equivocality 8.0 has arrived. Though arriving with little fanfare, I felt this design update was important enough to have it’s own entry.
8.0 is an evolution in the design of this blog. I wanted a layout where the information was presented with less clutter, while maintaining the minimalist feel. There’s a reason behind every margin, every line, every shade.
I finally got some new glasses. It’s been years since I had my prescription updated and things in the distance were starting to get blurry, making my eyes tired very early in the day. This time I got a wire-frame pair, instead of the thick emo frames I got last year, though they’re still D&G.
The wide arms are in now, but I really don’t like that style (or maybe it just doesn’t fit my face). I also tend to not buy anything that’s currently fashionable, as I prefer classic designs. The wide wire-frame arms on this pair push the whole idea of trendy, but are otherwise acceptable.
I’m still getting used to the weight. They’re very light, but still not as light as my last commonly worn pair, which were like not wearing glasses at all. The good thing, I’ve come to discover, is that they’re not flexible, and while this makes them more fragile, they’re much easier to clean as they don’t bend when trying to hold steady.
Some people ask me why I don’t get contacts, and it’s because glasses are a part of my personality. In a way, they define me, staying in touch with my dorky past. At the wedding Tom asked me to take them off for the pictures since they turn photo grey from UV light, but I refused. I think I would have looked stranger without my glasses, then with my eyes obscured by tint.
Choosing these frames took a couple of visits. I had a hard time trusting Bronwen’s opinion because sometimes she thinks I look good in things that make me either laugh or hurl. I went to Lenscrafters with Aaron and he tried on one pair that immediately made me think that’s the one, but I didn’t have that instantly recognition with mine. Louise did though when I showed her, and that’s when I decided on them. Apparently they make me look more mature, or some shit.
“I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Are you in love, Jeff?”
Hah.
In post war England, an imminent murder is announced in the local paper. A murder does occur, but not the one expected and it is Miss Marple who comes to the rescue to solve the mystifying case.
Two tickets, but I’m on the downswing. It’s the introverted end of my cycle and I can’t meet new people or go outside without feeling some kind of anxiety. I used to live two blocks away from the theatre, passing it many times but never in attendance. I always kept an eye out for a play I wanted to see — Equus, or Hamlet, or Picasso at the Lapin Agile — but nothing piqued my interest. This time, the opportunity presented itself, Pearl double-booked with extra tickets, and I couldn’t say no.
I force myself to go.
It’s a little warm to be wearing a blazer, but nothing else affords me the pockets for my Moleskine, pen, lens cloth, and iPod. Waiting at the bus stop, I write.
At this time on a Sunday, I’m usually winding down. Taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, finishing off an entry, getting things squared away for another week. Instead, I’m heading out. For days I’ve been trying to write about how jumbled I feel. There have been new developments, both good and bad, leaving me with a mixture of excitement and disappointment. The most I can say is that it makes sense, how I feel, and I can trace every emotion to a cause.
The bus comes. On it, I listen to my music but I can’t get in the right head space. Nothing fits. I’m not feeling sad, or happy, or jaded, or energetic. I skip song after song.
Stepping off the bus, my agoraphobia begins to choke me.
The guys, they tease me. Call me “fucker”, half joking, half jealous. I nervously laugh it off, but this gives me away. They know they’re right; no direct negative acknowledges their suspicions. I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t stop laughing. We’re all thinking the same thing.
To deny myself is to deny them too.
Rob and Chris took off their coats. Not that it was particularly hot, but the Prince Charlie jacket doesn’t allow much flexibility of movement when working utensils at a table.
I tugged on mine, but the buttons on my vest held me back. I had the youth size, you see, a word I like to use more than “children’s”, where the vest is an illusion created by sewing two panels to the jacket. I would have been naked had I had taken off my coat as the vest is a modern cuirass, offering a form of psychological protection, and I was left with the option of all or nothing.
I made a comment about it in passing, and Rob started to unbutton his vest, then adamantly told Chris to take his off. I had to convince them that I was joking before they stopped.
This has come to define Rob to me. A guy who’s willing to embarrass himself so that others will feel more comfortable. It reminded me of Adam Sandler in Billy Madison, pretending that he peed his pants by splashing water on his crotch so Ernie didn’t feel so bad about doing it himself. Sometimes Rob goes out of his way to help you and ends up embarrassing you even more, but his intentions make it easy to forgive him. His heart is in the right place, and that’s more than you can say for most people nowadays.
It’s the same way with his intelligence. He wraps his thoughts in humour, perhaps as a way of hiding his perspicuity to put others at ease1. Unfortunately, some people can’t see beneath this veneer and misinterpret it as typical male obnoxiousness. It didn’t fool Pat though, who described him as diverse, a person with something insightful to say about any subject. It was only after Pat used that word that I realized Rob is a cosmopolitan who feels at home anywhere doing anything.
Rob is also one of the few people who can tease me and get away with it, because he’s just as self-deprecating. I’ll make fun of his size, and he’ll make fun of mine. And while he’s a man’s man, he has no problem admitting that he has he visits craft stores for his daughter, that he watches cooking shows with his wife, and that he loves his brothers.
