You ever get the feeling that everybody is having fun but you? Of course you do… I hope you do. I can’t be alone here…

It’s snowing today, snowing and snowing and snowing to the extent that my boss has called for a snow day, hurrah—it doesn’t take much in the lower mainland for everything to come to a standstill. What is there out there, maybe a foot? Schools are closed, traffic is freaky, and I am SO GLAD to get a snow day. For the freedom of it. Not for the financial ramifications of missing a half day of pay.

So, like I was saying, I’m not having much fun. Not because I don’t intend on going sledding as soon as I get off work (I am SO going sledding) but because of money. Money, money, evil, evil money. Astronomical rent, out-of-work student fiancée, gas-guzzling car… maybe it’s not the money that hurts me. It’s the things I find myself spending it on. I have no savings, no financial intelligence. How did I get to be 29 years old and not learn how to take care of cash? I feel ashamed, angry, disappointed. I feel like I’m better than this. I’m better than ‘broke’.

The artist dream seems a wicked thing at this point. We all know we’re not supposed to believe the naysayers when they talk about “starving artists,” and “maybe your paintings will be worth something when you die,” but how often can you listen to that shit without absorbing some of the content? Sometimes I don’t even want to draw or paint anymore—I don’t want to hear about the millions people will rake in when the hock my sketches on E-bay after my demise. Creativity seems to come to me when I’m feeling confident anyway, and let’s face it—when you’re in overdraft to keep the gas tank ¼ full, there isn’t a whole lot of room left for confidence, not a lot of room left for fantasy. Or if there is, it’s a fantasy about having a full gas tank.

I think I just expected more from myself by now, by age 29. I remember having this same crisis of expectations at 23, and at 25 too—where is the house, the kids, the husband, the car, the traveling, the everything? And for that matter, are those dreams valid anymore? Are those the things I really want, or just the things I have convinced myself that I should want? The kicker is that I’ve finally realized that responsibility for oneself is one of life’s greatest lessons; if I’m here, and I don’t like it, I only have myself to thank. If my ass is fat, it is because I had one too many of those lovely silky chocolate balls. If my teeth hurt, it’s because I haven’t been a diligent flosser. Anything I have done, or haven’t done, has got me to where I am now. I suppose there is a part of me that has been waiting for destiny to reveal itself with the attendant flash of light, ardor of jasmine, and song of seraphim. But no-- if my life sucks, it’s because of me, me, me.

It’s a sour cocktail, baby. I gotta procure me a little sugar.

It isn’t easy. To see humanity, in everyone, all of the time. I mean, to see that everyone is possessed of their own brand and flavour of intelligence, to forgive them what you might perceive as flaws, when in fact they are not flaws. They are the warp and weft of humanity, I suppose. The colours of the strings we are woven from. Nubbly, crusty grey wool, or fine red silk, or whatever. I’m probably blue-and-white bed sheet cotton. Fresh, dreamy, insubstantial, childish. Nothing to keep you warm on a cold winters’ eve.



Today is grey and gold, sunlight weak and chilly and shining wet on black-grey pavement. I want to skip and kick a gritty soccer ball across the melting earth, I want to shout to my distant friends, speak in schoolyard squeals of bright winter afternoon joy.



Tongue is different from hand. Tongue speaks and sets boundaries and sculpts. Sculpts emotion. The hand can reach, reach. Out, out to give, to take, to give. To quantify, to establish and make real. I can say I will give this to you, but only actions will prevail, or they won’t. Only hand can act.



In Japanese, there is one word for heart, mind and soul: kokoro. Stop dividing your spirit. Live whole. Feel, think, know, and do them all at once.

Oh, lengthy absence. Oh, unwritten words welling up and swirling around the troubled mind...

Christmas was well-contained, ever on the brink of gong-show... you put my brother, my brother's girlfriend and I, my not entirely accepted fiancee, my father, grandmother, and the ever-at-odds combo of my mother and grandfather all in one house for a week, and stir...

Well, sir. Most times I think it'd be a recipe for disaster. But we did alright, we did ok.

Ah, a short blurb, and then gone again am I.

Back to work.