July 29, 2004

Yes. I forgot to mention that at the time of the last entry, I had been drinking more than a fair amount of sake and subsequently dozed off at the keyboard. Ergo, should the last entry seem somewhat disjointed or completely without focus, or even seem to end all too suddenly, that should explain why. If it doesn't... well, then I guess you've probably been here too long and it's time to move on.

* * *

They're not my photos, but a couple of them are of me. Joyride at regionals last weekend. Next stop, Canadian Nationals.

July 28, 2004

Yesterday marked the third anniversary of the date that I left Japan. I have now spent as much time back as I spent away, and I don't know what to do next. I'm thinking that as my time in Japan was finite, I felt a certain amount of impetus to devise some sort of scheme for the immediate future - which, in all fairness, didn't work out as planned, but that's neither here nor there at the moment. At this juncture, I don't really have a plan, because I don't have to. There is no set amount of time that I am to spend in Vancouver, and at the moment, I cannot help but wonder if this fact had fed into my apathy and overall dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in my life over the past three years.

This is not an easy quandary to face - particualrly when I think upon the number of opportunities I have let slip past simply due to lack of effort. I'm almost embarrassed. Have all the quiet nights, all the lonely moments, the depression and the unhappiness all been a direct result of my knowing that I don't have to leave this place? Was that the pressure that drove me to experience all that I could while I was away? Odd indeed to call this place 'home', when more often than not I feel more a stranger than I ever did in my rural mountain town in Kyushu.

Yet despite the tone that I currently voice, I am quite comfortable here - I have plenty of friends, I only hate my job a little (but who doesn't, really?) and I am perhaps in better shape than I have been since joining the Saga Barbarians Rugby Club. I just have the occasional evening in which I reminisce on the heightened state of living I experienced overseas - the same as anyone else, I reckon. Isn't that why folks travel?

July 21, 2004

Yeah. So I only managed to grind out two topics on Saturday. What can I say? Transcribing the exchange with the Angry Young Man took a lot out of me. The following four days were the usual 'work and play so much ultimate so that when you get home you can't hardly think let alone write' schedule. Today would be the same kind of day, save that I only had a single game this evening and so have a slight surfeit of energy to expend. Not to say that I remember what I was going to write about last time, mind you - but I suppose I'm going to write about something.

Maybe.

* * *

I reckon the first thing that should be mentioned is that I have forsaken smoking. Shocking, I know. Those who have known me for a number of years and have heard my "I'm not a quitter" diatribe are likely somewhat taken aback. It is at this juncture that I note (somewhat conveniently) that it has been some time since I have provided you, dear reader, with a salient definition of a word. Ergo:

forsake - vt. forsook; forsaken; forsaking [Middle English forsaken, from Old English forsacan, from for- + sacan to dispute; akin to Old English sacu action at law]

1. to renounce (as something once cherished) without intent to recover or resume (to forsake a bad habit)
2. to quit or leave entirely: withdraw from (she forsook the theater for politics)

synonyms: ABANDON
antonyms: RETURN (TO), REVERT (TO)

And a more appropriate word to define my present state of mind and situation, I cannot imagine.

Reasons for my recent defection to the ranks of the Healthy? Numerous. Some which are obvious, some which are...

... interrupted by a very long phone call from Japan. Don't you just hate it when the world gets in the way of your plans? I might get this finished by the weekend, if I'm lucky.

July 17, 2004

Well, it's Saturday and I'm at home working on the webpage. Doesn't really bother me, though - I've had one of those "I really don't want to see anyone" days. They happen to me sometimes; it's all part of being a misanthrophile, don'cha know. As far as you're concerned, it's probably for the best: you get something to read for the next few minutes.

I've actually had a whole bunch of ideas this week, but I just couldn't find the time and/or energy to sit down and churn them out. Expect something of a mish-mosh of topics... although I'm hoping to have a modicum more coherency than I had last week. I'm having to fight off the urge to delete the entry and make like it never happened - my ring finger is already twitching in anticipation.

* * *

I was playing around with File Manager the other day (at work, of course) and ran across a few new stats for you:

• A surprising 63.64% of the people visiting my page use Mac OS.
• 87.57% of my traffic links from the Unknown - I just like the sound of that.
• 0.18% links from Unisexpocky - Mandy and Kevin's page, so I thought I'd return the favour.

I can't really offer any reason why, but I have to say that I found that Mac stat particularly surprising. I suppose I just assumed that as I use a PC, everybody else must as well. That's the kind of thinking that gets you into trouble when it's about anything else but computers - and I'm almost ashamed to admit it here. Of course, the more beer I drink, the faster the shame recedes... a couple more bottles and I'll be telling you what colour boxers I'm wearing.

Getting back to the sweeping generalizations, however, I find myself wondering what else I am grossly misinformed about. I've always considered myself to be rather open-minded and accepting of all that transpires in this world, and it surprises me to realize that I am guilty of making uninformed assumptions. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'm upset about it or anything (though I may incur the wrath of countless rabid Mac users - which, come to think of it, might just spell the end of this little endeavour), I just don't like to find out I've been taking thing for granted. Assumption is the mother of disaster... or something like that.

* * *

Just as an aside, I have just had my physical well-being threatened by a somewhat angry young man wandering up and down the street, looking for someone named Shanna (sp?). Sitting here, quietly wishing things were proceeding somewhat more mellifluously, I overheard the disturbance outside and went out to the balcony to investigate. Curiousity killed the yadda-yadda-yadda - as soon as I stepped outside, the guy looked up at me.

