In my last year of high school — which was also my first year at that school, so no one really knew me — I had a creative English class. We were given 15 minutes of free writing time at the beginning of each class, of which I mostly spent making verbal doodles to any kind of cinema stimulation I had recently seen at the time. Around then, it would have been quotes from Monty Python and lines from Casino. Anyone could put a CD in the stereo for everyone to hear, so one week I put my most recent mix in.

In the middle was Creep by Radiohead , and another guy in class suddenly exclaimed, “A great song!”, amidst the silence of our working minds. Everyone looked at him, then at me, and I felt a redness flush on my face.

That was followed by One by Metallica, and again he said, “Another great song!”, and the same chain of events happened as last time.

He was that edgy kid with bleached blond hair and always got in trouble for wearing walking shoes with his uniform. He did his own thing, had his own tastes, and fit in with the crowds he wanted, not necessarily the crowds that wanted him. I was that awkward kid who had no real friends, had a mop for hair, and a perpetually taciturn demeanour. To have him acknowledge my taste for two songs in a row had suddenly given me some kind of street cred because he was far more popular than me.

Some of the other kids started looking at me differently from then on.

The story of a human soul, even the pettiest of souls, can hardly be less interesting and instructive than the story of a nation…

Many of my earlier entries contain references to Russian Romantic literature, but I’ve never explained my fascination with it. I’ve always identified with ideas of the Byronic hero and Nihilism, whether they were ideals or philosophies I felt drawn to. It was one book that introduced me to these ideas, called A Hero Of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov, a Russian poet (in the truest sense of the word) who died in a duel at 26. Whenever I meet someone from Russia, I ask them if they’ve read it, in the hopes that perhaps I can gain some insight into this book from someone who understands the original language. I read it when I was in grade 9, and so much of what the protagonist, Pechorin, made sense to me.

Death

Ah, well! If I must die, I must! The world will lose little, and I am weary enough of it all. I am like a man who yawns at a ball and doesn’t go home to sleep only because his carriage hasn’t come.

During a brief phase, I’d say about year off and on in high school, I was at the very depths of depression and somewhat suicidal, but I could never bring myself to do it. I was just hoping death would take me. It was an easy way out. Not only did I have no reason to live, but my life was quite unpleasant. My best friend had ditched me for the popular crowd¹, so my time at school was miserable, then I’d come home to an empty life and parents that ignored me.

Ever since, I’ve felt like I’ve been living on borrowed time, waiting for the end to come, when it should have already arrived. That’s why I remain unphazed by the idea that I’m going to die, and accepting of the fact that it’ll happen one day. As Pechorin says near the end of the novel, “After all, nothing worse than death can happen — and death you can’t escape!”

There’s a particular scene in the movie Onegin² that captures the spirit of this morbid acceptance. Onegin (played by Ralph Fiennes) has been challenged to a duel that he cannot back out of, lest he be the subject of ridicule, so he accepts. He’s fired upon as he’s walking towards his opponent, and, faced with death, simply closes his eyes. The expression of calm in his face shows that it’s out of reflex, instead of fear.

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1. This was made especially more painful by the fact that I was so insecure that I defined myself through others, being left without being anyone’s “best friend” meant that I was worthless. [↑]
2. Written by Alexander Pushkin, arguably Lermontov’s biggest influence. In fact, as the character Onegin was named after the river and lake, Onega, Pechorin was similarly named after the river Pechora. [↑]

Jeff! Sooo many gurls with _ _ _ hair at grad!! Too bad…. Hee… Don’t u just love all the flash movies on our site?!? I’m sure U love them soooooo much! U hafta get back into sc man!! We need more ppl to play with! Hmm… wut do u think of the cartoons on our site?? There suppose to be me and teresa, her hairs colored _ _ _!!!! Don’t get any wrong ideas, or else i’ll have to do a lot more photo editing!

I found this shout-out from an old website of a friend. He made it in the last year of high school, which was a long time ago, seeing as how it’s been ten years.

The blank word is red. Yep. I went through a looooooong red hair phase with the girls. Not that it’s really over, as red hair is still a preference, only more subdued. And “sc”, that stands for Starcraft, which was a big game with everyone in our clique. We would go home after school, sometimes to each other’s houses, and battle each other online. We’d even go so far as to create scenarios of different units facing off against each other to analyze how effective they were in different situations.

