Three pictures.

There’s so much to say, but nothing comes out. I think I’m still in shock. When I think that things have passed, this happens. Complete ambivalence has turned to inconclusiveness. All I know is that I’m still a sucker for those two little words. There’s solace in the hope that other things will work out, that they wouldn’t have happened, had things not ended up like this. Now all that’s left is clutter of questions.

Karma makes me ask who I’ve wronged so greatly to deserve this. At the same time, it’s an open-ended answer that doesn’t give me what I’m looking for, or make me feel any better.

And what do I do now, when all I have left are memories that may fade like old photographs sitting in the sun?

We haven’t spoken in months.

I still think about her, but isn’t that how it usually goes? You think about the last girlfriend until the next one comes along, ad infinitum.

Sometimes I think about the opportunities I’ve missed with her. Never having a chance to attend one of her parties, a mysterious, esoteric ritual that both frightened and excited me whenever I heard about it. Never getting to use the beautiful rope she bought before she left for the final, extended break. Never being able to leave her bound and blindfolded in her own closet, the secret little fantasy we both shared. All the things that I took my time with, thinking I’d have a chance eventually, expecting the relationship to work.

But eventually never came.

Sometimes I have to remind myself how much she hurt me. On some days it’s easier than others. How much I changed and grew and was brave for her, only to have her constantly put me down. I tried my best, did the most I could, but it was never enough. Her complete lack of faith was more than discouraging, it was insulting.

Yet she was the girlfriend I respected the most, the only one I could talk to about anything without being afraid of losing her in subject matter. The girlfriend who taught me the most, who played an integral part in giving me the sense of strength and responsibility I feel today. I’m still trying to figure out if it was all worth it, whether I’d learn these thing eventually, or whether the experience was unique. I suspect I’ll find out in time.

It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. The beginning of fall, carrying the transitional temperatures of summer, is always pleasantly cool. We’ll be strolling along the stores and restaurants of Elgin, and I’ll be taking my video camera in hopes of getting some footage of the sandbag angels at the Confederation Park.

“So what are the plans for tonight?”, he asks me, wetting my hair in the washbasin before working the shampoo into my scalp.

“Nothing much. My flatmate has a friend over from back home, so we’ll probably head out later. Maybe the Honest Lawyer.”

It was a complete lie. Trolley was telling me about being at the Lawyer the night before, so it was the first thing that came to mind. Kate’s here, sure enough, but there were no plans.

Even though we share the same name, we live in different worlds. Jeff looks like he’s been carved out of marble, shoulders exaggeratedly broad with a stiffened superhero gait. His facial hair is simultaneously gruff but handsome, always trimmed in way that shows he takes care of his appearance. The stylist who always has some form of colour in his hair, whether it’s spikes or highlights or chunks, and looks like he could pass for anything between 20 to 30.

Once, after walking me over to the hydraulic chair, one of the slimmer ones that are found in salons instead of barbershops, we started to discuss the lack of decent metal bands from Canada. I told him that I was looking for more Breach Of Trust songs online (Jeff has the two first albums), which prompted him to ask, “You have a computer?”, without a single pause of the sheers.

The question left me dumbfounded. It took me a few moments to realize that not everyone has a computer, my bias coming from the fact that my friends all have one, being a graduate of comp sci. Almost everyone I know is also in an economic class to be able to afford such a luxury, with a lifestyle to actually have a use for one.

Last time, he told me about running out of disposable dishes, not owning more than a pair of plates he received as a tip once, and a tea stained mug, both of which have fallen into desuetude. “I’ve never liked to do the dishes”, he flatly stated.

In a reactionary manner, I asked him, “You don’t have a dishwasher?”, regretting the words the moment they came out of my mouth. “Oh god no”, was his insouciant reply, as if he’d have no use for it, even if he had one. As soon as I asked, I realized the insensitivity of my question, that not everyone would want a dishwasher, as strange as it seemed at the time. I’m at a point where I’d have a hard time living without one now, and an even harder time bringing a girl home, cooking a meal, and serving it to her on paper plates. A dishwasher has become a necessity for me, simply based on lifestyle, much like a computer. Sometimes it seems like I spend my life on my computer, and Jeff’s a person who lives completely without one. If I told him I didn’t have a car, I’m sure he would find it just as strange.

