Monthly Archives: October 2007

The Weeping Sky

Thumbnail: Hurdman station on a rainy day

Thumbnail: Walkley station on a rainy day

It hasn’t stopped pouring since I woke up. I’m traveling through the city in my favourite hoodie. Thinking about you and your delicate wrists. The photos I took of you smiling, always looking away. Wondering what it must be like in your world. Wondering if we’ll ever meet again. Wondering what you meant when you told me it’s hard to be alone when you’re told you’re growing old.

I write this so I won’t have to write about you again.

Perhaps in a simpler world things would have worked out differently, and you would have given me a second thought.

But I have no tears in me.

The sky weeps instead.

A Truth is Worth a Million Words

You interpret my heart, my nature, as you wish to believe it.

— Onegin

People see what they want to see.

As I touched on a while back, some of it comes from insecurity. Other times, from a fallacy of projection as some people ignorantly, and megalomaniacally, believe that everyone must think and act as they do. There are a few other cases that don’t fit into either of these categories though.

An example: I once offered a guest in my house some yogurt. The first thing he asked was, “Is it going bad?”. He didn’t believe I would have given it to him otherwise. It was a perfect reflection of his deadbeat friends who expected you to eat before coming to a party, and he had never known any other type of people. A more extreme example is if you offered to feed someone at your house and they got insulted because they thought you were implying that they couldn’t afford to feed themselves. Some people see things that aren’t there. It’s an amazing subconscious sign of their characters.

The way some girls interpret things is also an interesting phenomenon. Some of them think a guy who’s talking to them must be hitting on them so they drop the b-bomb in random points of conversation, just to warn you they have a boyfriend. Some girls think you’re gay because you don’t make any advances towards them. Some girls think you’re torn up, depressed because they declined your advances, and end up making a bigger deal about it than you do. I want nothing more than to tell these girls to get over themselves, but I bite my tongue because they end up embarrassing themselves more than I could ever do myself.

There are also times when a person is so pig-headed and stubborn that they see everything through a filter, interpreting your actions in some crazy way, and believe you’re at fault because they subconsciously refuse to see their own mistakes.

The old me would have been insulted when someone assumes I’m a certain way. Nothing would anger me more than someone presuming to know how I feel or what I’m like, and I used to care desperately what they thought, even if I knew I was just misunderstood. It’s an interesting feeling to be passed that now1.

The truth leaves no room for bias, only interpretation.

I’ve learned never to take responsibility for other peoples’ interpretations. Only take responsibility for your intent. You learn a lot about a person from the way they interpret things and from the way they see the world.

With the truth in your heart, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks.

With the truth on your side, nothing can go wrong.

  1. It’s actually been quiet a few months since I wrote this entry. I didn’t post it at first because I wanted to be absolutely sure that it wasn’t a fickle feeling, and that my strength was firm. Reading back on it now, it seems more relevant than ever. []

The Ass-Slap Ritual

As I opened the front door to walk to work, I remembered that Aaron is picking me up for lunch today, so I thought I should check to see if my wallet was in my left back pocket (where it always is). The thing is, I always put a wad of moisturizer in my left palm so that I can lock my door with my right hand without getting my keys all greasy, then rub it in while walking.

So I reached with my right hand to pad my pocket and see if it was there, but feeling a bit stiff from the weather and the morning, I had to stretch with a bit of force and momentum.

Exactly at that moment, my neighbours came out of their house. We greeted each other, and after repeatedly refusing their offers to drive me to work on such a chilly day, we went our separate ways.

Then I realized that since I hadn’t completely stepped out of my door frame at that point, they probably saw me checking for my wallet without understanding what I was doing, and thought I was doing some strange cross-body back-reaching ass-slapping ritual.

Broken Snail

I was on my way to work one day, walking down a hill, when I noticed that there was a rather large snail on the ground. He was about an inch and a half long, his shell a delightful contrast of pink and pastel hues to dark brown banding. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t have something to carry him to work (where I have an infinity board and white box), so I decided I’d just grab my camera on break and bring him there.

Of course, my break was in a couple hours, and I was praying that he’d still be there when I went outside. I grabbed the camera and tripod and ran up the hill, looking for a small shell casting a shadow on the concrete.

Thumbnail: A crushed, broken snail and his shell

I found him crushed, splayed out in strands of mucus, most likely stepped on by some careless person. Snails can’t live without their shells, as the calcium carbonate structures hold their internal organs. I took a few pictures of the tragic scene anyway.

When I got home that night, I happened to look at the snaps in quick succession and noticed that parts of him were still moving.

He was still alive.

I took a few frames and overlayed them to make this Flash animation, where you can see his foot wriggling, as well as some indistinguishable entrails that remind me of liver. It’s so sad to think that he was left out to die a slow death with his innards exposed.

I would have named him Shelly.

Unplanned Feelings

I found a small boy sleeping on the steps with a birthmark covering his face and wondered what kind of god would give a child that.

—Sarah Miles, The End Of The Affair

I’m in such a weird mood tonight.

Met a nice, loquacious young man at the bus stop. I saw him hobbling there, his mangled gait visible from the window of my house. His voice was loud and verging on uncontrolled, “My car is in the shop, I have to be there by seven, I can’t be late, I’m coach and manager and medical staff of the Generals, so they can’t go on the field without me.”

With innocent, childlike candor, he continued. I wondered if he was aware. If people took him less seriously. If I really understood who he was.

He got on the bus first, and in a confident tone, said to the bus driver, “Can I get priority seating?”. I considered sitting next to him and continuing our conversation, but by the time my transfer printed out, he already started with the person next to him, “I can’t be late. I’m coaching football…”.

So I cried on the bus because Misery Is A Butterfly, even though it wasn’t loud enough. Even though I put it on. I was doing it to myself, you see, because of this mood. Because I need it and want it and wondered how I’ve ever lived without it.

I’ve been reading Beautiful Losers. Can you tell?

I don’t plan on writing these things.

Then again, I don’t plan on feeling this way.