence, or not hold a note properly, or just say "SCREW PITCH" altogether. Ok, I'm being picky but come one. If I can't enjoy my Gregorian chants the way they should be, maybe Jesus won't come the way he should either. Like, with a missing leg or eye. Or maybe he'll be so thrown off balance thinking, "Haven't I given them enough time to prepare for all this?!!?!?" that he'll just walk by the door. So yeah.

4. The standing and sitting and standing and sitting. I know I can't make up my mind sometimes, but you're a priest for God's sake! Isn't your job in life to meditate on such important matter,s capable of keeping the last remaining sheep on board with all this shit? Also, I don't want to turn this into a political debate but... when the priest starts mentioning compassion and love, my skin cringes, my hairline recedes a few meters, my teeth and nails fall out and I literally turn to dust. It's kinda like, "Yo Bro, don't rap 'bout som'thin you kno nothin' 'bout, you kno what I'm sayin'?" with the bad grammar and all.

5. The smell of incense. Which hihi sounds a lot like incest. But please, let's us not make references to inappropriate behavior while talking about such serious matters. God, the smell. I had debate all the while walking to church whether or not to grill a cig before the mass murder of my numerous neurons. Upon entering the house of God, I realized that there would have been no issues, since the place stank of smoke. At which point I cursed for all my careful planning had been in vain. I guess the priests we're going all out: drunk and high, all in one night. What would Papa God/Jesus/Holy Spirit say? But the greater question is, how could these people, having vowed a life of chastity and poverty and stuff, be living it up way better than me? One of the great mysteries of life I guess.

HIGHTLIGHT OF MY NIGHT: What could beat the Vietnamese priest's accent. Nothing. Exactly. Also, why couldn't the Pope be Vietnamese. That would of been totally badass.

All in all, not a bad mass. I was able to regroup at home, watching re-runs of Criminal Minds while eating Candbery eggs. So, all this to say

HAPPY EASTER/PASSOVER/LONG WEEKEND

(For those still interested in the good stuff aka Gregorian chants)

Dear Diary: You Had Me

We looked into each other's eyes. How you found your way to me, in the dark corner, is still a mystery. You entered the room and made your way to me, eyes on the prize. I think I was the prize, I'm not really sure. Maybe I was just your best bet for an actual conversation, and not just a night of nonsensical slurring gibberish. At long last, you arrived in front of me. You had me at "Hello"...not really. 

You never had me at all. To have me, you would actually have to say "Hello". You never said "Hello" or any other words of greeting, or any words at all. All I get from you are those stares, those eyes that follow me all the way home and still make my skin crawl, my body get warm, my stomach tingle and my heart drop in anticipation. In anticipation of what, I know not, since I've waited many years and it seems more  years of vain impatience are to come. 

I need something from you and I have no idea what it is. Some validation that I haven't simply built this whole relationship in my head, I guess. I wanted to make sure today. I wanted to talk. That didn't happen. You only come ever so often (never), and I just wanted a word. Something. Time ticked away, making me a little later for the next class because my whole being was hungry for a sign. And that's when I realized I was among a bunch of these girls, just waiting to lay themselves at your feet. I was never going to through myself in your arms, that was a given. 

However, I was the last fan to leave.

Dear Diary: Am I A People (Boy) Repellent?

Dear Diary,

I've always been the sheltered type. That's why I expect nothing less than having many steamy affairs with several of my male professors in university once I'm a freshman. I also expect some heavy drinking and a drug intake that would make Whitney Houston look good. (No offense Whit, I'll always love you too).Being sheltered so much has put a real brake on the development of my social skills. In brief, I am headed for the nunnery or a cave in some far away forest to start my life as a hermit if I don't act fast. 

So I did what I thought normal people do when they don't know how to hit it off socially. In my quasi non-existent catalog of boys I know, I chose the ones I would consider reproducing with. Then, it was a process of elimination, kind of like a multiple choice life or death pop quiz: who had terrible hygiene, who couldn't carry a conversation to save his life, who I would be embarrassed to bring home for Christmas if things were to go too well, who I'd have to kick myself not to set on fire... 

