Cute and sweet.

William Faulkner stated that an author needs three things to succeed - imagination, wisdom and observation, with any two of those able to substitute for the other. The issue of substitution is reassuring for me - I've always known that imagination and observation can lead to wisdom but for Faulkner to have mentioned it provides me with a strength that allows me to diminish the stress set in by not feeling 'old enough'.

But as I've mentioned in the past I don't conform to the stereotype of the author wherein we're considered to be lurking in the shadows, trying to listen in on people. I think that's what people have in mind. But that's not what observation is. It's not found by going out and looking for something weird that people are doing. It's a very sad image to me, an aspiring author furiously scribbling notes in their small notebook as some bizarre event is unfolding in front of them on the street. I don't believe that observation is genuine if you go out looking for it; it's genuine when you come across something by chance, and it remains in your memory. I believe that's one of the keys for an author to have - a strong memory.

But a strong memory isn't always fortunate, especially when I've been exposed to something disturbing. Then it's a struggle not to think and to move on from what I've seen. For too long I've had to deal with rejection, relying on my own self to combat whatever ugliness comes around. It brings to mind the struggle between 'thinking' and 'feeling', basic as that sounds. Don't think, just feel. Don't concern yourself with the ramifications.

Weltanschauung.

The definition of a weltanschauung is "world view", or your complete set of views that comprise your understanding of the world.

It's a lush word (another being boustrophedon which means numerous lines written from right to left and vice versa), one of many that define my enjoyment of language. They say the more words you learn and absorb into your active vocabulary, the lesser your chances of growing senile.

But what I'm trying to accomplish with this title is the fact that the world view of many people doesn't include an innate sense of health. So many people pine for good health - and it's there for you to achieve. That's the problem - the answer is there and can be realized.
I don't smoke, I rarely drink coffee, I rarely eat fast food and think its domineering presence in North American society is ridiculous, I scrutinize my saturated/trans fat and cholesterol intake, I watch my sugar/salt intake, and I don't do drugs (I drink occasionally but I'm weaning myself off of it gradually). I don't judge people if they do partake in any of this. I exercise; I take care of my body. And I don't have anyone to motivate me - it all happens by my own resolve.

Is that a problem? Do I not fit into the traditional role of an author by maintaining this level of self-respect?



What happens if I post this photo of a protein/vitamin supplement powder - Bodyflex AM - which I think is excellent and use on a regular basis? Maybe a real artist isn't supposed to endorse any product, and in doing so becomes a sellout. Maybe, since the devil is much more appealing than God, my strength as an author is diminished.
It has always been numbing to me - how there should be a measure of self-destruction embedded in an artist for their work to gain recognition. Maybe that's just a role people buy into. The role that my peers all over the world buy into because this is the time period in which they're supposed to do what I aspire to do for a living - write. The mid-twenties ennui that creates countless drunken poems and stories, ideas which never came about because they weren't supposed to. It makes me laugh, how ever since I was a child I wanted to write - and now that I'm in my twenties and writing, I'm only seen as fitting into a mould that's expected of my age range.

But I don't laugh too hard or too long. I never fell to the bottom of the hole of self-destruction. I'm focused on self-development. Whether or not this is going to become detrimental for my future, I'll have yet to see.

David Foster Wallace.

I first heard about David Foster Wallace in 2008 in a university class for grammar. The professor handed us an essay written by Wallace on SWE (Standard Written English). The very next week, our professor told us David Foster Wallace had committed suicide. I still remember how he said it...not to talk badly about my former professor, but he was very matter-of-fact and almost amused by the news of Wallace's death.

The fact that he's more popular after his death is something I'll overlook in this post. This video is important to me based on how he, an author of talent and stature and intelligence, doesn't put a lot of stock in publicity and making appearances.

The reclusive, hidden author who's always out of the public eye, creating his or her latest masterpiece...does this maintain the traditional legend of the subversive, effective author? Fitting into old, respected romantic roles... .

