The house show (announced earlier this year) was a huge success. I moved a bunch of furniture around in the living room and transformed it from this:

To this:

There were almost 30 people crammed into my living room for a night of intimate music and an ice cream bar¹ (on which I spent nearly $100, including all the fixins). Admittedly, I got a little overstimulated and panicky somewhere in the middle, due to all people, but Pat and Jen came and talked to me, and they calmed me down. It also got really hot with all the people in there, so I cranked up the A/C a few hours ahead of time.

Arne, who goes by the stage name Duryea Hawkins and was Shane’s surprise guest musician, completely blew everyone away with his opening number, named Snowman. At the end of the song, you can hear Dan say, “Wow“. It’s so good, I have it on constant repeat at the moment.

Once again, Shane dedicated a song to me (woo!), my favourite of course, It’s A Drag. He also did a few new songs I had never heard before; one of the best parts of concerts is being able to hear new material that a musician is working on.

And for the first time, I got to see Jesse rap in person. He was going to do an all acoustic show, with several exotic instruments, but then Nick (who does the backing vocals/beats and goes by the stage name Rockefort F. Loopfrog) bought a loop machine, so they decided to use that instead. Quite different from the studio produced sounds that I’m used to hearing from Jesse, but just as good.

The artists all went home happy with the money that was donated² and made from the swag they sold.

Since it was my first house show, I really wanted to enjoy it instead of fussing with getting the proper shot, so I set up my camera and left it on in the corner. Next time, I’m going to do a bit more camera work.

1. This must have been a fairly memorable part, because people like Jess called it the Ice Cream Party instead of the House Show. [↑]
2. Legally, as the venue, I’m not allowed to make money, so I have accept “donations” as a cover charge. [↑]

Bronwen and I agreed to a marriage pact, where we would marry each other if we weren’t in a relationship by a certain age. The thing is, she’s six years younger than me, so we decided that her expiration date is 35, and mine 41, because it’s easier for men to date/marry than women, at an older age.

Note how I didn’t say “easy”. Heaven knows I had a hard enough time with dating in my teens. And twenties. And probably 30s.

According to her, we also have a suicide pact, even though I have no recollection of this. The only reason I can think of agreeing to that is if large parts of the world were destroyed by meteors, leading to the collapse of the economic system, creating anarchy, and reducing everyone to hunter-gatherers.

Bronwen and I are most certainly not hunter-gatherers, and we’d probably suffer unbearably just trying to survive, or be killed soon after because we’re too naive or compassionate for a dog-eat-dog world. The thing is, if that happened I’d try to join forces with Pat and Jen, because they always have everything together¹. So maybe if they were also killed by this cosmic hailstorm, then it would still be an option.

1. Pat’s the one who believes that at least one person should be in control in every group at all times, and that he is this person. The only time he was ever inebriated was for his bachelor party. [↑]

We met on the bus, side-by-side, reading books that both won Nobel Prizes.

I was supposed to meet you here three years ago, and they’re out of apple cider. The cranberry cider is tart, but only too much when you sip it so. There’s a subtly distinct taste to it, barely enough to stop me from wondering if I just paid $2.45 for warm cranberry juice. I didn’t even want this drink; I just wanted to sit down and write.

I never would have come here if you hadn’t suggested it. There are too many people. Too many going for the freshly-grounded, shade-grown, fair trade bullshit that’s been marketed to the hipsters who think they’re doing the world a favour by patronizing the right kind of places. Pretentious people who come here to read, then put their headphones on because it’s too noisy.

I don’t fit in. That’s probably a good thing.

I was supposed to meet you here three years ago, but your boyfriend got jealous and wouldn’t let you come.

We met on the bus, and I haven’t seen you since.

Our bodies burn like flames in an oven, so we kick off the covers. I slip my arm around her waist and press her body close to mine. She holds my hand to her chest, fingers wrapped around fingers, legs wrapped around legs.

The morning light comes in blue and soft and subtle through the window, and the stars begin to fade.

