Shirley is a funny woman. Really. Someone had recently noted that she uses the phrase, “Well this is it!”, a lot. It’s usually for situations of agreeableness, and spoken with iambic dimetre, emphasized on every other syllable.

Shirley’s in denial about the whole matter.

There are always news reports and stories of mass murderers, pedophiles, rapists, sociopaths whom no one ever suspects. In my head I always think that it doesn’t matter how someone may be perceived on the outside, that anyone could be the next notorious psychopath. Shirley, however, is one of the few people I would have a very difficult time believing as being able to hurt anyone. Some may think that it’s sad to be so cynical, so untrusting of almost anyone, but that’s just the way my worldview has developed.

Put simply, she’s an innocent person. Not innocent in the ignorant sense, which is something that I had only recently begun to distinguish, but innocent in the good, wholesome, true, honourable sense. I realize that this makes me trust her about as much as I trust my other friends. I honestly feel like I can divulge almost anything to her without worrying about being judged or misinterpreted.

Yet there are things that I don’t let her know, because I firmly believe that our working relationship isn’t worth the risk, if there just happened to be something she found out that she couldn’t deal with.

So doesn’t this mean that I don’t truly trust her?

I was riding the bus the other day, and a woman got on and sat in a perpendicular seat in front of me. She wore plain mary-janes, thick wool stockings, a conservative plaid skirt, and had her hair in a slightly ornamented pony-tail. I assume that she was in her late twenties, but her demeanour was almost child-like. She sat for a while, staring at nothing, carrying a perpetually innocent, apologetic expression on her face, as if she had a tiring day and was penitent to those around her for being in such an exhausted state.

Sticking out of her bag was a simple, white, letter-sized booklet with the heading “DEMOCRACY IN ACTION PROGRAM”, and I thought it was odd that a parliamentary event being held in the capital of Canada would use the American spelling of the word “programme”.

Soon, she pulled out a set of plastic, bulky Sony headphones (the ones with the oversized foam that actually come with a music device), and searched her bag for the tape player attached at the end of the cord. Now, I admit that I’m already generally attracted to older, homely looking women, but it was the fact that she had such a pure look of simple bliss on her face when she put on the headphones, as if she was waiting all day to listen to her music, that I found most attractive.

I used to really, really admire the steve lam. He seemed to have his own style, and not care what anyone else thought. I wanted to hang out with him, get to understand him better, maybe be a little more like him. I even bought him lunch once (he chose a club sandwich from the cafeteria), although one time we almost shared a bag of roasted peanuts while standing next to a vending machine.

I’m a little disappointed. Sure, he probably still doesn’t care what other people think, and he has really cool hair that I want SO BADLY, but now it seems like he’s caught up in the whole “indie new york rocker” image.

Image.

That’s what’s wrong with this picture.

A few days ago, I dropped off some pants to get hemmed. They weren’t ready when I went to pick them up, and this turned out to be a major inconvenience; there were some things I had to do at the mall and I wanted to get them all done at once. The tailor told me when they would supposedly be ready and I made my plans around that.

When I made the extra trip to pick up my pants, there were two Thai women, leaning over the counter, flirting with him. Being a Thai man, he flirted back. The women stood to the side when I approached the counter, and kept making comments and then asking me in return, “You’re looking good these days. He looks good, doesn’t he? And you have a good business going. It’s a good business, isn’t it?”. I was about to say something regarding the tardiness of the service, since I was thoroughly irate about the extra trip, but decided against it. Here he was, being hit on by two women. Who knows when he’d have the opportunity again.

I have learned to walk: since then I have run. I have learned to fly, since then I do not have to be pushed in order to move.

Now I am nimble, now I fly, now I see myself under myself, now a god dances within me.

—Of Reading And Writing, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

A long time ago, maybe almost ten years ago, I met a guy who was the same age as me named Alvin. We got along extremely well, which was a rarity for me at the time. He was a complete enigma. There was always an air about him, something in his stable demeanor, that told me he had everything figured out. I asked him once, “Do you feel any pain?”. “Only when I want to”, was his response. I couldn’t possibly understand.

How can I describe this feeling? How can I explain? I’ve been looking for the right words for so long, but nothing comes through. Only images and ideas. Thoughts without expression.

All I know is that it feels like I’ve arrived at something, like I’ve finally come to a point where I’m comfortable with myself. Where I can hurt without being sad. Where I can love without pain.

The key is understanding how dissatisfaction breeds improvement, how pain breeds happiness, how there must be a balance of good and bad, and living by these beliefs with committed industry and absolute humility. It’s what Taoists express as Yin and Yang, what Nietzsche was saying through Zarathustra. And when one’s life goal is self-improvement, everything falls into place.

Now there is no going back. Now I truly feel like I’m alive.

Now a god dances within me.