A photo of Lisa, lying on Trolley’s bed, treating her surface piercing with salt water after a mid-day burn. The light was already coming through the window, but the smoke made the individual rays distinguishable. I’m pretty satisfied with the way the colours turned out, although the picture doesn’t really capture how much darker the rest of the room was. Definitely a very particular mood, like being under a flourishing tree on a sunny summer day, with the cool feeling of grass underfoot.

Lisa is one of those people with which one can spend time without having to worry about running out of things to say. She can do enough talking to keep a conversation going, so as long as the vibe is right, there are no awkward silences. She gave me a super for the first time, and I could barely move afterwards (although this is also partially be due to the hydro I graciously got through Adam). It was a little scary to feel so out-of-control, but everything was comfortable enough for me to keep it together. I was peaking for more than an hour straight, something I hadn’t experienced since I first started, what Scarface would call, “back in the day”.

It’s always interesting to meet someone from a totally different group of stoners. Each group has their own style, rituals, etiquette. One can tell a lot from how someone rolls, how long they take before passing, how carefully they correct runs, or simply how they act when they’re under the influence. The session becomes a way for people to share their traditions with others, to discover the characters of people that may otherwise remain hidden behind the guard put up in everyday life. By taking part, one becomes open in letting others know that one is comfortable enough to even act out of character.

Sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for inspiration when I write. Like I’m waiting for a specific mood, or a specific song to come on and guide me through an entry. Lately, that inspiration seems to avoid me. I keep trying to write about things that I feel I should write about, instead of the things I want to write about. Every time I search my head for the proper mood or mindset, it’s only memories that appear.

And they surface like photographs, each one a still frame capturing an experience, expressed in sound, warmth, light, and odour. I’m on the streets of Hong Kong again, surrounded by people, browsing through the knick-knacky stores with the heat of the sun soaking through my shirt. I’m skating on the Canal, mapping the imperfections of the ice as I glide across them, the night sky burning with the orange of winter. I’m wondering through the mall of my hometown, enjoying the strange familiarity of a place I frequented so long ago, hoping I don’t bump into an ex. I’m in uniform, clutching the lapels of my blazer, as I step out from the heat of grandiose wooden doors into the snow-washed quad. I’m on the bus to New York, trying to figure out which passengers are coming or going, wondering where my own journey would take me.

I fight against these memories, trying to write about something more relevant. In the end, I write about nothing, and I can’t fight against it anymore. I have to write the things I want, inspired by the things I think. I have to let go one more time.

From myself, instead of others.

Freud saw projection as a defence mechanism, a way of dealing with the thoughts and ideas that make someone anxious. By subconsciously attributing these unwanted thoughts and ideas on other people, one may be comforted by the false fact that they are not alone, or that there is someone else they can direct their anger towards instead of themselves. While I don’t disagree with this approach to psychoanalytic theory (I’m generally a Freudian up until his ideas on developmental life stages), this is a much more severe, and less common, form of my experience with projection.

Projection (or projection bias) can be defined as unconsciously assuming that others share the same or similar thoughts, beliefs, values, or positions on any given subject.

In this case, the fault lies in the assumption, and the assumption is based on the fact that many believe others to be like themselves. One may present this as a deductive logical argument, like so:

Premise 1:

I have felt this way in a certain situation / I would feel this way in a certain situation

Premise 2:

Someone else is in this situation

Conclusion:

Therefore, that person must feel the same way that I felt / that person must feel the way that I would feel

Although audiatur et altera pars is not necessarily seen as direct proof of a fallacy, the implicit premise involved in this argument is also the most important one.

Implicit premise:

All people think the way I do when put in the same situation.

This happens to be the premise that is false. It is also often implied, not on purpose, but because (and I’ll hazard an opinion here) humans are naturally egocentric. Many make solid judgments on things that are purely subjective, taking their view as Word. An example of this is someone saying, “This song is good”, instead of, “I think this song is good”. Sometimes this is the innocent result of laziness (of which I can be guilty), but in many cases, it’s due to the fact that the person actually refuses to believe anything else to be true.

It’s in the case of the latter that assumptions can lead to projection, what I find to be an extremely frustrating thing to deal with. If I don’t talk to someone, that doesn’t mean that I never want to talk to them again. For someone to assume this to be true of me, based on their own thoughts and ideas in the same situation, and then call me out on this, is ARROGANT. When I’m freshly out of a relationship, I feel stronger and inspired. For me, this is an inherent side-effect of breaking up. A break-up occurs due to the fact that there is unhappiness in a relationship, and when the relationship ends, there is a tremendous freedom from this unhappiness. For some people, the opposite is true, and for one of these people to “comfort” me because they think I feel worthless and doubtful is INSULTING.

I’ve worked hard to be a better person, to outgrow the weaknesses and faults that I’ve grown up with. For someone to believe that I have a weakness or fault that I’ve cast aside, simply because they haven’t yet, is just plain sad. This one hits me especially hard because it trivializes the tremendous amount of effort I put into self-improvement.

And as a result of what? Careless assumption. I’m not egocentric enough to believe that others think the way I do.

All I ask is that others do the same.

