It was a humid night on the streets of Ottawa.
I wasn't sober.
I was with friends, celebrating a final night before one of us left for a time.
And I saw her. A woman I knew 14 years ago. She looked the same.
In my mind, I saw the same person I knew 14 years ago. In my drunken haze, it was my memories that flooded forward. I remembered what I missed.
Two days later I met her for coffee - she wasn't what I remembered or, frankly, all that interesting.
It is amazing what perspective does to one's mind.
I, literally, had to drink her interesting- and it wasn't even that I pretended that she was- it was that my memory of her made her interesting. It was a complete fabrication based on what I thought my memory was.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Time
We sat knowing that time was almost up.
We started by wasting it talking about nothing, and enjoying one another's company.
And then we saw that we were almost out of time.
Usually things don't stop because of a clock. Usually things stop because they end naturally. A fight. A frolick. A death.
Not because we ran out of time.
We started by wasting it talking about nothing, and enjoying one another's company.
And then we saw that we were almost out of time.
Usually things don't stop because of a clock. Usually things stop because they end naturally. A fight. A frolick. A death.
Not because we ran out of time.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 30th
There are so many things that I miss.
Not about you, but about life in general.
It seems that as I age, and I do it at an alarmingly slow rate, I still forget all the things that have made me so happy I cried. With or without a whisper, I can the memories from time gone by.
I miss singing down the street - and acting like no one cares. I miss dancing to Journey in bars, often on speakers. I miss the quiet moments before the jubilation. Of what, I have no idea.
I can't recapture my youth. I tried, with a butterfly net.
I wish I knew how to make each second perfect - making it always enjoyable, instead of using one minute to pay for the next.
People are drawn to me because I entertain them. I crave it you know- the attention - the laughs. That makes me shallow in a very bizarre way. But I think it is eerily genuine. It often makes me lonely though - because I crave attention from so many places. It is a tacky jerry mcguire syndrome. The crowd will always call for more.
I think I have settled - am I going to be happy by staying here and being the person I am?
I admire those who have the courage and the strength to seize what they want - and even if it isn't youth you are seizing, it is most certainly life.
Deep down, I really wish that I could make a difference. I don't know what that means, but I know it isn't doing what I am doing now. I might actually impede progress.
My ego has driven me to succeed and that success has always been measured compared to the other things people have. Not what they have done, persae, because so few of the people I know have actually done anything for society on the whole. It is a very high bar and so many people define it differently.
I wish I could understand what it meant to be truly happy - it has to be more than waking up and plodding along through life.
I try to exude happiness, but it is a masquerade.
Not about you, but about life in general.
It seems that as I age, and I do it at an alarmingly slow rate, I still forget all the things that have made me so happy I cried. With or without a whisper, I can the memories from time gone by.
I miss singing down the street - and acting like no one cares. I miss dancing to Journey in bars, often on speakers. I miss the quiet moments before the jubilation. Of what, I have no idea.
I can't recapture my youth. I tried, with a butterfly net.
I wish I knew how to make each second perfect - making it always enjoyable, instead of using one minute to pay for the next.
People are drawn to me because I entertain them. I crave it you know- the attention - the laughs. That makes me shallow in a very bizarre way. But I think it is eerily genuine. It often makes me lonely though - because I crave attention from so many places. It is a tacky jerry mcguire syndrome. The crowd will always call for more.
I think I have settled - am I going to be happy by staying here and being the person I am?
I admire those who have the courage and the strength to seize what they want - and even if it isn't youth you are seizing, it is most certainly life.
Deep down, I really wish that I could make a difference. I don't know what that means, but I know it isn't doing what I am doing now. I might actually impede progress.
My ego has driven me to succeed and that success has always been measured compared to the other things people have. Not what they have done, persae, because so few of the people I know have actually done anything for society on the whole. It is a very high bar and so many people define it differently.
I wish I could understand what it meant to be truly happy - it has to be more than waking up and plodding along through life.
I try to exude happiness, but it is a masquerade.
Friday, January 9, 2009
This isn't exactly fiction - but it deserves to be on this side
The Reign
I told myself it was for charity. It was too wet for it to be any fun.
As I listened to the rumbling thunder and watched the lightning crackle nearby, I was reminded of a time a short while ago when I was helping out with some junior golfers. Not the most underprivileged group, I will admit, but deserving nevertheless.
The day was just like every other day, except that the south west horizon had a razor sharp black cloud line stretched across it as far as the eye could see. There was a handful of juniors ready to play in their first tournament of the year, and I was less than enthused about the prospect of herding them for the next few hours. Despite my new found passion for volunteerism, there were limits to what I was willing to do.
As the younglings puttered about, waiting for their call to tee-off, the sky finally opened up to release its full fury. The parents who were (ultimately) in charge of the event, huddled to confer as to what was going to happen. The kids, feeling the anticipation of "god, we don't have to be here anymore" started to collect their things and say so long. Except for one little girl who was, curiously, with three adults, all of whom seemed to be on edge. Usually, it only takes one parent to attend these social tournaments, but what do I know.
