And while I was falling for you I put a ceiling on that, because you were a guy. Until I remembered why I opened the door to women in the first place: to not limit the likelihood of finding that one person who’d complement me so completely. So here we are. I was thorough when I looked for you. And I feel justified lying in your arms, ’cause I got here on my own terms, and I have no question there was some place I didn’t look.

I suppose I would have enjoyed Chasing Amy more if the dialogue had been more believable, but I couldn’t buy it.

We don’t live in a Dawson’s Creek world where everyone’s a psychologist, completely in tune with their emotions and the emotions of others.

People aren’t confrontational in real life either. They don’t say what they mean or mean what they say.

And when you’re trying to tell the girl that you’re in love with her, it doesn’t come out as some flowery, romantic verse, it comes out in jumbles. You’re tripping over your own words cause it’s the girl.

Maybe I was just hoping for a love story that worked out. I would have given in to the suspension of disbelief that people actually talk like that, had there been a happy ending.

I’m most productive on Saturday nights. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing nothing all day and I’m feeling guilty. I’ve never been one to work on Saturday afternoons, which were made for relaxation.

The nights are different though. It’s when I can concentrate on my writing. I’m tired. My guard is down.

The week comes pouring out.

This was written from the heart

With my back against the wall, I sit on the ground next to my back door, opening it to let the breeze drift in. Sometimes I turn my head to look outside and smell the night air. It’s cool, no matter the time of year. The street lamps are soft, and they bathe my back porch in warm light.

One can’t help but feel influenced by such serenity.

This was written out of order

I’ve become a slave to this blog. After some self-evaluation, I’ve come to realize that everything is inspired but forced. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, no more.

It’s time to start writing when I want.

After 26 years, I’ve realized that I’m a Taoist.

I dabbled in Existentialism (after reading Huis Clos, revisiting it when reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra), atheism (when I was dating an Anglican), agnosticism (after we broke up), Nihilism (while reading several books of Russian Romantic literature), Buddhism (in early university), and Christianity (throughout my life). None of it ever felt complete.

In 2003, I happened to come across a few verses of the Tao Te Ching. The concepts were difficult to grasp at first¹. Eventually, with the guidance of some Chinese elders, I came to a solid foundation of understanding, then approached it slowly and carefully. I had put so much hope in finding a system of beliefs in the past, that I was scared of hurriedly aligning myself with the first one that bared a passing resemblance to my own.

More specifically, I’m a philosophical Taoist. I don’t believe in any polytheistic aspects of the religious side, the divination of the I Ching, or any of the archaic sexual practices of retrograde ejaculation and the like.

This doesn’t mean that I’m a perfect Taoist, insofar as there are no perfect Christians, or perfect people. The Tao Te Ching is my bible. It guides me on how to live and behave as much as it is a label of my existing beliefs. There are things I have yet to learn, apply, or both.

I think I’ve always been a Taoist. I just never knew it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived by the principles of balance, emptiness (or receptiveness), and strength of flexibility. I’m glad that it’s a part of the culture of my blood. It makes me proud. Understanding Cantonese has certainly helped me appreciate the beauty of it all.

One doesn’t decide to become a Taoist. The Way is described as having no beginning or end. You must become one with it.

As such, a traveler is at his destination at every part of the journey.

1. I’ve come to see that the ideas are easily lost in translation [↑]

Puddles was the sole survivor of a litter of puppies left in the cold of Canadian winter, because the owner didn’t want to keep them. He stayed alive by burying himself under his mothers body to stay warm. At a couple weeks old he was taken to his new and permanent home, where he’s lived for over 13 years.

Puddles is currently suffering from allergies (he’s chewed through his fur), arthritis, and severe diabetes. He can’t even make it up the front steps without the momentum of a run. Once a healthy 110 pound dog, he now weighs 88lbs.

I was commissioned to take some pictures of him with the kids before he passes.

In return, I was offered dinner; a savoury pasta with tiger shrimp and lemon zest, along with apple crisp for dessert. All made from scratch.

This was a small exercise in shooting RAW (used for about half the shots). It’s great to not worry about white balance and to have an extra stop exposure adjustment, but I still find that getting the processing right is a bit tricky.

I swore in front of Dan. We were talking about Monty Python, and I wanted to tell him about John Cleese’s use of the word “fuck” at Graham Chapman’s funeral. It was the perfect opportunity, because I wasn’t swearing myself, simply quoting someone else. I could have said “the f-word”, but I didn’t.

I’d been holding back for a while. I don’t swear in front of someone until they do it first, the way I don’t use the Lord’s name in vain around Christians until they do. I usually let the other person go first, to guage their personalities and adapt. I think Dan was the same way though, and he was holding back. Like waiting for the other person in a relationship to break wind, someone, sooner or later, has to be first.

Dan swears in front of me too now. Nothing vulgar or excessive, but it’s good to know that clean-cut Dan has a hard edge too him.