I can understand his discomfort with reading his work aloud - I personally can't decide on what sections of Disassociation to read aloud because every paragraph falls under a greater context and reading one out of context to people who haven't read the book is always a difficult task.

He expresses ennui at going to bookstores and performing readings, saying how an author is relegated to a quasi-celebrity as a result. And I can understand how it would be stiff and impersonal to read passages from a book people have already read, not caring about the content and just wanting to see the creator and how he or she sounds.
But I don't see the discomfort on his level. Maybe it's a less intelligent level. I wouldn't have a problem going to read my already-read work to audiences. I say 'already-read' because whenever I do readings I know the work I read hasn't been read by anyone in the audience before. But I don't see anything wrong with giving audiences...admirers...maybe even fanatics...? a taste of how I look, and how I read. Maybe I wouldn't even read from the work I'd be promoting. I could write entirely new poems and stories and weave the novel/collection I promote into the contents somehow...neglecting my commercial publishers' intents in a middle finger to corporate agendas...
...when you go to a concert and the band plays a different version of the song, are you excited or disappointed? Similarly, if I go to read a passage from the book I'm promoting but put a new spin on it (somehow, without sacrificing the strength of the rest of the book), would that be enjoyable or just confusing and unappealing?

Throughout all of this speculation, I don't have a fame complex, I can live without ever gaining mass fame. I believe fame is a byproduct of creating meaningful works of art, and not the means to the end. It's the same with money...but the argument against this should be a separate post.
To give an audience what they want is completely acceptable to me. After all, I don't believe the strength of my work would suffer as a result. It's a lesson to learn, how writing is really a social act instead of the private suffering act we're pushed to believe in. But there's nothing wrong with subverting the expected... .

Fields.

But throughout all the negativity... how this isn't something an author of any merit would undertake, how it's considered juvenile and commercialized in the...

...Well, why overthink it. I should just allow it to mean what I want it to mean. It's just fun and challenging. This was the biggest drop-in I've ever done. It was at the Winnipeg park at the Forks. I was trembling after I did it for the first time, which was on a previous morning and not filmed. It was an overbearing mental boundary that I overcame by myself, as with most problems in my life.

I rolled away clean the first time I did it. This time I rode over the bump in the middle and fell, but it doesn't really matter. In retrospect it's only a stepping stone for me to start skating vert the way I want to - because I did this, now I can drop in on the vert at the Vanderhooft park, and after that the 10-foot vert ramp at the CJ park, and then the 11-foot extension there as well...and that'll be the beginning of a new beginning.

It's an activity I enjoy - not a lifestyle (although I can't stand the way it's portrayed in mainstream media, MSM), not a hobby, not a closet full of skeletons or a cross to bear.

"Everybody needs a hobby."

I always feel depressed and angry whenever the overwhelming feeling of being used happens - even in this website, sometimes it feels like it's just a tool for my thoughts and discussion to be copied/used in order for people to further their own literary ambitions (because so many want to write a bestselling novel strictly to become rich and famous). This is not a statement made from lack of recognition/fame, it's made from the pitfalls I've been exposed to throughout my life. Can you imagine what kind of life it would be just to exist as a forgotten benchmark, never to reap the full benefits of your efforts and morals?

And this relates to the domineering encumbrance I have to try and forget whenever I write - the idea of authority. How writing is nothing more than a method to exert authority over objects, other people, anything. How people just use writing to classify others, to drive them in a corner and prepackage them in method of storytelling to try and appeal to the public's sense of stereotype and therefore sense of control. Gore Vidal was once quoted as saying "I want to destroy younger authors." All the competition and nonstop classification, scrambling to get the upper hand all the time. No wonder a lot of established authors are reclusive - all they wanted is to forge their own path and write the best literature they could, not to be exposed to people clawing at their heels and trying to undermine them, most likely starting from when they were young and continuing to their current age.