I want to hold her like this under a tree in the summer and pass the time in her company, alive to every moment we’re together. I want to hold her like this when the cars and streets are buried under snow outside, so we may truly know what it is to be warm and comfortable. I want to run my finger along the softness of her face, so I may learn every landmark and feature, and never forget. I want to read to her my favourite books on lazy Sunday afternoons, so I can take her to where they’ve taken me. I want to feel her breath against my skin, the breath that gives her life, and me joy. I want to wake up to find she’s not away in another bed, but next to me, lost in slumber, for there can be no other such simple happiness.

This is where I’m perfectly content, lost in a moment when time has stopped and nothing else matters.

But I know it won’t last forever. She’ll soon be gone. I won’t be the one to do these things with her, the one to love her the way she was meant to be loved, the one to love her as deeply as she deserves. There’s no use in thinking about it now.

The one who inspires me to create wonderful things, to make beauty as I see it in her, so that others may share in this feeling. If I had a million words to describe her grace, it still wouldn’t be enough.

I could be sad, but I’d rather be happy instead.

So as the sun begins to rise, I indulge myself a little longer, and hold her closer before drifting off to sleep.

(I’ve been writing this in my head for four years. Four years and seven months, to be precise.)

So one last touch and then you’ll go
And we’ll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don’t mean a thing to me

—Death Cab for Cutie, Tiny Vessels

I got this picture in New Jersey. It’s the most peculiar size for a photograph: 3 7/16 by 4 13/16 inches.

For some reason, I see it properly like this — landscape orientation, with the white stripe on the left — when it could just as well be rotated any other way. This is the bias I place on it. The way I view it.

It almost looks like a room with a wall in frame on the left, and the camera has metered for a flash off the wall, underexposing the rest of the picture. There are two smears in the blackness. Maybe an out-of-focus object, maybe a fingerprint on the lens.

I didn’t take the picture. Someone else did, thought it was bad, and was about to throw it out before I asked for it. Someone who took me for granted. Someone who’s world I lived in but for a week, in the midst of the intense summer humidity and coitus interruptus.

I’ve kept it in one of my notebooks since. The edges have turned yellow, and the corners blunt from handling.

Every time I look at it, I like to think that I see something in that grain and that noise. That something’s there; I just don’t see it because there isn’t enough light to expose it, but it exists nonetheless. Some photographic kōan, where I become that which I seek.

But I know there isn’t, the way I know it was nothing more than passing moment, a week forgotten, a life unchanged.

And I’ve been happily fooling myself ever since.

I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am
The only living boy in New York

Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where,
And we don’t know here.

—Simon and Garfunkle, The Only Living Boy in New York

Every day, we get caught up in our lives.

We adopt pets to give us a sense of family. We eat breakfast at work or in the car to save ourselves time so we can work some more. We scorn those who express emotion, we avoid eye contact with strangers on the street.

Everything we do — the food we eat, the movies we watch, the home team we cheer for, our coffee shop romances — they’re just trying to fill that hole, that gap that’s missing, the only way we feel alive.

We don’t slow down, we don’t figure things out. We don’t reflect and appreciate what we have.

Like strawberry cheesecake ice cream with a thick graham cracker swirl. Like the serenity of the snow that falls around us, when heaven decides to bless the earth.

Life gets in the way of living.

And now I realize just how guilty I’ve been of this. I’ve been looking for love, but never recognized it when I found it. All I ever wanted to do was lie in bed, look into your eyes, and go through my favourite albums with you. But I never did. And now I wonder. Why can’t we just live? We can’t we just love?

Sometimes you have to stop. You can’t capture everything. You need to throw yourself in.

A thousand kisses deep.

If a woman sleeps alone, it puts a shame on all men. God has a very big heart but there is one sin he will not forgive: if a woman calls a man to her bed and he will not go.

—Zorba the Greek

There exists a spot on every woman that needs to be kissed.

It can be as innocuous as the curl of the lip, the web of the hand, or a mark on a landscape of skin.

It’s the responsibility of a man to find this spot. Not as a service to the woman — sometimes she isn’t even aware of such a spot — but as a service to the creator of such things.

A reader sent me this letter (posted with her permission, of course):

Almost a year after I had managed to leave the island behind, the room, the floor, the sheets, the rape – I accidently ended up on your blog entry called “The beginning to the end” and it changed my world. It awoke feelings inside of me that I had for a years time tried to suppress and scare off so that I never again would open up to anyone, never trust anyone and therefor never end up in the same situation again. At that time, all men were a potential threath to me.