And then, there was one name left. Joy! Contentment  Satisfaction! The next step was clear: ask the guy out! We were on lukewarm terms, he wasn't the athletic type I always saw myself with (I want to be picked up and thrown around caveman style people!) and he lived abroad. However, he was the intellectual type, a musician and had a different kind of beauty only certain people can truly admire. My type of boy. After a sleepless night and a 5 hour conversation with an insomniac friend, the perfect message was created (her idea, not mine):

Me (7:48 AM)

Hi. I heard you were back in the city, wanna grab some sushi?

Him (11:35AM, same day)

[message has been viewed]

I kid you not. This is as far as it's gotten until now. Tomorrow is Friday. What did I do wrong? Was the hip wording not correct? Or did the purposely bad grammar through him off? The brief, concise, no commitment attached message wasn't CLEAR? For pity's sake! 

So now I'm stunned, and angry. It's not like he has an excuse, he's seen the message. Maybe the intention of getting lunch didn't come across. I dare say eating no-crumb, barely messy, quite delicious food may be okaying a quick shot-gun marriage and agreeing to a life of child bearing and poverty. 

Of course, I could be over exaggerating (I'm really into that). My friend thinks he may actually have a decent excuse. In the midst of the blablabla overlapping her condoning his evil plan to ruin my night sleep, I think I may have heard a "Well, maybe he likes you" that was quickly sent back to wherever it had come from.

Pity party aside, the thought of him feeling more than friendship is too terrorizing. It would mean that I have no brick wall to hide behind if this going-no-where-until-now-makeshift-relationship goes to hell. It would meant the butterflies in my stomach could stay there longer in stead of dropping dead after weeks of unrequited love. 

OR, I'm making love scenarios in my head again, and the point of this story would be to make your list of potentials with more rigor and chose the one that's weak with women next time. Or become a nun. Or a hermit. It's up to you to decide.   

Dear Diary: Night Soul Search

Dear Diary,

I was never one for change. The 6 letter word scares me, shakes me in my very bones. It means that shifts are inevitable, that every time I think I've reached some kind of stability, things get messed and here I go for another unwanted round of "AHHHHHH!!".

I mean, I have changed. I stopped sucking my thumb, and most recently, I've gone natural (click here if you don't know what it means) and decided to live a more holistic lifestyle (exercise, healthier food, the whole shebang). Ironically, I also started smoking, which kind of defeats the purpose, but who's to judge that it was a stupid thing to do?

And I've been depressed. I mean, I was always the emotional type, and mood swings were a daily thing -- an hourly battle. But I mean, I've been REALLY depressed. (details some other time maybe...) I've been unable to sit down unless it's for watching reruns of some kind (Gilmore Girls anyone?) or mope for hours at a time. I'm tired of misery wanting me as company. 

So I did what I do when I've been circling the same annoying dark thoughts in my head: I went for a night time walk.
First things first: getting ready for the occasion: pants, coat and three pairs of socks (it's incredibly cold out there!). I-pod in tow, I walked out of the house ready to kick myself in the face for wasting more time that could have been used for more scholarly purposes such as but not limited to my geography project I told my partner I had already done -- one week ago.

First Stop: a bench in my neighborhood's park. My feet were already freezing, but the cigarettes were sure to help...calm my throbbing head. One of the many benefits of those calcium filled beauties is that they make me spit like a sailor. Which makes me a hypocrite because I hate when people spit in public. But since I was all alone among my tree friends and the jungle gym, I got a free pass. I turned the I-pod off, the noise wasn't making the throbbing go away either. And then, the impossible happened: silence. I never realized how pretty it was. The snowflakes waltzing through the warm glow of the streetlights made it all the more enjoyable. It was now time for the second and last stop of my little escapade.

