small world

The drive to Toronto is get­ting eas­ier. It’s my only chance to really lis­ten to albums nowa­days1, not to men­tion the com­fort of see­ing famil­iar towns on the way, like the names of sub­way stops you can’t help but mem­o­rize as a child on the way home from school. And in a way, so many years later, Toronto still feels like home. Getting there is a jour­ney, but the peo­ple always make it worth it.

My patience tends to wear out about a quar­ter way in, when it becomes hard to main­tain a rea­son­able speed. It’s a test of whether I can drive safely to see how far I’ve grown as a person.

I fail every time.

Toronto view

The view from Alex’s down­town apart­ment. You can eas­ily tell Yonge Street apart from how brightly it’s lit.

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  1. Editors in both direc­tions this time, cause any­thing I lis­ten to nowa­days is Antje rec­om­mended. []

old habit

  • Rob: Sometimes it still hurts. You know how it is, man. It’s like, you wake up every day and it hurts a lit­tle bit less, and then you wake up one day and it doesn’t hurt at all. And the funny thing is, is that, this is kinda wierd, but it’s like, it’s like you almost miss that pain.
  • Mike: You miss the pain?
  • Rob: Yeah, for the same rea­son that you missed her… because you lived with it for so long.

—Swingers

I’m in my last days of high-school again. Pretty much this. Feeling like I have the rest of my life ahead of me with so much to look for­ward to, but only cause I’m try­ing to shed every­thing that hap­pened in the final dis­as­trous year.

I remem­ber writ­ing a lot back then in this black note­book. It was filled with all these ver­bal scrib­bles, short pas­sages of text, words, lyrics, emo­tions I couldn’t con­tain. My thoughts were a jum­ble, lost some­where between the pain and the love of how it made me feel alive.

That’s how I feel now. Old habits break hard.

About once every two years I uncer­e­mo­ni­ously threw it out and bought a new one, because I hated every­thing in it. I never wanted to think of myself as the per­son who wrote all the things in there. Sometimes I won­der if I’ll look back on these entries one day and think the same.

Nod

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.

My Interest In Russian Literature

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!”

Onegin painting

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. []

High-School Shout-Out

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.

Dear Oreste

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

Restless Writer

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.

I used to be a ter­ri­ble writer. During a parent-teacher inter­view in grade 10, my his­tory teacher asked my par­ents when we came to Canada. They were quite embar­rassed to tell him that I was born here.

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.

The Old Boys of '99: My Perspective

Thumbnail: My school ties

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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Protected: The Old Boys of '99: Mungovan and King

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Protected: The Old Boys of '99: Seeto and Bunston

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The Old Boys of '99: Introduction

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.

Thumbnail: Survivors
Thumbnail: The flag hug
Thumbnail: Rugby and cricket players
Thumbnail: Trombone trio
Thumbnail: Rowing on Lake Ontario
Thumbnail: Football game
Thumbnail: English department
Thumbnail: Hockey team
Thumbnail: School spirit
Thumbnail: Away game

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

Letter To An Ex-Girlfriend: Michele

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

Vacation With John '06: Part 2

Thumbnail: School piano
Thumbnail: Baseball plaque
Thumbnail: Baseball bleachers
Thumbnail: Board of officers
Thumbnail: Front hall
Thumbnail: Graduating photoset
Thumbnail: Jackson's logo
Thumbnail: Lockers
Thumbnail: Music stand
Thumbnail: Student centre
Thumbnail: Old windows

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.

Trinary Maturity: Introduction

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” []