Reading and watching that very blogentry have had such a great impact on my life and will to become ‘myself’ again, to reclaim my body and to dare to move towards feeling and being ‘beautiful’ again. Your video granted me the sensation of how sincere, pure and giving love and affection truly are when it’s shared and not forced. It made me remember blocked out feelings and situations and it made me start to long for something that I had completely shut out for over a year.

I have been wanting to write you this email for quite some time, but I havent been sure of myself or if the “new” me (which is the old in fact) would survive and I didnt want to make this into a sunshine story if it really wasnt – but after many downhills, trials and tribulations, theraphy and social interaction, I am there, I am back and I am standing strong again. Nothing will ever be the same, but at least I made the right choice, for me. I have always been lifeloving in overload and even if I am only halfway there yet, it is still enough to keep me going.

I still watch that video every now and then, to remind myself that anything is possible and that you can recieve “help” from the most unexpected sources. It used to make me cry, now it makes me smile instead, isnt that beautiful? I know perfectly well that you never meant to post that entry for me, but it helped me in one of the most difficult times in my life and for that I will be forever grateful. Thank you.

Yours sincerly,
Emma

I’m at a loss for words.

The rite of passage for the males of our generation — the generation of the metrosexual and hairless pornstar — is getting waxed. As an act of true love for Sheila in enduring the pain, John asked me if I would clean up the hair on his back and arms. I agreed, as long as I could film it.

Waxing John from Jeff Ngan on Vimeo.

I suppose that near the end of the video my sadistic side comes out when I start to laugh, or dare I say, enjoy hearing him scream.

“This is like true friendship”, he says, “Waxing your best friends back when you’ve got a Y-chromosome”.

Coming up with the right thing to say when it’s too late. The French have a term for it: l’espirit de l’escalier. Staircase wit. When you’re leaving a party, going down the stairs, perhaps playing over an incident in your head, and you think of that perfect riposte.

Staircase wit isn’t limited to insults and witty retorts though. It can be any moment when you can’t think of anything to say, only to reach an epiphany soon after.

I always end up saying what I want in my dreams, but it’s never as satisfying. This is how I know that life isn’t a dream.

Otherwise, I’d be more witty.

i felt disconnected all day. distant. disjointed. another bee in the hive. i don’t know why.

when i stepped outside getting off work, it was grey, breezy, devoid of sunshine.

the bass in my ears moved me. driving the beat of my heart. walking my feet.

the sun slowly came out, mixed bittersweet with the clouds.

and then you showed up. black and white across the street.

i kept my head down as you walked by, careful not to ruin that perfect image in my head. it was enough to keep me going. to make me smile when the most i could feel all day was neutral.

i love you but i don’t know you.

Part of The Tao Tattoo Series

1. The Meaning
2. The Experience
3. The Background
4. Tattwo

To remind me to keep my chin up.

To remind me not to sweat the small stuff.

To remind me to live in accordance with the nature of things.

To remind me to stay balanced.

To remind me to decrease my wants.

To remind me to indulge myself every now and then.

To remind me that everything is as it should be.

To remind me to stop comparing myself to others.

To remind me not to use force against the world, and embrace the way of the universe.

To remind me to follow my own nature, and not the trappings of life.

To remind me that nothing really matters.

To remind me to have no claims to life.

To remind me to be spontaneous, deliberate, watchful, reverent, humble, pure, and accepting.

To remind me that heaven is found on earth.

She leans the chair back, my neck to rest in the cradle of the wash basin. The water comes out lukewarm. She knows it’s hot outside.

Shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. In small circles, her fingers work my scalp, massaging without too much pressure, scratching when there is no itch.

“This is the best part of my day”, I say.

“Mine too”.

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.

I never used to answer my phone.

Part of it was because I was being stalked by a crazy girl for a while. Somehow she got my number and called a few times, but Trolley picked up and was able to warn me.

The other reason was because I used to be stoned almost every minute off work. Dealing with people in the outside world was an instant buzz kill.

It’s only recently that I’ve started taking calls again. The languid process of rehabilitating my social skills has been rather slow. Sometimes I get so busy that I don’t have time to check my messages, and they build up into strange archives like this, circa last month.

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