This is only one part of the overall stress that I have to fend off every day. But I should make it clear that I'm very well aware this can be seen as expressing my frustrations, which Virginia Woolf would warn against as I've mentioned in the past, or bordering on "singing my distress" as André Breton wrote...
...but it's still necessary. And I know why.

Depth of focus...

...is an example of an aspect of life that I should've been familiar with for quite some time now, instead of in the past couple of days.

Whenever I look at the documents that comprise the beginning of my next novel I always wonder why I'm not spending more time on it. It's still a regular occurrence.

It's easy to say that it's the intervention of university, and how it falls under the ironic spell of education getting in the way of my progress (although I've been learning quite a bit about literature, and how to write properly). But it's more than that...

...it's a matter of continually developing style, for one. It's been said that an author's life doesn't lie in their deeds and accomplishments, but instead the progression of their writing style.

This is a disturbing idea to me - how perception of the level of dedication and what you have to sacrifice reaches the level of your actual accomplishments outside of writing taking a back seat to the writing itself. If I get married, is that of lesser importance than the inspiration to write that I would garner from getting married?

The reading public might think so. My work would be of more importance to them than my wife herself, so it's logical. But that wouldn't be the same for me, it's possible I'd hold my marriage in higher regard than my work. Which is a very complex subject that I probably shouldn't expound on with no knowledge, it's actually kind of humorous.

Inspiration is another factor... in the back of my mind I believe that something has to happen which hasn't previously happened. A couple of years ago I wasn't in university, and just worked as a dishwasher and read and wrote. I know I can write with the same intensity, yet something feels like it has to happen. But at the same time, I believe that's whimsical thinking as well - it's just as simple as sitting down to the computers and my notebooks and working.

As I've mentioned before, Flannery O'Connor wrote in an essay that the best writers she knew also painted, because it gave them a method of seeing. I paint, although sporadically - I've been doing so since I was ten. And a couple of years ago, during the same time span when I just worked, read and wrote, I also painted. I'll post pictures of my work in the future.

Science shouldn't be a mystery... .

Words Alive Festival 2010

It happened today. I didn't arrive there.

I woke up this morning feeling sick because I left my window open all night. I was exhausted and didn't think I could go, and started pacing around my room. I eventually worked up the energy to start getting ready. It was a very positive experience when I went last year and I wanted to be a part of it again. I tried to print my work but my printer wasn't functioning for the first time since I've owned it. So I had to write it out.

I left at 11:42 and thought I'd arrive in time for the 2:30 open mic. Michael Helm and Myna Wallin were going to be there and I wanted to see them.
But the buses took too long, including one being out of service along the way. By the time I got to Newmarket I was told that the next bus for Sharon would be arriving at 3:15 and would get to my destination by 3:30, which was when the festival ended. So I headed back home.

Along the way on the bus there was a drunken kid, bigger than I was, who got on the bus and met his friends. He looked much older than they did. He sat down and started swearing constantly and very loudly. No one was saying anything to him (although the seats on the bus were cramped and full of passengers) or his friends. I had my earphones on, listening to music, and could still hear him.
So out of the whole bus I turned around and asked him to be quiet. He was for a moment and then started doing the same thing, so I turned around again and shouted HEY at him. The guy beside me got up from his seat and moved away. The kid opened his eyes wide and clenched his mouth, and his friends said they were getting off at the next stop.

The stop comes up, the kid gets up with his eyes still open and his mouth still clenched. He walks up to me, trying to stare me down, and I'm sitting down and staring back at him and not saying anything. Meeting his stare. His friends call for him to get of the bus and he starts swearing at me saying "Get off the bus too, fucking pussy" then he leaves. Didn't try to touch me, just had that ridiculous expression on his face, trying to be hard and wanting me to buckle down. A guy sitting close to me with his girlfriend came up as the kid got off, ready to help me if he started to fight, and said "Fuckin' idiot, huh?" to me. As soon as he got off I stopped watching him, but I could hear him hitting the bus as we drove away and could hear other passengers being shocked at his behaviour.