It was a startling realization. I don’t know many people without a college or university degree, without a long-term career or family plan. I don’t know anyone still living the bachelor life, happy to go out every night, and eat off disposable dishes. Jeff seems like a great guy, reserved until he feels out his clients, but friendly. I don’t know anyone like him, although I’m sure that there are many just like him.

And every time he cuts my hair, at the start of every appointment during the ritual washing, he asks about my plans for the night. Usually I tell him the truth. Nothing. It’s a weeknight, and I just worked a full day. That’s when he lets me know about his own plans, which generally consist of going out and drinking in some form or another.

But that day, I lied. It was a Saturday, and who doesn’t have plans on a Saturday night? I only feel guilty about it now, after being able to understand where he’s coming from. It’s only fair that I’m as honest with him as he is with me.

Even if we do live two totally different lives. Even if he may not understand.

Although not in any narrative Herbert Morrison sense.

I had a different entry half-written, but the darkness was debilitating. All I wanted was a second sun; it felt like a case of SAD because the night was making me both anxious and uneasy. It’s nothing close to a panic attack, but it was bad enough that I felt compelled to called Pat to help talk me out of it. He’s one of the only people I can count on 24/7, and just talking to him for an hour helps me figure out more about the world than three months of writing here. I know my eyes’ll feel like lead weights tomorrow for staying up this late, but I need to get this entry down before I lose it. Hopefully, knowing that it’s Friday will be enough to keep me alive through the day.

Self-improvement has driven me for most of my life, a never-ending goal that’s guided me through my actions and beliefs. This is usually based on comparison, since improvement is always relative. Those who can accomplish what I have difficulty doing always have my respect, and give me something to work towards.

Before I complain about getting six hours of sleep the previous night, I think of Navy SEALs who get four hours total during Hell Week, a five day underwater training exercise during the first phase of the BUD/S. That’s when I realize that I should be able to survive an extra hour of work without much difficulty. When I feel like throwing my hands in the air after working on an ad for four hours, blinded by the depth with which I’ve staring at the material, I think of my boss who can work through countless interruptions and distractions. That’s when I realize that I should keep at my work, because perseverance will almost always yield results.

If I can survive it, anything can make me stronger.

But as I discovered tonight, everyone has their weaknesses. Even Pat. He’s always seemed as solid as a rock, completely unfaltering, but he admitted that there are also moments of weakness, however brief. Times when he can’t get any work done because something is bothering him that he can’t let go. Times when he just doesn’t feel like going out or socializing. To find this out about Pat, was to discover that the most cheerful, friendly, confident, and mentally strong person I know has his off days. Even the hardest working, most productive person I know occasionally falls victim to a case of the Mondays or the 9–5 grind. There must be some semblance of balance, in how much to push oneself, and how much to accept.

To strive for perfection is fine, but to lose sleep over imperfection is foolish.

Being a dominant, responsible for another person, means that one should be solid as often as possible, but even this extreme case should allow for some leeway. This doesn’t mean that I won’t try as hard in my attempt at dominance, but knowing this certainly makes the approach, and even self-improvement in general, much easier.

Some may say that it’s a fallacy to compare oneself to other people. After all, everyone has different abilities and tolerance levels, and it’s no fault to born better at some things than others.

But even then, everybody’s human.

Some things fall in my lap, others I actively seek out. It’s keeping track of everything that’s getting difficult.

Too busy to think. Too busy to write.

I have to remind myself that that’s what I wanted.

And here I am, turning over in my head the idea of moonlighting at a homely used book store that’s a five minute walk from my house. Stuck to the glass door is a notice for part-time help during the weekend, that I pass by every time I go grocery shopping. I walked in there once and bought a Penguin Classics copy of The Odyssey for $1.45, because I lost my old copy from high school long ago. I’ve always wanted to work at a coffee shop, but gave up on that idea after applying to one a few years ago and finding out that my résumé ended up in the garbage, was picked out because of a good word put in by a friend, and promptly placed back in the garbage again. In hindsight, I’m glad I wasn’t hired because I would have quit before the training was over. It was only something to hold me over until I could find something with a better career that’s more in line with my education, which is exactly what I found two weeks later. A bookstore seems like a good alternative.

Aaron and Shirley are both encouraging me to go for it. The former thinks that it’ll be a good change from the regular 9–5 that I do, and a job that I can use to relax. The latter is telling me it’ll be fun, and that she’ll pursue her own dream job as a waitress (moonlighting as well) if I apply to this one.

I’m still considering.