It’s strange to read these words, because I was never really popular in high school, and certainly not popular enough for someone to give me props. Actually, I was a loner (which is why I got along with John, who was another loner) until the very last year when I changed schools, and met people who were a little more like me, and less offensive.

I don’t know why I enjoy old memories like this, or why they affect me so much. Maybe because I’m an introvert. It’s said that introverts go back to memories for stimulation. I’ve always found a distinct pleasure in reminiscing about old times, when I may have been more damaged, but more innocent too. It’s like innocence is the only thing you have no control over losing. As you grow older, you learn more about how the world works, and a once naïve optimism is replaced with the cold, hard realities of life.

You think of how nice it would be to have the mind of a child again, when your biggest worry was what to wear and whether she likes you, but you can never go back.

I hope this reaches you. I don’t know how else to contact you.

I know we haven’t talked in a while. It’s not like we ended on bad terms or anything — far from it. For me, high school was filled with people in that uncomfortable category known as “acquaintances”. And while we never hung out much outside of school, I still considered you somewhat close for a schoolmate, cause the fact of the matter is that I didn’t hang out with anyone outside of school.

I’m glad I was in the same house as you, and that for part of it, your locker was across from mine. In many ways, I used to look up to you. You were different from everyone, but you fit in everywhere. You carried yourself with a combination of humanity and intelligence. On more than one occasion, you taught me how to be a decent person in a way that my parents never could, without even realizing it I bet.

To be honest, I don’t look back on my days at UCC very fondly. They were awkward and uncomfortable for me. The only person I keep in touch with on a regular basis is John. Aside from him and a few others, I was glad to leave my UCC past behind me. I still think of you from time to time though, whether it’s out of concern or curiosity.

I’m coming to Toronto in a few weeks, and was hoping we could meet up. I’d like to find out what you’ve been up to in the last ten years, because you used to be good at anything you were interested in. Maybe you’ve changed as much as I have. I remember you as a good person, and as I get older, I’m learning that good people are few and far between. I’d like to keep in touch with the ones I’ve been fortunate enough to know.

— Jeff

I have 106 unpublished drafts in my database.

Things I don’t feel like saying. Parts of myself I’m not ready to reveal.

The written word has always been my medium of choice. Photography is only an extension of that, when I need to express myself better than words can let me, and video goes one step further.

Aside from picking up a useful word here and there, I’ve never made a conscious effort to improve my writing. The things I say are taken from my memories, experiences, and thoughts. How I say it is inspired by snippets of Nabokov (when I’m feeling lyrical or verbose), Cohen (when I’m feeling sad or romantic), Herbert (when I’m feeling dry), or Irving (when I’m feeling quirky or honest). The only way I’ve been able to gain any semblance of a writer is by mimicking to the best of my ability the lyrical styles I enjoy the most.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Writing is often a need, not a want. I do it when I’m feeling restless, when I have something to say, when things are unsettled, when I have things to figure out. And the case most often is that life is filled with these moments. Perhaps if I ever find some sort of permanent serenity, I’ll be able to stop.

But I probably wouldn’t want to.

My years at Upper Canada College were of angst. I was an outsider without friends, alien to an institution filled with sports stars and over-achievers. They considered me worthless, excelling neither in academics nor athletics, contrasted against these future leaders and powerful men.

I passed through the hallowed halls of UCC, decorated with boards filled with names — community service leaders, scholarship recipients, military achievments — without making so much as a whisper. When I left, it felt as if I had lost a great opportunity.

It was partially my own fault. A lack of confidence and poor social skills made me an outcast. But it was as much the fault of an institution with shortcomings of its own.

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An old boy network or society can refer to social and business associations among former pupils of top male-only public schools (independent secondary schools)…and indirectly to preservation of social elites over time without regard to merit.

—Wikipedia

My high-school, Upper Canada College, is often touted as one of the best schools to attend in Canada. Someone once said that it provides Canada with a disproportionate number of leaders, of whom include a Governor General, five Lieutenant-Governors, 24 Rhodes Scholars, and nine Olympic medallists.

