Posts in category "Daily Life"

On Being Busy

Thumbnail: Girl outside Compact Music
Thumbnail: Bakery sign
Thumbnail: Rockstar Jeff with his bling
Thumbnail: Julie peers into a furniture store
Thumbnail: Zaphod Beeblebrox night club

So the next two weeks are:

  • a walk by the riv­er with Frédéric, Misun, and their two boys
  • four Tai Chi class­es
  • a hair­cut with Jeff
  • table ten­nis with Dan at the uni­ver­si­ty, then back to my place to watch Constantine
  • Victoria Day long week­end
  • a tat­too appoint­ment
  • a ses­sion with the ther­a­pist
  • lunch and a movie with Aaron

Not includ­ing the work I need to do on my lat­est pho­to project for the next show. I’m also sup­posed to catch up with Naveed at some point in there; he’s hav­ing a pool par­ty for his lat­est invest­ment prop­er­ty. I got us some cig­ars because he’s a new father, which I’ll have to do for Aaron as well, since his first (a boy) is on the way.

Busyness seems to come all at once, leav­ing me bewil­dered. Never a bit here and there.

Then all of a sud­den, I’m alone for days at a time, won­der­ing what hap­pened and where every­one went. It’s a strange flux that goes from one extreme to the oth­er.

The goal becomes a bal­ance of both. That way, the soli­tude is a wel­come change from the over­stim­u­la­tion and vice-ver­sa.

Developments and Denouements

Lights down, sound up, for this one. Maybe some tea and a pas­try if it’s not too late.

I had Maps by Yeah Yeah Yeahs play­ing here.

Stripped down, the beat alter­nates between triplet-three-one-two-three-one-two and one-two-three-one-two-three-one-two, fool­ing the lis­ten­er into think­ing it’s in some sort of com­plex time-sig­na­ture. It’s actu­al­ly based in com­mon time, but with the triplets in there and the down-beat (marked by the open snare) falling on four and then three of the next bar, the song takes on a syn­co­pat­ed rhythm. This isn’t what makes the song good, though. It’s all Karen O and her voice.

I’ve been so moody late­ly. Up and down. Developments and denoue­ments. Most like­ly a result of my over­think­ing and over­plan­ning over every­thing. Still try­ing to take things one day at a time, with­out rush­ing head first, with­out falling head over heels.

It’s all a mix­ture of good and bad. Sometimes, I don’t even know how to feel.

I’ve begun see­ing my psy­chol­o­gist on a ses­sion-by-ses­sion basis (instead of on a sched­ule — an indi­ca­tion of progress). In between, my Tai Chi class­es have become my ther­a­py. There’s some­thing about class that cen­tres me; the cama­raderie, the move­ments, the breath­ing, the con­tact, the feel­ing that I’m improv­ing a part of myself, bit by bit, even if it’s sub­con­scious­ly. A time where I can total­ly focus, a place where I can for­get every­thing else.

Afterwards, it’s a dri­ve home in the dark with the win­dows down, and the rustling of wind in my hair.

The seren­i­ty car­ries for­ward. I’m recharged again. Then I’m strong enough to be myself. I’m strong enough to accept these feel­ings.

They don’t love you like I love you.

Things I Learned At My First Western Funeral

  • I still know the words to the Lord’s Prayer and Amazing Grace, thanks to my years at Catholic School and UCC
  • It’s not the words of the speak­er that make us cry, it’s their own emo­tion. Therefore, humans are born with an innate sense of empa­thy.
  • Old peo­ple like to pick at their faces
  • The pas­tor may go on longer about their reli­gion, than the per­son who passed away and their faith. This is more to com­fort those in mourn­ing, than about hon­our­ing the mem­o­ry of the dead.
  • Knowing some­one for only a month before get­ting mar­ried can lead to over six­ty years of mar­i­tal bliss

A Night with Russell Peters

Having front row tick­ets to see Russell Peters means that you’re a fair­ly big tar­get for being picked on.

Especially after Pat yells “WOO” amid an oth­er­wise silent the­atre when Russell starts to explain how Chinese peo­ple aren’t as cheap as Indian peo­ple. From that point, we were known as the “Wu” fam­i­ly, and he’d refer to us when talk­ing to the Chinese crowd.

No one is off-lim­its though, and his eth­nic jokes cov­er a spec­trum of races as wide as the earth. I sup­pose that’s how he pulls off his par­tic­u­lar brand of stereo­typ­ing com­e­dy. Ottawa is an espe­cial­ly fit­ting place, where minori­ties min­gle instead of seg­re­gate, and per­haps it’s exact­ly this rea­son that the crowd is so ebul­lient. It almost as if his set is writ­ten for us.

Afterwards, it was back to Pat and Jen’s for some con­ver­sa­tion over hot choco­late from their Tassimo. A scoop of mint-choco­late-chip ice cream dropped into said bev­er­age turns it into a yum­my can­dy-cane hot choco­late, some­thing I must explore fur­ther in the future.

Drive To Nowhere

I put on my most com­fort­able hood­ie, grab a cam­era and a tri­pod. Pass by the mir­ror and see my eyes are swollen. A base­ball cap’ll hide my face.

I put on The Alchemy Index. First is Fire. An anthem of rage, and burn­ing, and fury in the night.

I had Firebreather by Thrice play­ing here.

The flames will rise and devour me.
Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.

Honda Civic Coupe at night

I find a qui­et, wind­ing road, alter­nat­ing between 60 and 30 max. About eight kilo­me­tres down, there’s a small fer­ry load­ing dock, with a place to park on the side of the road. I get out and take a pic­ture of the car. Other cars keep pass­ing by, their head­lights leav­ing streaks across my cam­era sen­sor.

The road slopes upwards around a bend, and I dri­ve off again to find out where it goes.

Quebec at night

There’s a look­out point on a cliff, sur­round­ed by a rail. Across the waves of the Ottawa riv­er is Quebec. People come and go. Three types of peo­ple.

The cou­ples here for a roman­tic view. They park, walk up to the rail­ing, and talk to each oth­er about noth­ing in par­tic­u­lar. The girl­friends get cold and short­ly want to leave.

The kids in their par­en­t’s cars, already high or drunk. They sit in the car with all the lights on, talk­ing through their music, obliv­i­ous to the seren­i­ty around them oth­er­wise.

The men here by them­selves, aban­doned and alone on a Friday night. They sit in their cars with the lights out, and come out to lean on the rail­ing every now and then. I’m one of them.

Ottawa Rockcliffe parkway at night

On my way back, I skip Water and put on Air. A song about a boy who could fly, about falling upwards and away.

I had A Song for Milly Michaelson by Thrice play­ing here.

So, here we go.
Hold on tight and don’t let go.
I won’t ever let you fall.
I love the night.
Flying o’er these city lights.
But I love you most of all.

I miss a turn, and find a smooth pave­ment road that winds through the for­est. My eyes are dry and tired. I put on the high beams and cruise con­trol, dis­cov­er­ing anoth­er way home.