On days like this, it’s better to wear light clothing, and throw on a hooded windbreaker. The rain outside is just a drizzle, so it’s comfortably cool. Pay no attention to the hydraulic hiss of the windshield wipers, or you won’t be able to help hearing them through the quiet parts of every song. Window seats are prime. There are fewer distractions from people walking down the aisle.

The 95 goes from one end of the city to the other, straight through the heart of Ottawa. Every stop is a memory. Old haunts. Past lives.

Here was your first apartment. Sometimes you’d find Christie waiting for you here on the benches between classes. How long ago those days seem, how immature and relatively innocent. The next two stops are on the edge of the university campus, four years of scattered truancy. Two stops later is where you use to buy a medium caramel corretto every morning after an exhausting night with Louise. Your old government office is another two on. The concrete building looks so foreign now, and you wonder if the same people are still inside. Another few stops is your last apartment, before buying the house, the end of bus rides home every day.

Music never meant so much.

You pass by construction sites, finished buildings, see the evolution of the city.

Six years of experience, six years of shifting, ever-changing anima.

Six years passed.

Six years lived.

Six years grown.

I wake up every day looking at Death, and you know what? He ain’t half bad.

—Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp

Its not until you lose everything that you are free to do anything.

—Tyler Durden, Fight Club

I used to take pride in the fact that I felt like I could die satisfied any day. I was at a place in my life where I couldn’t ask for more, and there was a tremendous sense of overall satisfaction. I had everything that I deserved. After that, all I had left to experience, every fall morning caught or tear shed, was a bonus. Of course, the closest I had ever come to death was a minor case of pneumothorax, which I imagine is as fatal as pinching one’s skin between two Lego pieces while building the Death Star, so this feeling was never actually put to the test. I’m sure I’d feel differently if I ever came frighteningly close to the end of my life, although just how much remains a mystery.

Perhaps this grew from a cogent sense of frailty, perpetuated by all the stories of freak accidents echoed throughout the media. The student who impaled his heart on a number 2 pencil while trying to catch a football in the middle of class. The general who drowned in a pool of his own blood from a nosebleed on his wedding night. Even the president of the United States almost choked to death on a pretzel. To distance myself was the only way I could deal with it.

The problem, I’ve only recently discovered, was that this left me alienated and unattached. I have no dreams, nothing to live for. Not even a goal to work towards. During high-school, the goal was to get into a university. After university, the goal was to get a fulfilling job. After the job was the house. Now that I own a house, it feels like the rest of my life has been laid out in front of me. No risks, no surprises. I appreciate everything that I’ve been given, but it feels like it’s been a little too easy. Even my most significant goal was rather suddenly accomplished this year. As Logan Pearsall Smith once wrote in his book Afterthoughts, “How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true!”. A simultaneous fulfillment and dissatisfaction.

I presented this problem to Pat, and from his infinite wisdom (at 24, no less) I realized that one should never live for what might happen. Otherwise, a person would go crazy. Of course, to truly live this way, it doesn’t hurt to be a bit of a fatalist. Having this belief means that one can only do the best that they can, and to go means that it was meant to be.

For now, I’ve been keeping myself occupied, until I can figure out what I want in the last rest of my life. Blessed is the person who is too busy to worry in the daytime and too sleepy to worry at night. It’s only now that I’ve discovered that I need a few dreams to survive.

And I can only hope to never reach them.

The Awakening Series

1. Introduction
2. Cause
3. The Reborn Dreamer

Jeff: I can tell you feel the same
dar: do you still talk to her?
Jeff: no…I actually specifically told her not to talk to me again
Jeff: cause of some creepy stalker shit she was doing
dar: hahaha
Jeff: and she still e-mails me
dar: damn..
dar: she’s going to kill you in the dark
Jeff: hahahahahahahahahhahahaaaahh
dar: she prob. knows where u live
dar: and watches you

In university I met Mike, half-heartedly doing his biology homework in my cryptology class to hang out with his old high-school friend, the latter of whom was one of my clique. Mike has an odd charisma. His outspokenness means that he exudes confidence, and the girls love him for it. I’m never really sure if his mild chauvinism is a serious attitude, or just something he projects around other guys to fit in. One of those sexist assholes the girls can’t seem to resist.

Those girls are only in the movies, I thought to myself. The dorky ones with the glasses who have impossible crushes on the main characters, who, in turn, are completely blind to the awkward advances. The girls who sacrifice their chance at happiness, because they love him so much and just want him to be happy, martyring themselves in the minds of teen audiences everywhere.