The faculty was exceptional. A passionate, charismatic group, some of them former professors, notable businessmen, intellectuals. The facilities were top notch; football fields, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, indoor/outdoor pools, squash courts. Even the bands and theatre groups had access to exotic instruments and props. I remember for a production of Hamlet they hired a fight choreographer to lend his expertise in orchestrating the final fight scene.

School isn’t just about the education though. It’s as much about the experience. The classmates. The connections. The Old Boy network.

When I first started at the prep at age seven, I was cycling along a bridge with another little seven year old UCC chap. He said to me, ‘My mother is so happy that we are friends because you are going to be able to do so much for me in later life.’ I remember thinking, ‘I wonder what it is that I am going to be able to do for this chap?’ Then I grew up and realized, ‘So that’s the way it is. That is what people expect.’

—Lord David Thomson (1964–1967, 1970–1975), Chairman of Thomson corporation, Canada’s wealthiest man, sixth wealthiest in the world

The influence of the elite legacy of the Old Boys is far-reaching. Compounding this is the age of the school, and perhaps a degree of nepotism. A related male at the school significantly increased the chances of getting in.

Like his grandfather, John was in McHugh’s house. If had a brother or a son, they would belong to Jackson’s.

Years later, I insisted that my sons, Hugh and Stafford, go to UCC simply because I knew from my own experience that once a boy had gone to Upper Canada, he would never again be in awe of great family names, money, power or social standing. He would know that although a good private school like UCC can produce the best, it can also produce the worst.

—Conn Smythe (1908–1910), founder, Maple Leaf Gardens

It was only when James Fitzgerald, an Old Boy himself, published his best-selling book Old Boys: The Powerful Legacy of Upper Canada College in 1994 (from where these quotes are taken) that the blemishes of UCC came to light.

Beneath the veneer of of navy blue blazers and polished shoes were issues like any other school. There were drugs (though much higher-classed because of better funding). There were sadistic headmasters who looked for an excuse to cane their pupils. There were teachers who molested — or seduced — their students.

I learned to be a sexual masochist at Upper Canada. I’m not kidding. Whenever the housemaster caught me masturbating, his way of dealing with it was to cane me. Caning is a rotten method of teaching anything. What it taught me, of course, was the erotic connections of caning. They are still with me to this day.

—John Gartshore (1935–1943), musician

A couple months ago, I received a copy of Old Times, the semi-annual publication for alumni. In a section called “Class Notes”, they bring others up to speed on their classmates. In the last issue, for example, they mention that Michael Ignatieff, class of ‘65, had just joined the race for the leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada.

There are updates starting from the graduates of 1941, including my graduating class, the class of ‘99. Out of curiosity, I looked back on my yearbook, The College Times, Canada’s oldest student publication. I had to wonder just how much the prestige of the school had helped them. To compare my idea of where I believed my fellow classmates would be, with what they’re doing now.

The memories I had didn’t always match up with their current achievements.

The Old Boys of ‘99 Series

1. Introduction
2. Another Perspective
3. Seeto and Bunston
4. Mungovan and King
5. Providing Ignorance as Bliss
6. My Perspective

Why should I stay and pretend?
You make me laugh again
My darling, truth is we are not even friends
Love comes and it goes
Where your heart stops no one knows
How did I wind up in this mess, here with you?

Just a moment of weakness
I should examine my head
Just a moment of weakness
I never meant a word I said

—Bif Naked, Moment Of Weakness

The first thing about you that caught my eye was your platform shoes. More specifically, the lanky way you walked in them with your plaid skirt on. You had such a funny gait that I would study when I was walking behind you in the halls. Sometimes you looked like an injured fawn, vulnerable and awkwardly running away with your long, slender legs. It was the very definition of sexuality to a depressed, hormonal teenage male.

Those shoes gave you an extra couple inches, and I resented every time you subtly knelt so you wouldn’t be taller than me in any pictures.

I only have a single good memory of our relationship. You were sitting on my lap in the jacuzzi at Cammy’s place. It was February, and there was snow all around us, but we were warm and wet. Every few minutes, we would dunk our heads under the water, then style each other’s hair, the winter air freezing it within seconds.

The more I got to know you, the more I learned that it was all a big mistake. I stuck it out because I didn’t want to break up with you in the months leading up to your exams. It was especially hard when Lisa started showing interest in me, but I couldn’t do it.