ANGRY YOUNG MAN (AYM): You don't have Shanna up there, do you?
YOUR HUMBLE NARRATOR (YHN): What?
Note that YHN wishes he could have provided a more eloquent response but was somewhat taken aback by the immediacy with which he was interrogated. As this is an unabashed account of actual events, after all, YHN is refraining from partaking in the "I'm so witty" practice of editing.
AYN: Shanna. Is she up there?
YHN: I'm afraid I don't know any Shanna.
AYM: You better not be lying.
YHN: Come again?
AYM: You heard me. I find out she's in there, and I'm gonna kick your ass!
YHN: ...
YHN contemplates making AYM as mad as possible, but then decides he hasn't had enough beer yet.
YHN: Right. You have a good evening, then.
AYM: Fuck you! You think I'm joking? Come down here, and I'll show you who's joking!
YHN: (Laughing.) No, I'm quite comfortable making fun of you from up here, thanks.
AYM: You think you're fuckin' funny? I'd fuckin' kill you if you weren't so fuckin' chickenshit! Come on! Come down and we'll see how fuckin' funny you are!
Other interested parties have begun to appear on balconies, wondering what is going on.
THE GUY UPSTAIRS (TGU): Hey, what's going on?
YHN: Dude's looking for someone named Shanna... and he's going to kick my ass.
TGU: Oh, yeah?
AYM: You! Have you got Shanna in there?
TGU: Wait. I'm not talking to you yet. Who's Shanna?
YHN: Beats me. Looks like she pissed this guy off pretty good, though.
AYM: Fuck you! I'm talking to you! Shanna! You in there?
TGU: Buddy - there's no Shanna here. Go home.
AYM: Fuck you! I'm not goin' fuckin' anywhere! Shanna!
YHN: Hey, dude. Why do you think she's here?
AYM: None of your fuckin' business, faggot!
YHN: You shouting like an asshole outside my house kind of makes it my business, don't you think?
TGU: You think she's avoiding you because you're such a good communicator?
AYM: Fuck you!
YHN: You said that already. Does this mean you're finished?
AYM: You better hope I don't find Shanna in there! I know where you live!
TGU: That's because you dragged us out here with all of your shouting, fucker! You want me to call the cops?
AYM: Yeah, a faggot like you would!
At this juncture, YHN retires indoors to transcribe the exchange. More insults are traded until eventually AYM departs.

Sometimes I love my neighbourhood. If it's not the boyfriends looking for their girlfriends, it's the junkies looking for their dealers. The fun never stops around here. The Guy Upstairs, to his credit, is usually the one involved in the shouting matches - I usually just sit and listen. He's gone on for at least an hour before - that was the time somebody pushed everyone's buzzer in a vain attempt to get in. It really is an exercise in futility, but every once in a while, I'll jump in.

July 11, 2004

The beginning is always the hardest - although I am occationally blessed with a few seconds of frenetic fingertip activity, more often than not my hands lay quiet and paralytic upon the keys. The dour editor of this fiction that is my life resides in the ring finger of my right hand, ever eager to bring it down in a hammerstroke upon the backspace key, dispelling whatever cantrips my hands sought to conjure.

I'd like to tell you that it is only a question of inertia, and that once the first few words spill out, the rest is as an unblocked river, but unfortunately this is not the case. In my experience, writing is a whole lot of glassy-eyed staring at a space a few inches in front of the screen (or page, for the luddites in the audience), the mind fluctuating between moments of vacuous calm and flashes of tempestuous cacophony. Whichever it might be at any given moment, it generally adds up to the same thing: motionless fingers. It's not all that easy to explain - there are countless things I could write about, to be sure: last weekend's tournament in Washington, how I almost got killed on the way home from said tournament, the week at work, my brother's visit fom Montreal or even about the girl who managed to get herself mentioned here despite all my efforts to prevent it; it's just that for some reason, I don't.

To wit: the last word of the paragraph above took me a good five minutes to settle on, and I still am not sure if it is the right one. Do I mean "can't", which obviously is not the case, as all of the above has been written and is subsequently now before your eyes - or obviously is the case, as I haven't actually written about any of them? Do I mean "won't", although now that I have (written about them), would have raised questions about my willpower and ability to control my actions?

What this really is is a fine example of the dangers of writing without any sense of focus. I can't even call it stream of consciousness, as I am censoring 99 percent of the thoughts that spring to mind. To be fair (and perfectly honest), a large percentage of those thoughts (and I am too coy to quantify this amount) are about the same thing.

Right. Breaktime. This is getting insane.

* * *MY FATHER
TOO BROKE
TO BE WED
NEVER GOT
MY MOTHER
A DIAMOND

HE CLAIMED TO ADORE HER
TOO MUCH TO PROFANE HER
WITH GEMS MADE OF ASHES

- Christian Bok

I've been reading Bok's Crystallography recently, hence the double dosage of quotation today. It's a fascinating read; it's nice to find someone else who has an appreciation not only for the beauty of the words in combination, but also for the beauty of the words (and at times, the letters) themselves. There's a skilful manipulation of the language at work here, one that resonates on a number of levels. I'm not about to go into literary critique mode here, but he's definitely worth checking out. I wonder if he's a calligrapher? It wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Seeing as good things come in threes, it would inarguably be uncouth of me to provide you with a mere pair of quotes, and therefore, in the pursuit of bringing more good into the world, I offer the following:

Properties of the crystalline are proper ties of the crystal line.