Let me make this perfectly clear.

I am not like you. I do not think the same way that you do. Never. Ever. EVER. Ever believe that you understand, or assume that you know, how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking just because you are, or have ever been, in the same situation.

To believe that you understand, is arrogant. To assume that you know, is an insult.

You’re usually wrong anyway.

I was listening to Manson’s second album, Antichrist Superstar, for the first time after a several year hiatus on the bus to work this morning. I was reminded of how much I went through with this album, for most of high-school and nearly two entire relationships. How comforting this music was for me, on the journey home from my exhausting classes and elitist classmates. It’s the only good album Manson ever put out, and also happens to be the only album that Trent Reznor produced for him. I’m willing to bet that it isn’t simple coincidence.

I never really get a chance to listen to these songs; even though I consider the music to be metal, the songs are too dark and moody to fit into my metal playlist. It’s the same thing with Tool. Aside from Opiate, which was just an EP anyway,Tool’s music has never fit into any specific genre to me. They have a metal feel and progressive rock elements, but are never enough of one or the either to fit into any of my playlists.

Trolley and I went to get some paint chips. It wasn’t too long since my last session before we left. In the store I was surrounded by colour, a pedestal of floating gradients.

We move in a little over a month. I think I’ll do my room in a dark blue, and two walls of the living room in light beige. Trolley’s thinking either light grey or deep red for his.

Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I’ve been really moody lately. Extremely moody. Almost on an emotional level.

Another post-breakup phase. I go through this for a few months after breaking up with someone, but it only started to hit me recently. Funny how I’ve only now had enough relationships to actually realize this. I look at my monthly archives from the beginning of the blog and most of them begin with some emotional, confused line. In fact, this entire blog started as a way to vent these post break-up thoughts and feelings, until it became something more than that. Now I’m falling back into that trap. I’m starting to do stupid shit again, things I wish I didn’t do, afterwards.

Every day, in my head, I plan out my entries for the next week. Yet, every time I sit down to type, I’m never in the mood to write. It’s just the same shit, over and over again.

The difference is that this time I know what to do. I’ve been looking for too much meaning in too little.

I want to get out. For the first time in my life, I’m sick of this winter. I want to sit in the sun. I want to be amongst others.

I want to lay on the track, feel hot steel screaming at me
Expose the bones on my back, let me show you what I mean.

Ugh. I feel tainted. Moody. It feels like no one likes me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alone.

I just started three different entries, but didn’t finish any of them. I’m not even in the mood to write this. I’m just sitting here with the lights out, two Candellas perched on top of my desk, and the first volume of Buddha Bar resounding in the room. My head is numb, my throat dry, my cat uninterested.

This has become so bland. The same things over and over again. Where did my humour go? When did things stop changing? Maybe I need a break from this.

Tomorrow, I’ll finish this tomorrow. This is just a mood. I’ll explain when I’m not as tired. I’ll go to bed with this music on, dreaming of quaint European architecture and parties I could host to this sound.

Maybe I’ll feel better when I hit, “Publish”.

A couple emerged from two heavy doors at the National Arts Centre (Human Resources entrance) as I was on the 95 today, passing down the Mackenzie King Bridge. One was a woman, very slender, who looked as if she was in her early thirties but was probably in her late thirties. The man was what someone would consider an appropriate match, being slightly taller than her, and dressed in the same half-casual jeans-with-overcoat style.

For a moment, they stood outside the doors, appropriately adorning their shuffled coats and scarves according to the late winter weather. They looked as if they had emerged from the resolution of an emotional fight, or some very guilty sex in a broom closet.

Their first steps were almost languid, but I could tell that it wasn’t a physical exhaustion. They were pacing each other out, waiting for the other person to talk first, and their footsteps were how they subconsciously spoke to each other. It was as if they both knew that they had done something wrong. Whether it was intentional or not was unclear, but it was certain that neither person was more at fault than the other.

They continued walking together, westbound, with that slight distance between them that’s reserved for couples who are either trying to hide their physical longing for the other or trying to express their angry emotions. I could tell that the silence was comfortable, as neither of them spoke, because there weren’t any right words to be said at that moment.

I watched them in fascination as they continued down the street with their hands in their own pockets. Each of them understood exactly what the other was thinking, but were hesitant to say anything before knowing how the other felt first. When they spoke next, it would be in one-word sentences. Their faces showed how much they had been through together, and how much was at risk at that very moment.

But it was how their silence spoke volumes of how well they knew each other that made me wonder if I would ever feel the same.

While John was here, we got into a discussion about hypocrisy. Being the complex person that he is, he admitted that he sees no problem with acting in a hypocritical manner. In fact, he tried to convince me to feel the same way. “You’re letting your morals get in the way of advancement”, he would say. I don’t heed any of this advice, of course, because our mindsets, goals, and relationships are founded on two different sets of values, this being one of them. Having built the first twenty-four years of our lives on this foundation doesn’t make it difficult for us to change them, but makes us indifferent to change instead. As much as we like to consider ourselves dynamic individuals, able to adapt to a situation in the best manner possible, this is limited by our desire (or lack thereof) to do so.