Final Destination & Favorite Place in the World: the arboretum. I walked down the slope to the river and was overjoyed by the sound of water that broke the silence. I thought the whole thing would be an ice rink by now. You have to count your blessings, right? I crossed the bridge and went through the sinuous path sheltered by leafless branches to reach the final destination. My lone tree had been surrounded by new young ones since the last time I'd seen it. It was where I had buried my bird Blueberry. It was my sitting tree, my thinking tree, my chillax tree. I unceremoniously rid it of snow so I could sit comfortably. I breathed. It was my first breathe in ages. Like the little loner I was, I sat there calming myself out of the tantrum-panic attack I had momentarily been in earlier. Snowflakes greeted my face, replaced the tears that had been there only moments ago. My heart found a steady pace. I know I have to stop observing life and start being an active participant, but... this place absorbs my pain and my anger like an unknowing sponge, without wanting anything in return. Maybe the next time I spat, it would get the bitter taste and everything else finally out. 

It's a New Year, but that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that everything will get resolved, that my life will change in a significant manner even if I want it too. I need to stop being a spectator and believing that my life is a movie or book and that wishful thinking is going to get me what I want. I'm going to get me what I want, even thought "that" has a very obscure meaning at the moment. Now, if I can just hold on to that feeling, I'll be just fine. I'll be OK. 

This year will be different.

Xmas is Overrated

I know, I know. How COULD I?? The happiest period of the year, when you can get away of literally EVERYTHING that annoys you to death -- school, work, friends...you can even let you pet die "by accident (I don't recommend it though).

So why am I having anti Xmas feelings??

Well, for starters, this is my first year as a divorcee's kid. So, you know, while all the families are ice skating and drinking hot chocolate like in the commercials, I was dealing with a very drab atmosphere at the dinner table for Christmas Eve, little brothers complaining about a supper they didn't help prepare and all. Then, my Mom felt sick, and I ended up doing my hair and watching The Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty (ballet versions, duh) with the poor Mommy.

Then, I drowned my murderous mood from such a sucky time in front of several episodes of Gilmore Girls, before being ousted to my bed around 1:20 AM.
 
The next day, I was to sing in the choir at church (you can guess how I feel about that, right?) and boy did I feel jolly. After my brothers were picked up by my father, my Mom and I waited for friends to bring us to their place for an informal Christmas bash, from where I'm writing to you right night.

By Christmas wasn't excellent in many ways, but at least I was in god company and I felt OK.

At least there was a flicker of some Holiday cheer.

I guess it wasn't all that bad, come to think of it. But still, Christmas is kind of overrated. How many snow-mans can you have? How many blinding lights? Why can't we send that money to people wh can't celebrate this festive time because they're trying to survive?? (JUST SAYING!!!)

Anyhow, Christmas was over 18 minutes ago...

I guess I can be my bitchy self again now!!

Hamlet's Sleep

Mere succession of unfortunate events
Occasionally highlighted
By intermissions of sunshine
Or white lies to stay relevant.

     Why forget the pain
     Clear indication
     That our lungs fill
     With poisoned air

     That our being
     Grows weary of
     Our abuse

     That we approach
     Our inexorable
     end.

          Forget these things
          With the false certainty
          That better things are to come

          Pushing our minds
          To the brink of insanity
          To the edge of an infinity
          Of sadness.

Why do we search
Our own hurting?
Why entertain the ghosts
Crowding our hellish nightmares?
Why leave a legacy of dreams
That amount to nothing
     and will soon the specks
          in History's dust?

I would much rather
be a privileged member
Of Hamlet's macabre sleep

A dissolving essence

                       in eternal

                                        slumber.

Hair and Gay People

I find it funny that my aunt whose a nun is the one that despise my natural hair the most. My head looks like a funky pinnaple 24/7 now, and I guess they never thought her anything about that breed of piannaple in the nunhouse.

Kind of like someone saying:

"I love and respect and include and have compassion for everyone... except gay people."

Since when did gay people not count as people, I have no idea.