But they do exist. Those stubborn girls who still try to keep contact after you tell them you never want to speak to them again. The girls who continue to check your blog at an average of twice a day, some sick voyeuristic fascination.

Those girls you wished would forget about you, so you could forget about them.

Worry does not empty tomorrow of sorrow — it empties today of strength.

—Corrie ten Boom

It started with a single panic attack, at work, in the middle of the day.

Heart racing, difficulty breathing, paralyzing terror, fear that I was about to die.

If you’ve ever had a bad trip off psilocybe, or magic mushrooms, the effects are very similar. Not that I’ve ever had a good one. Half an hour into ingestion, I start to feel nauseated. At the back of my head there’s a creeping sense that something is wrong. My hands start to tremble, my mind feels like it’s shuddering. Eventually, there’s a complete uneasiness in the body, both physically and mentally. Around that time, the body reacts quickly to rid the stomach of whatever is causing these symptoms, and violently ejects them in the form of vomiting. Stems and caps come out as dark brown flecks, and you wonder how eating something so small thing can make you feel so terrible.

It comes without warning, without obvious reason. All you want is to end the attack. To crawl into a corner and hide. To tear off your strangling clothes. To die.

Afterward, you’re not wondering what you’re going to listen to on the way home, or how to get the attention of that cutie in the porcelain department, or when you’ll have time to go buy more shampoo. All you’re thinking about is when the next one will happen. All you’re left with is a bunch of questions and a sense of instability. I have my suspicions, but I’ve chosen not to write about them until I’m certain, something which I believe will come in time. There’s no simple diagnosis, no easy answer.

Recently, scientists have discovered that the word “wheeze” can activate asthma attacks in asthmatics. The mind triggers an associated emotional response, and the body manifests the reaction. It’s the same after a panic attack. Sometimes, people with panic disorder can bring on an attack just worrying or thinking too much about it.

Not that I have a disorder. The fear of an attack isn’t detrimental enough to stunt me socially, and doesn’t prevent me from functioning as what the DSM IV would consider “normal”. It was only a single episode, but habit of constant self-evaluation means that the threat of it happening again is always there. It’s in the back of my mind whether I’m at work, or playing games, or cooking dinner. Every minute of every day becomes a struggle not to think about it. And when you know you feel like dying during an attack, you start to wonder whether it’s worth living at all.

People face this question when they’re diagnosed with terminal illnesses. Told that they have only have a few years left, they live more in those numbered days than they do in their entire lives until then.

They awaken.

The Awakening Series

1. Introduction
2. Cause
3. The Reborn Dreamer

This tiny chip almost had me without my computer for at least a week.

It stores the BIOS, or Basic Input / Output System, in flash memory on my motherboard. The very first thing that happens when a computer is booted is the decompressing of the BIOS into main memory, which then initializes the computers hardware components, including critical devices such as disk drives and I/O ports. This allows a user to recieve feedback (through video), input commands (through a mouse or keyboard), and install or run operating systems (from a hard drive).

Without a BIOS, none of this would be possible. In the past, motherboard manufacturers have made it a hassle to fool around with the program burned onto the small chip, because improper steps in the reprogramming process could potentially render the chip useless. To update the BIOS, one would have to boot to DOS with a floppy and run a flash program off the disk. Modern motherboards now offer the flexibility to update through special software in Windows, although this process is nowhere near as stable as running through DOS.

Which is something I had to learn the hard way last night.

Recent random rebootings had given me reason to start running the latest BIOS version. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a floppy drive (I opted not to buy one with my new computer because I haven’t used a floppy in years), which meant that I was stuck with the Windows flash software. The software happened to crash at a very early part of the flashing process, which meant that I didn’t even have basic bootup code to get a drive running. At next boot — nothing. No BIOS POST beep, no screen signal, no response from the keyboard. I quickly purchased a floppy drive at the nearest dealer, scrambled to find a disk, put a boot sector on it, but to no avail. There wasn’t even enough code burned onto the chip to get power to the floppy drive.

Normally, when something like this happens, such as the power going out or the floppy being removed during a flash, the BIOS gets corrupted and the chip is dead. The options are to get the motherboard RMA‘d, which means sending the board back to the manufacturer before they send a new one back, or purchasing a new BIOS chip with a good BIOS image on it, which means spending more money and waiting for a replacement. Both choices would take at least a week, if lucky.