That’s the great thing about Rob. He’s filled with confidence and he has no problem speaking his mind, instead of pussy-footing around sensitive subjects2. He’s the genuine article. What you see is what you get, and if you have a problem with him, it’s your fault, not his.
That’s Rob.
Romance. It dies as we get older.
I’m not talking about love. Love lasts forever if you’re doing it right. I’m talking about the time when love is still mysterious.
Think of high-school. Over the bra, under the blouse, hoping to god your parent’s don’t walk in. When you’re exploring someone’s body with wonder. When you’re not sure how to act, how to interpret things, and you’re tearing your heart out cause you don’t know what’s going to happen next.
You lose that as you live and you learn and you grow. Confidence takes that nervousness away because you speak your mind, you share yourself, and the uncertainty is gone.
Maybe I’m just feeling old. Maybe I’m just clinging to the past in a fit of nostalgia, to the innocence of my youth when love was the only thing to worry about. Romance without practicality, boundaries, type, or class.
Maybe my more recent relationships just haven’t had that nervousness. There was always that immediate connection that leaves little room for doubt. As fiery as they were, there was no mystery.
Maybe I’m just feeling numb again.
John still comes to me with girl advice every now and then, when he’s losing sleep and he’s writing terrible, hilarious poetry. He hates the uncertainty, but I tell him to think of when he’s older and married to the same person for forty years, how much he’ll miss those feelings.
I tell him to enjoy it. To lose himself. He should be so lucky to feel so strongly about someone.
We all should at least once in our lives, before it’s too late and the romance dies.
My mom called.
She started about some transfer forms, unfinished business in the wake of the divorce, but carefully segued into asking if I wanted to take a trip to the States with some other family.
This is how she tries to make amends. She doesn’t apologize or ask how I’m doing because she can’t. She can’t admit that she’s done any wrong, not even to herself. Her insecurity doesn’t allow her to show any vulnerability.
I keep my rage in check, but it’s a hard fire to fight. After what I’ve been through, after telling her never to talk to me again, she has the audacity to ask as if nothing has happened.
With a firm voice, I tell her no. No to the trip, no to her, and this causes her tone to grow angry. It’s funny to think that she may be angry at me, like a rapist being angry at his victim, but I know it’s not anger. It’s sadness, but she masks it with anger, the way she hides her guilt behind her excuses and explanations.
From what she says, I can tell she’s more worried about her image of being a bad parent to her friends, than to actually being a mother to me. This was the person who “raised” me. The person who was supposed to teach me to be proud of who I am. To not be superficial. To be humble. To own up to my mistakes. To take responsibility for my actions. It’s a scary thought.
I can read my mom like a book. Not because I’ve known her for so long, but because she’s still a child. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and at the same time, she shows a total lack of self-awareness. She still hasn’t learned the important lessons, the epiphanies one experiences through childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.
Talking to her is like talking to myself at an earlier stage in life.
I asked Rockstar Jeff, an old source of envy, if I could take a few portraits of him.
Jeff’s very photogenic, but he doesn’t agree. I’m 75% prep and 25% bad-ass, whereas he’s 75% bad-ass and 25% prep. Sometimes we joke about trading styles because there’s a mix in each of us, and we always like where the other ones goes with it. The truth of the matter is that I could never pull off his style. Anyone can do prep, but he’s got the right face, the right clothes, the right attitude for hardcore.
This was his hit single.
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He’s the guitarist and screamer. The band broke up, but he’s currently exploring other musical opportunities. It’s interesting to hear his other projects; he’s always the frontman, but he adjusts his singing style to the band while adding his own edge.
Tattoos:
Stars on wrist
This was a mutual tattoo done with a friend (his “right hand” person), which is why there are two of them. His friend has the same tattoos on her wrist.
Crows on right arm
As the crow is the universal symbol of bad luck, Jeff got each crow to remind him of a hard time in his life. Each one of them signify a moment. There’s one red one with a nail going through it, as a symbol that his bad luck is hopefully behind him (but he says it isn’t yet).
Daisy on right arm
The daisy is his mom’s flower. It’s not really wilted or broken (which is what I thought at first), it’s simply missing petals. He got this at a time when he was really angry at her, which is why it’s red. He had drawn two years earlier, but only decided to get it inked when she kicked him out of the house, to remind him of the hard love of family.
Stars on elbows
There’s actually one larger star on each elbow, with the initials of people coming out of them. They’re the first tattoos he ever got, to remind him of the tough lessons that he’s gone through with or from these people.
Heart on chest
This one was inspired by his mom. He was making making some foolish decisions around 18, and his mom reminded him that he should be happy with himself when he looks in the mirror, that there should be no hiding from the truth, and he should always be true to himself.
The word “truth” is surrounded by periods to emphasize that it’s a strong fact in itself. The word “self” doesn’t start with a period because the heart is a part of the sentence.