One of them caught my eye, hurried over to me, and asked "Is the tournament still on?"
I wasn't exactly sure what to say other than "I would be very surprised if it happened - it is brutal outside."
She didn't seem to hear me, or care to hear me, and quietly, she suggested to me that the tournament had to happen. Confused, and jaded by what I initially perceived as over-competitive parenting, I was about to ask "why?" when a second adult came over to inquire as to the status of the tournament. Before she began to speak, I could hear the gathering of the "official" parents dispersing, and they were headed my way.
"This tournament can't be cancelled," the second adult said, "My daughter has to play." I am not sure I have ever heard an adult talk that sternly to me in my life. No teacher, no principal and not my parents who were adults, teachers and (in my father's case) principals.
Before I got a chance to respond, the second adult pulled me aside and explained the situation to me. I looked over my shoulder, noticing that a parent from the organizing committee was patiently waiting to speak to me, presumably about rescheduling, or cancelling, the event.
After the explanation, completely dumbstruck, I pulled the organizing committee aside. I discretely detailed what I was told to them, and announced, most definitely, that the tournament would be going forward. I am not sure who put me in charge, but I was acting like it, so why wouldn't they listen? There was no opposition from the parents, but it would be entirely voluntary. No child would be forced to play in the event. I made the announcement, and informed the kids that in Scotland, this was considered a sunny day.
As it turns out, there was only one participant. A nine year old girl. I put on my rain gear, and I played along side her. In possibly the worst rainstorm outside of monsoon season. The rain was coming down sideways it was blowing so hard.
We played all nine holes, and when she sunk the final putt, she smiled with a level of satisfaction and relief that I am not quite sure I have ever seen before or since.Her mother, and Aunt and Uncle, were waiting for us on the 9th green. They cheered and then we had a "champions" dinner of hot dogs and soda. I presented her with the trophy, and to this day, her name adorns a plaque at the club.
The little girl's father died that morning, and his dying wish was that she played in the tournament. Not only did she play, she won.
I told myself it was for charity. It was too wet for it to be any fun.
As I listened to the rumbling thunder and watched the lightning crackle nearby, I was reminded of a time a short while ago when I was helping out with some junior golfers. Not the most underprivileged group, I will admit, but deserving nevertheless.
The day was just like every other day, except that the south west horizon had a razor sharp black cloud line stretched across it as far as the eye could see. There was a handful of juniors ready to play in their first tournament of the year, and I was less than enthused about the prospect of herding them for the next few hours. Despite my new found passion for volunteerism, there were limits to what I was willing to do.
As the younglings puttered about, waiting for their call to tee-off, the sky finally opened up to release its full fury. The parents who were (ultimately) in charge of the event, huddled to confer as to what was going to happen. The kids, feeling the anticipation of "god, we don't have to be here anymore" started to collect their things and say so long. Except for one little girl who was, curiously, with three adults, all of whom seemed to be on edge. Usually, it only takes one parent to attend these social tournaments, but what do I know.
One of them caught my eye, hurried over to me, and asked "Is the tournament still on?"
I wasn't exactly sure what to say other than "I would be very surprised if it happened - it is brutal outside."
She didn't seem to hear me, or care to hear me, and quietly, she suggested to me that the tournament had to happen. Confused, and jaded by what I initially perceived as over-competitive parenting, I was about to ask "why?" when a second adult came over to inquire as to the status of the tournament. Before she began to speak, I could hear the gathering of the "official" parents dispersing, and they were headed my way.
"This tournament can't be cancelled," the second adult said, "My daughter has to play." I am not sure I have ever heard an adult talk that sternly to me in my life. No teacher, no principal and not my parents who were adults, teachers and (in my father's case) principals.
Before I got a chance to respond, the second adult pulled me aside and explained the situation to me. I looked over my shoulder, noticing that a parent from the organizing committee was patiently waiting to speak to me, presumably about rescheduling, or cancelling, the event.
After the explanation, completely dumbstruck, I pulled the organizing committee aside. I discretely detailed what I was told to them, and announced, most definitely, that the tournament would be going forward. I am not sure who put me in charge, but I was acting like it, so why wouldn't they listen? There was no opposition from the parents, but it would be entirely voluntary. No child would be forced to play in the event. I made the announcement, and informed the kids that in Scotland, this was considered a sunny day.
As it turns out, there was only one participant. A nine year old girl. I put on my rain gear, and I played along side her. In possibly the worst rainstorm outside of monsoon season. The rain was coming down sideways it was blowing so hard.
We played all nine holes, and when she sunk the final putt, she smiled with a level of satisfaction and relief that I am not quite sure I have ever seen before or since.Her mother, and Aunt and Uncle, were waiting for us on the 9th green. They cheered and then we had a "champions" dinner of hot dogs and soda. I presented her with the trophy, and to this day, her name adorns a plaque at the club.
The little girl's father died that morning, and his dying wish was that she played in the tournament. Not only did she play, she won.
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