The strange part is, after the bus went out of service and we had to transfer, the kid and his friends were on the new bus. I was sitting farther away and wasn't close to him. I could them all faintly talking though. After five minutes these two girls started telling the kid to be quiet, and it quickly escalated into a large argument. The guy who'd gotten up to help me earlier rushed from his chair and started yelling at the kid.

I didn't go up and add to the argument, but I walked to the bus driver and told him he'd have to remove the kid and his friends. The stop came up quickly and the driver announced "Okay, who's getting off?" Didn't get up from his seat at all. The kid and his friends got off. The two girls who told them off got off later.

The girls were smiling when they left. So was the kid and his friends. It ressurected an old feeling of mine: as though behaviour like that is desired, so we can fight and feel the excitement of standing up for ourselves, the tension and unexpectedness, the words that come out of our mouths and the spontaneous wit that we're delighted to unearth in ourselves. Maybe that's what the people on the bus desired. But I wasn't looking to start a fight when I intervened.

When the kid got on the bus and was swearing loudly, no one said anything. I was the only one to do something about it. Before I did, the thought came to my mind that I was going to a literary festival to read poems to people...and I'm just going to let this kid ruin everyone's day? I'm not going to do anything, just bow my head down, turn the volume on my MP3 player to maximum and let it happen? It was a matter of autonomy, as I've discussed before - how could I feel comfortable with myself reading my work if I didn't do anything about the garbage happening right before me? There's been other instances like this as well.

So even though I tried to attend, I wasn't able to. It's a shame - I don't know if I'm going to be in Toronto next September, that's based on opportunities from different universities for my Masters degree and if I find a woman.

It's my birthday in a week and I don't want to spend it by myself, I want to spend it with a girl. I can't stand this loneliness. I don't trap myself in loneliness, I don't want it. I never did. I wrote this ghazal awhile back for university and people thought it expressed a desire to stay lonely.
That's never what I wanted. It comes so easy to so many people.


Pentimenti


Marble and chrome, Inniskillin, raucous laughter, kismet.
Rooftop parties with old friends on summer evenings, watching the sun set.

Romanticism and loneliness, dreams of foolish goals.
Trapped inside them but not defeated as of yet.

“Gemstones mean nothing to the value of human life.”
But I’m still joyous to see hornets encased in cut garnet.

Remembering her love of nature, and my desire to nibble on her earlobe.
Always with me as I watch Night Jessamines sway in the breeze, deathly quiet.

Years pass by and swell with her accomplishments.
I only sit in the middle of a room with a high ceiling, at work on a tercet.

Not able to forget the dreams of running into each other on the street.
Growing ever more nervous at how memory is considered an asset.


Rest in peace Moshie my cousin.

Nabokov and deceit.

Reading Nabokov's Lectures on Literature led me to come across his claim that authors must be experts of deceit - he argues that nature is deceitful and authors follow in nature's footsteps.

But I don't want to deceive people when I write simply because I'm not that kind of person. If you're willingly deceitful, is that a positive quality to have? When I published Disassociation I included a note at the beginnng stating that none of the events within the plot occurred in my real life and that it was all fiction. People have read it and believed that the story was based on my own life regardless of the note I left, which isn't the case. I never had two best friends who were violent and dangerous, I never went to Juvenile Detention and I never moved to Montreal by myself. I'll admit that it's somewhat flattering to hear people say they believe the plot actually happened - I was glad I wrote it realistically enough for that to happen.

But I never led them on. I never tried to deceive them and say that it really did happen, like other authors who've sadly gained attention and adulation for doing so which is completely idiotic. I came across a similar quote in Neil Gaiman's work of all people which stated that "Writers are liars."
I can't fit myself into these expectations. Sometimes it feels like authors say these things to atone for their own transgressions/guilt, but I'm not saying that's the case here. I just want to write and not try to fit into any expectations.
Not caring about what other people think, doing what feels most comfortable to me.