The only change he would make is to have it drawn backwards, so he could read it when he looks in the mirror.
This is a guest entry by fellow 9rules member, Dave Seah. We started this entry swapping venture as an exercise in writing outside of our normal styles. It also let us see how differently we would explore a topic that was defined by a single sentence, which was “Inspiration is everywhere”.
I approached Dave because he writes with a deep insight in his words while presenting it with a light candor that draws the reader in. Not only do I admire his writing style and content, I’m envious of his ability to come up with creative, phenomenal ideas. I’m glad that he agreed to participate in this exercise, and leave his words and ideas as part of my personal journey.
You can read my take on the subject at Dave’s site here.
If I were in your shoes and got hit with an happy-sounding phrase like INSPIRATION IS EVERYWHERE, I’d mentally spring into one of three mindsets: 1. Skepticism 2. “Amen, Brother!” or 3. Apathy. I’d also make a few assumptions: that the intention behind such a proclamation was to be inspirational in itself. Furthermore, the meta-assumption is that we’re all looking for it, or need it real bad.
In a child’s face you see innocence, in his expression, hope, in his eyes, the world.
I’ve been biting off more than I can chew.
I used to enjoy my quiet, lazy, relaxing nights where I could sit down and write, but chances for creativity, expression, sociability have recently been sprouting up everywhere. These opportunities that don’t come around often, so I force myself to take the initiative before they’re gone.
Tomorrow.
Bronwen started dating another guy.
It’s funny, my first reaction is to think another guy, as if we’re still dating ourselves. I suppose our relationship has never been conventional, but that’s what makes it so special. We still spend our weekends together. We still talk on the phone for hours without actually talking. We’re close enough that I’m completely comfortable around her, enough for me to let my guard to go down.
It’s made me realize how protective I still am of her, how upset I’ll be if she gets hurt. I think of all the things I could have done better, and hope this guy can treat her better than I did.
I have all these mixed feelings about it though. I’m worried that I may lose my friend, but I’m glad there’s someone to make her happy. In the end, I know I can’t be selfish. Letting go of her the first time was hard enough.
Doing it again doesn’t make it any easier.
Tyler and I decided to combine our hobbies (biking and photography respectively), so we headed to the local skate and bike park after work. It’s amazing to see him on his bike. It’s a part of him, an extension of his body. I got a ride home while he rode his bike, and even though we left at the same time he beat me there. He was pretty burned out that day, due to it being his first time out this year, he still managed the energy for some great shots.
At the park, we met these 15-years-old kids. As Tyler noticed, you can tell a lot from someone from the bike they ride. The kid with the most skills (black shirt and jeans) had a used bike, something he put together himself. The other two kids had shiny new bikes with helmets. Tyler said it revealed how their parents were supportive of their hobby, but weren’t as hardcore in their hearts.
The great thing about Tyler is that he had no qualms about asking these kids, ten years his junior, how to do certain tricks. He has such a confidence that he wasn’t embarrassed about it at all.
The session was an exercise in motion photography. It’s very different from different what my usual portraits and still shots. Being placed in such a situation forced me to learn how to use AF Servo, which turned out to be more useful than I could have imagined.
The concept of motion is so subtle. You stop a frame in motion, and from looking at the bike you can’t tell which direction they’re going. It’s the muscles, the expressions on their faces, the direction of concentration that tell you what a biker is trying to do.
I laugh when I’m nervous. Especially around girls I’m attracted to — total gigglefest. I also laugh uncontrollably around people I meet for the first time. People lower their guard when there’s laughter, and I suspect my mind subconsciously finds humour in everything to put people at ease around me.
Around people I hate, I’m dead silent. That’s how you know I don’t like you: if I don’t talk. The mere presence of one of these people forces me to fully concentrate on not drilling a 4-inch hole in my temple with a cordless DeWalt.
Pat’s different. He told me once that if you ever see him shake his head and shrug his shoulders, you’re in his blacklist. In an act of faith, he’ll give everyone respect and will even go so far as to stab you in the front, but he gives up if you cross his line of ethics. He’ll never be involved with anything related to you after that. It’s not that he hates these people, like me, he loses all interest. This is probably even worse than my reaction which, because his is cold. You mean nothing to him. I try to let go as well, but I can’t. In the back of my head I cling to the hope that these people can change. Sometimes I also wonder if these people ever listen to themselves and can understand exactly why I hate them, because it’s so obvious to me.
I also cry in emotional situations. It doesn’t have to be anything particularly sad or happy, just a time when emotions are high. Intense sports games, Tim Horton’s commercials, sometimes just because someone else is crying. I can hide it pretty well though; people don’t understand if you start crying in a seemingly innocuous situation.
I used to try desperately to remain cerebral and logical — like Pat — but my emotions would always get the better of me. Now I’ve learned to embrace them. I could only do this after accepting myself and becoming content with who I am. They give me something Pat doesn’t have: intense inspiration. That rush, when your stomach churns, when your head is burns, when you heart flutters.
They’re a part of me, and they make me who I am.