You were a sexual bore. No sound, no reaction, nothing in bed. Your friends were all snobs. Your thoughts were trite, and your interests were shallow.

You never knew it, but I had to decide between dating you and Marina. It tore me up for a week, knowing that one of you was going to be hurt. I chose you in a moment of weakness.

It was the biggest mistake of my high school career.

The Letter To An Ex-Girlfriend series

1. Introduction
2. Ashley
3. Michele
4. Christie
5. Jackie
6. Louise
7. Bronwen

Before leaving for the next part of our journey, John and I revisited our old stomping grounds: the high-school where we grew to be friends. We didn’t get to know each other until we had to share storage lockers in computer class, even though we had already met four years before that another elementary school. Everyone else paired up for the lockers, but being the loners that we were at the time, we had no one else with whom to share, so we resigned ourselves to being alone together.

Turns out things worked out for the best.

While we were there, we found a photo montage of a trip the band took to Hungary back when I was around 15 or 16, probably in ‘95–’96, and not ‘98 as I say in the video. They needed more flutes to fill out the wind ensemble, and there so I was invited to come along for the three week trip. The framed montage still hangs in the music room, next to the double basses.

We also visited his mother’s grave. It was fresh with flowers, laid there for the anniversary that week. We stood in the mild rain, and John told me the story of her death for the first time: how he cried, how it affected his father, and how long it took them to get over it. I had never brought it up until then; it took nearly ten years until I was comfortable enough to say anything.

For most of my life, I felt like I was young for my age.

I remember the later years of elementary school. I would be the one wearing things like jogging pants on the civies¹ days. The other kids would be smoking under the bridge, starting playground fights over girls, contracting gonorrhea through sexual contact. Even in high school I was eating lunch on the bleachers with John while others were ODing on rat poison, winning worldwide math competitions, or being featured on cover articles of Macleans.

I had never really understood how people grow up. Most adults I know have been the way they are for their entire lives. Due to the fact that I can only figure out the changes I’ve made in six month cycles, I’ve mostly grown in small, undetectable increments.

It’s only in the last six months that things have changed. I’ve reached my (previously life-long) goal, not gradually, but rather suddenly and unexpectedly. Interestingly enough, this was due to three different factors, and I suspect that I wouldn’t have been able to reach this point without every single one of them.

Now I feel old for my age.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion

1. Days where we didn’t have to wear uniforms, a short form of “civilian” [↑]

A strong Alberta clipper will track southeast over southern Ontario today into upstate New York tonight. Snow heavy at times has spread right across the Ottawa Valley into Québec and will continue throughout the day.

Snowfall rates have often been 2 to 4 cm per hour with this very strong clipper.

Freezing rain and ice pellets have moved into the St Lawrence Valley area east of Brockville late this afternoon. A sharp Arctic cold front will blast through the regions this evening as the clipper sails into northern New York state. Temperatures will plunge up to 10 degrees to well below freezing within the first hour after the front goes through. As a result: rain in the regions east of Lake Huron and southeast of Georgian Bay will change suddenly over to snow or flurries with untreated surfaces quickly becoming icy and very slippery.

Elsewhere the snow and freezing rain will pull out of the regions this evening as the clipper and sharp Arctic cold front moves into northern New England and southern Québec. Snowfall amounts of 15 to 20 cm are likely in the snowsqualls along with whiteout conditions from blowing snow.

Dangerous travelling conditions are expected due to very low to at times nil visibility in heavy snow blowing snow and icy conditions. All travellers should exercise extreme caution and adjust plans accordingly.

My most vivid memories of the spring are from high school. About a month before exams began, every guy would start spending a minimum of thirty minutes looking out the window every day. On the southern side of the main building would be a small football field, and two soccer fields, as well as the tennis courts, hockey rink, and large swimming pool. Three more fields used for various other sports, such as lacrosse, cricket, and field hockey, could be seen on the western side. At the north was the baseball diamond, as well as the small pool, and more tennis courts. The main gates of the school property, what many considered a triumphant walk away from the main building after a day with no spares, was at the east.