Neither option was satisfactory. I couldn’t wait until who-knows-how-long for something to be sent back to me. Being without my computer is like being without my comfort zone, the place where I can listen to music and write, play games to get away, communicate with the rest of the world, or even work on my business with Aaron when I feel so inclined. I looked around the net for a faster solution, and discovered something called hot flashing.

Unfortunately, faster also means riskier. Hot flashing involves swapping two BIOS chips while the computer is running. All that’s needed is a healthy chip, an identical motherboard (which I have at work), a boot disk with appropriate flashing software/image, and naturally, the corrupted chip. A computer is booted to floppy with a good BIOS chip, and after getting to a DOS prompt where a BIOS flash can be performed, the corrupted chip is swapped and re-flashed. As a person who’s already squeamish about running a computer with just a side panel missing (in case water may happen to splash into the case and cause a short, or a foreign object falls in and jams a fan), this was an extremely daunting process. Playing around with chips while a computer is hot means that there’s the risk of electrocution, or short circut that could permanently damage the other components. Theoretically, after the BIOS is finished running, the board stops supplying power to the chip since it’s no longer needed.

I decided to my faith in such a theory. Going on this faith meant that I could pry the chip out with a pair of modified paper clips without having to worry too much about causing a short (special PLCC-socket tongs are available, but rare, and would probably take just as long to arrive after purchase as getting a new board). After a few practice pulls, which, I discovered, loosens the socket and gets progressively easier, I seated the good chip with just enough pressure to make the connections in the socket. After booting successfully, I pried the chip off the board and ran the flash.

The first attempt was unsuccessful, and after trying to boot with a corrupted BIOS, something unexplainable happened. The LED on the motherboard that shows that there’s a connected power supply wouldn’t go out. I pulled the power plug, turned off the ATX switch, undid both the 24-pin EATX and 4-pin 12-volt connectors, and even pulled out the CMOS battery, but the light refused to turn off. My only guess was that the capacitors still had enough energy stored to keep the light on. After resetting the CMOS, and another hot flash attempt, the computer booted with the corrupted chip running the latest BIOS. My Windows installation was fucked (it wouldn’t even boot into safe mode), but after a recovery install, everything was up and running again.

I was down for less than 24 hours.

Sharpen a blade too much
  and its edge will soon be lost
Fill a house with gold and jade
  and no one can protect it
Puff yourself with honor and pride
  and no one can save you from a fall

—Verse Nine, Tao Te Ching

Every time I start to write, I’m led back to this. It would appear that it’s time to express myself. Perhaps I’m ready. It feels like I’m only scratching the surface, trying to cover aspects of something that I have yet to understand. In the shower I decided to split this into several entries of a series, and in my room the lights are all on.

There’s been more instability in the last month than in the last three years of my life combined. Everything I knew, everything I believed in, has been turned upside-down. Although I’m still trying to figure out what happened, the fact of the matter is that there was a long, drawn-out crisis. This crisis, which appears to have passed, still affects my thoughts, my actions, and my beliefs.

Even though I don’t completely have my feet on the ground, it feels like I’m comfortable enough to explore what’s happened now. This is not an easy task. A single, seemingly innocuous thought can end up breaking the strands of the delicate web I’m treading.

If I can get it all down, I’ll know I’ve gone that far at least.

The Awakening Series

1. Introduction
2. Cause
3. The Reborn Dreamer

It’s Friday, and Hurricane Katrina, more than 2000 kilometres away, has thrown cold winds and scattered showers over parts of Southern Ontario, Quebec, and New Brunswick. As I step outside to grill something on the barbeque, the cats quickly run to the screen door. They temporarily forget that they’re enemies, that they normally can’t walk past each other without a swipe or a hiss, and sit side-by-side to carefully smell the damp wind coming through.

People name hurricanes after their former lovers. The headlines are always the same:

After cheating with co-worker, Hurricane Camille leaves 250 dead from Louisiana to Virginia

$400 million dollars in damage and 1145 fatalities as Hurricane Gordon weaves through the Caribbean and takes half my CD collection with him before disappearing in his Camaro.

The cats know that something has happened. They can tell that this weather is coming from somewhere else, and that many have been affected, the way some dogs know that their owners are dating the wrong people and won’t stop defending them with their lips drawn back in a snarl.

But all the cats can do is sit and sniff.