In any case, I find it difficult to be a hypocritical person, and in turn, I find hypocritical people difficult. The most aggravating are those who are hypocritical critics. I don’t have a problem with people pointing out my flaws. I have them, and I admit it. It’s the first step towards self-improvement. It’s also great for gaining perspective, for learning how different people interpret things (because I know that many see problems where there are none).

I do, however, have a problem with the people who freely give criticism, when they can’t take it themselves. These are the hypocritial critics; the people who judge others past themselves, when they are the last ones who should be passing judgement on anyone. This hypocrisy may stem from something as complex as insecurity, to something as simple as upbringing (especially as a result of parents who refuse to admit fault to their children). It becomes especially important in equal (non-authoratative) relationships to recognize the barriers that get put up by such a double standard.

Funny how an authoratative relationship taught me this.

A shot of the rear entrance of Social, a restaurant I’ve only dined in once, but have passed by, wishing I was inside, many times. I like how the mood in the shot is warm, against the implied cold from the Christmas lights. One could sit here at any time of year and soak up the serenity, where a song by Sigur Rós (at night, when it’s comfortably crowded) is as relevant as a song by Edith Piaff (particularly in the fall, when the skies are grey) is as relevant as a song by Iron And Wine (during the early days of summer, when it’s still cool in the evening).

I swear I’m missing some underwear.

For the longest time, I had enough boxers to get me through the week at least, but now I find myself having to do laundry before Saturday comes around. I can’t imagine anyone actually taking them, although every time I lose an article of clothing, I always suspect the most recent ex-girlfriend first. This isn’t for any specific reason (in fact, I’m pretty sure none of them have ever actually taken anything), and is probably just a paranoia cultivated through group hug confessions.

That, and knowing how important smell can be to someone. Ashley, in particular, used to take my undershirts on a regular basis. She’d tell me to wear them for days (good thing Asian people don’t sweat), and we’d have a rotation thing going on where I’d give her a new (used) shirt when I couldn’t see her for a while. She told me that she’d fall asleep clutching them, although the smell would never last longer than a week.

Michele was different. She didn’t have any natural scent, and told me that my shirts would never stop smelling like me. I suspect that she had a much sharper olfactory sense.

Sam I could smell through the pages of a book she once gave me: a copy of Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes. She picked it up at a book sale, and read it in one day. By the end she was crying, and thought I would enjoy it. Every time I turned the page, it was like she was sitting in front of me again, coffee smell on her breath.

Louise was different still. She had a great scent that was a little sweet, under the Cool Water by Davidoff she would frequently wear. She didn’t seem to care for my natural body smell as much as the artificial “male” scents, such as the Gillette series of products. Jacky once told me that she was using a stick of the same sport antiperspirant that her ex used because it reminded her of him. When I actually saw the stick, even already knowing that it was a stick of “guy antiperspirant”, I was still surprised at how male oriented the marketing was, with high contrast fluorescent stripes and bold fonts. It looked a little odd when she put it on, holding the stick with her dainty hands.

I find that most girls are like this; they prefer the manufactured smells of an aftershave, body wash, or even deodorant. Instead, Ashley taught me to appreciate an eau de natural. I remember walking up to her house, after not seeing her for a month, and being able to smell her from outside the door. I would miss her even more just standing there, almost as if this made her ethereal presence tangible. Ever since, I’ve believed that the scents we produce are more important than the ones we put on. They’re unique to one person, and never go away.

Unlike my underwear.

I was listening to a jungle remix of The Perfect Drug by Nine Inch Nails, when I realized that jungle artists can carry phrases with their beats instead of the samples. Since most of the sound in drum and bass comes from the way the DJ plays with an alternating kick drum/snare breakbeat, the (more discernible) emphasis shifts to the style of the beat rather than the singer or melody. By syncopating the breakbeat for a few bars in a row, the final bar can have no syncopation and give closure to the phrase. Genius.

Last morning, the sky was a swirl of ash and dusty pink. The air was still, the breeze was warm, and everything felt different. It was as if we lived in a snowglobe wrapped in tie-dyed tissue paper, travelling on our way to work, watching the early morning sunlight come up with the waning of the winter days. The rays would pierce the clouds like a child passing a flashlight through the thin spots in his blanket.

I can only hope for the same today.

I used to seethe, stew, and marinate. If I was in a bad mood, I wanted to stay in a bad mood because, somehow, I would want to make it worth it. I figure that if something is bad enough to make me sour, I shouldn’t be easily taken out of that frame of mind. It’s the same with forgiveness. I’m slow to anger, but once I’m there, I’m extremely slow to forgive, for the exact same reason.

For years, I would listen to music to help me wallow in these emotions. It would cradle me, fuel me until the emotion burned out. Listening this way, with a surge of sentiment, would let me feel the notes, and I would savour every second, minute, and eventual hour of it.

Lately, though, I hear music differently. It inspires me. It moves me. It helps me out of an emotion, instead of into one. And it feels like this change is a reflection of how much my life is changing now, how I’m beginning to see the entire world around me in such a profoundly different way.

As if everything that’s past is prologue to this.