Short and sweet.

I’ve been falling sleep with the TV on lately. Discovery channel, trashy tabloids, commercials every quarter hour. The constant chatter keeps me company the way old movies on DVD can’t. It’s like the world never sleeps. Someone else is awake, and watching the same thing as me.

It’s one of the things I like so much about you. If you hide that, you’re hiding the best part.

The little girl was taken to Humber River Regional Hospital, and later transferred to the Hospital for Sick Children, where she was diagnosed with what police call “a significant brain injury”.

The J is like an H Ricky, Hal-a-peen-yo

This is live.

Sometimes I wake up with a song in my head that I may not own, or even particularly like. Sometimes I wake up knowing some news before I read it on my lunchtime break. Sometimes my dreams will take off in a strange direction, and I’ll be cooking something complicated or unloading automatics through house windows or fucking someone I’d never have a chance with in real-life.

He admitted to me that in his car, when he’s driving alone, there’s a compulsion to put together the details of his father as he writes in his mind the speech for the eventual day that a eulogy will need to be delivered. The only other person he’s admitted this to is his girlfriend, who’s labelled the practice as rather disturbing. Morbid, I’ll agree, as his father is far from passing, but not as strange as she makes it out to be. In return, I admit to him that I do the same thing when I piece together stories of his life for the speech I’ll be delivering as best man at his wedding, an event just as grave, and every bit as tragic.

He humorously finds relief in this.

I see the parts but not the whole
I study saints and scholars both
No perfect plan unfurls
Do I trust my heart or just my mind
Why is truth so hard to find in this world
Yeah in this world

‘Cause I am due for a miracle
I’m waiting for a sign
I’ll stare straight into the sun
And I won’t close my eyes
Till I understand or go blind

—Thrice, Stare At The Sun

Even at my age, whether others may consider it young or old, I haven’t decided on a specific set of beliefs, whether they be religious, philosophical, or psychological.

In trying times I find myself wishing that I had something, some form of structure that would make sense of the things that happen. The most serene people I know are also the most pious, as they seem to have an answer for the seemingly unexplained or undeserved. I’ve often asked theists, the ones whose intelligence I respect, what has made them believe in one or several gods. Most commonly the answer is that they have enough evidence for such an existence. Even though I’ve had a few serendipitous experiences myself, things which I can’t explain by chance alone, it hasn’t been enough to give me a definititive answer.

I used to be an atheist, then an agnostic, until I became completely undecided. It’s rare to find other people who are open-minded enough to admit that they are still learning, or have yet to discover what so many other people already have. What I know for sure is that I still have the rest of my life to find out, to walk that path and make that journey.

Gimmie a girl who isn’t afraid to stare at the sun with me.

The Thrice = Love Series

1. Introduction
2. The Journey
3. As The Crucible
4. Rock It
5. The Rush
6. Far From The End

I caught my father after a shower. How formal the word, father. Like addressing a character in some Elizabethan play. His hair was mussed, wild, even thinner than before. He’s been going gray since he was 15, and every couple of months he colours it black again. It works for him, taking at least ten years off his age. People don’t really know how old he is until he tells them that I’m in my twenties.

The bacon they serve me for breakfast is dry, dull, devoid of soft fat, or grease that pools in the waves of each strip. A result of his heart condition. No more cheese, red meat only once a week.

Even my mothers’ delicate hands have deeply withered, though they remain soft from her attentive care, which include varying sorts of designer hand creams and specialized lotions that follow her everywhere. My parents have long stopped wearing their weddings bands, but she wears one of my grandmothers rings, a beautiful old-fashioned cut on a clamp mount, left to her in the will. I remember my grandmother pinching my cheeks, holding my hand, her skin loose but, like mom, supple as a softened chamois.

I see this ring on my mother, and realize that she’s getting older too.

“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. hat’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.