Yet when I consider Nabokov's intelligence...his reputation...his influence...it just puts pressure on me when I try to dismiss his expectations of deceit. Is the power of his wisdom/influence more important than my resolve not to fall into his pattern? Henry Miller once wrote in a letter to Anaïs Nin that he believed he was a great man. I don't have that level of self-esteem, should I? I consider that being egotistical. But sometimes it feels like I need that level of self-assurance in order to maintain my beliefs.

I believe in autonomy, that an author's own morals and deeds influence the way I regard their work. Some people would argue that their work stands independent of their own life but being a writer myself I can't agree with that. If I was violent towards people, abused women, abused my parents, was wasteful and conniving and hypocritical yet wrote well-crafted work could you really value my work considering how little of a real man I was? If my work was a way to make amends for my behaviour and to dispel my pent-up anger and angst, is that justifiable grounds for being destructive to everyone around me?
This ties into the argument people make that "Well, his work is so good that it's okay for him to act disrespectful to people around him" (thinking of Christian Bök here). I don't really believe that. In a previous post I discussed Jorge Luis Borges' view that people don't have the soul of a writer; they only view writing as a craft to be learned and practiced, and I think that applies here.

I think an author should be humble and have positive values for their work to be respected. That's not to say that they should write bland repetitive material, nor that they should act holier-than-thou, but they should be someone whom others can respect. Can you respect someone who's purposefully deceitful?

Early fall.

Back when I was thirteen, this song meant a lot to me.

The G20 Protests / Literary Readings / August in Photos.

I was present at the G20 protests that were held here in Toronto due to the summit. I saw a lot of odd occurrences and filmed a march. In the third photo, the police suddenly surged forward and we all moved back. It was hard to document anything through photography without feeling like it was in the interest of sensationalism. Maybe the whole ordeal was in the vein of sensationalism.





During that same weekend I did two readings of poetry in Toronto, at the Sweet Tooth Cafe in the first photo and at Central restaurant for the Plasticine Poetry series.


I rented a car for the first time and drove by myself for 11 hours to Long Island, New York just to get away and see a new place. The drive into the island, going through the peaks and valleys of New York farmland at early dusk, was one of the most tranquil experiences I've had in a long time. It almost made me forget how I was detained at the border, with guards telling me lies about how I couldn't take a rented car over the border in order to satisfy their racial profiling.

I visited a skateshop called Poets (named so b/c of Poet's Corner, although I'd like to believe they appreciate literature as well) which is run by one of my favourite skateboarders Gino Iannucci and his friend Matt Bell, who was very hospitable. This photo is of their 2-year anniversary party which I attended for a little bit. It was fun, but it's hard going to parties by myself and not knowing anyone there either. Everyone there was cool though. I wanted to meet Gino but he wasn't there - maybe another time. Their website's here.



And I saw Lou Barlow play live last night at the Horseshoe Tavern. The second photo is of him and the Missingmen playing an amazing fast-paced version of Home.
I met Lou. It was completely incidental. I went downstairs and there he was. I don't admire a lot of people - I don't fan out over celebrities - but his lyrics/music have been influential to me. I asked him for a photo and he politely said yes. I have the photo on my camera, but it's valuable - I don't know how internet copyright goes, so it'll have to stay there.

Leen Sleiman, one of the contestants for Miss Lebanon. Like myself she's majoring in English literature.


Marisa Berenson.



I've never been that shallow about a woman's looks. A woman with freckles shouldn't be ashamed of her features. I feel the same way about arm hair, but if it's thicker than mine... .


Back in the mid-90's I first heard the name Silken Laumann, a Canadian Olympic gold medalist for rowing, for the first time. It sounded so mysterious back then. It's still one of the most striking names I've heard.


Eva Green. The Dreamers was a tour-de-force because of her.

But even with these photos, some of the most numinous women I've ever seen I know personally.