What male teenager would be thinking about anything but running through the wooden halls, throwing off their tie, and rolling in the lusciously green, well-manicured grass? In a school with a lack of females, no less. Add to the fact that a significant portion of alumni pride is put into a well-funded sports programme, and the result was classes of boys bottling testosterone, encouraged by teacher and coach alike to be released in the form of physical activity. (I find sports metephors very useful for making veiled sexual references.)

I could see it in every one of them, how difficult it would become to concentrate in class, instead of imagining how the hours after school were to be spent. But it was never like that for me. While everyone else was waiting for the fields to thaw, I’d be waiting for the snow the fall. It’s days like these that make it hard for me to concentrate.

All I want to do is stay at home wrapped in a blanket, watch the snow collect, and write.

It’s always fun to joke around with Aaron about how high maintenance he is. “Negative maintenance”, we call it, since it’s all in relation to the girl. I don’t think that I ever stay as one type of maintenance; it usually depends on the relationship and girl for me.

Nick told me yesterday that I was the most independent person he knows. Being the most anything to someone is always interesting. “Independent?”, I asked. After living with me for a few months, he hasn’t known anyone else who can stay in their room for days on end, he explained. “More like no life”, I thought.

Ever since I was a kid, I haven’t had many friends. For about two years in grade three to grade four, I hung around Andrew and Alex mostly, but this ended when they switched schools. Until grade eight, I had no one to talk to or do things with. I was the friendly loner in school, the person no one disliked who was never invited to anything. In grade eight I became fast friends with Greg, until I swapped schools with him, and he found a more popular group. Then once again, I ate lunches by myself. For two entire summers, and — I do not embellish this one bit — I stayed in my house and played solitaire for four months, unless visiting relatives.

In grade eleven I became friends with John (even though I’ve known him since grade five) but John was even more of a loner than me. We would do some crazy shit during our lunches, and ended up pissing off more than one teacher. Ever since then, I’ve had an anchor, someone I could turn to and talk to, although moving to a different city has hindered the amount of time we could spend together.

In the first and second year of university I wouldn’t leave my room. People called it “the dungeon”, and asked me what I was doing outside whenever I was waiting for an elevator. I didn’t get along too well with the people on my floor (intolerance, yet again) and the friends I made in class weren’t anti-social, but weren’t social as well. I would get to my room on Fridays, and generally not leave until I had to go back to class on Monday.

It’s only been in third year, after meeting Aaron and Trolley, that I feel like I’ve come into a comfortable group. I’ve been fortunate to have picked up some good friends along the way, such as Eugene, Dina, and Pat, but our relationships are more limited, due to a lack of time spent together. I mean, Aaron and Trolley are the ones I can get drunk with, stoned with, who take care of me, who I exchange secrets with, who I feel most comfortable with. (Oddly enough, my ultimate test for this is how loud I can sing in front of them, but that’s another story altogether)

However, most people are busy with school now, and I’m left in my room most of the time. I actually do stay in the apartment quite a bit, and yet it doesn’t feel strange to me. I’ve been trained my whole life to be a loner, as someone with no life. Perhaps this can be seen as some sort of independence, but in reality I’m dependent on my friends. I’m just waiting until everyone is done school and has enough free time to do things. I can’t wait until that happens.

And if I end up no friends? I think I’d be sad.

But I’d be used to it.

I’m thinking about going home for a little while, since I haven’t been in quite a few months. I’ve seen John and Darren through cottage trips and visits nonetheless, but I haven’t actually talked to my parents since the beginning of the summer.

There’s an Old Boys reunion dinner happening at the College some time this month, as well as Association-Day, something I haven’t attended for seven years (Brendan Fraser was in attendance the last time I went). I don’t think I’m quite ready for a reunion yet, although I’m sure if John was there I’d be fine. The focus is on five-year, 10-year, and 15-year Old Boys though, so I’d feel awkward with the abundance of younger five-year guys and the older 10-year guys there.

It would be nice to revisit the old, familiar College grounds with John after so long. I haven’t actually been back since I first started university, when John and I got together and snuck into the newly finished rec centre. My most vivid memory would be walking along the huge fields of emerald grass with John on our lunch breaks, while my least favourite memory would probably have to be the people. If Fitzgerald were to interview me for a sequel to Old Boys, I’m sure I’d have quite a few words to say.