Usually I can't write inside my own home.
So I'm not. I write while I sit on the back step of my basement suite, looking outwards onto the pristinely cut middle-class lawn, partitioned at the base of two sheds to separate us from our vertical neighbours. There's a floral-patterned white sheet blissfully dazing softly in the mellow breeze. I can hear seagulls, lawn mowers, laundry ventilation, and lifting aircraft in the distance. Birds chirp on all sides. My slightly-mutilated iPhone sits atop my newest intellectual fling-book: Native Peoples and Cultures of Canada. Karen Armstrong's A History of God sits to the left of an empty plastique of Canada Dry ginger ale.
I work in 2 hours, give or take a few minutes, meaning I have to be showered and ready to go within an hour and a half. I, in part, desire a cigarette to celebrate a day like this (slightly haunted by the visage of flooded nicotine butts in a cup we have utilized as an ash tray, an empty pack of Canadian Classics from a potluck we hosted upwards of 2 months ago lies patiently at the other end of the outside table) as these are the times I find best to choose the smoke-aesthetic over the phantasmal possibility of longevity.
I am getting hours enough between Chapters and the Clay Pigeon, but when isolated into one or the other, it makes me worried that my foothold in both is precarious, at best. Tonight I intend to approach my boss at the Clay Pigeon and kindly (yet assertively) let him know that I'm going to need at least 3 nights a week at this restaurant if I am going to comfortably survive. If hours don't start picking up likewise at Chapters, I will have to kindy assert myself in the same way 2 weeks from now. Of course; I did only start there again about a week ago, so I'll give it a little time for the dust to settle before I start pressing hierarchical buttons.
Jen is reading her new book in my bedroom (Scar Tissue by the lead singer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers). We both slept late for having remained up until the wee hours of the morning partaking in psychonautic adventures to the antipodes of the mind. Tomorrow morning, I start work at 11:30 at Chapters, so I am thankful for melatonin and let's hope it works this time around.
About a week ago now, I tried to quit using the antidepressant I am on cold turkey. Although my mood felt much more stable in the wake of the sudden cut, I experienced some of the typical (yet disturbing) withdrawal effects which go hand-in-hand with a daily habit of chemical ingestion. I experienced the strangely intriguing skin-wave medically known as 'brain zaps,' in which an occasional pulse will ricochet most prominently within the skull, yet dipping to every other extremity of the body in a fashion that the name accurately conveys; it's like a great big static shock throughout the entirety of the brain (as a source point) which moves in surrealist shock waves through the rest of the body as if I had been fooling around with a wet fork in my teeth and an open electrical socket.
As well as I could understand and as much as the limited research on the phenomenon could tell me, it's just my synapses blazing off in a fashion that implies the continued assistance of the chemical intervention. Due to the lack of escitalopram, the 'brain zaps' are the brain in spaced-out confusion assuming the chemical is still present to 'zap' from one-end synapse to another.
I ended up going to a pharmacy for an emergency dose of 5 pills a couple days ago, as I soon learned that, although the withdrawal symptoms do dissipate over time, there is a chance that going cold turkey can cause a 'snap-back' effect in which the brain will return to its prior state of chemical imbalance (depression and anxiety in my case). Not wanting to risk this, I am instead cutting my dose at intervals of 3 days to slowly wean off in a way my chemistry can manage. The first three days, I cut my dose by 15% and bit off (give or take) 75% of a pill. On the fourth day, I cut 25% and only bit half. Today is my last day of a 50% dose before I cut another 15-25%. At this rate, it shouldn't be much less than a week before I am completely off the drug.
There is plenty more to say; but these are my field-notes for today. I've got to get ready for work.
Huzzah, blue planet.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Sunday, March 23, 2014
particularly EVERYWHERE
It's been far too long since I have, in any respect, updated the readers of my blogsphere to what I have been up to and where the hell I've been in the last 3 or 4 months. Many of you may well have picked out intimate details via my stream-of-consciousness prose posted at occasional intervals over the past while, but it still has certainly not been enough to fill in the blanks.
To begin: the stream-of-consciousness prose paragraphs and pages I've been publishing have been parts of a poetically-licensed autobiographical work I've began writing titled: The Mystic Hat of Esquimalt. The 'Mystic Hat' derives from my eternal affinity with toques of different style, pattern, and design.. and the intimate relationship which begins to form between said toque(s) and I as a result (at least in terms of how they each affect my self-image and contribute to a betterment in my self-confidence due to my unusually irrational insecurities regarding my hair). It is written in a style heavily influenced by famous Beat author Jack Kerouac (for those of you who are somehow not familiar with him, his most famous works include On the Road, The Dharma Bums, and Big Sur). It may be a naive and young affinity with Kerouac's irresponsibility, alcoholism, and brilliance.. but he was the first author to truly wake me and cause me to feel a work 'in my bones;' as opposed to reading him, I witness the flow of his words and feel him in the most intimate and subliminal of ways. As such, I am attempting to achieve the same sort of effect in my writing, but in a modern context which takes into account the effects (positive, negative, or otherwise) of modern culture-concurrences like the internet, vast technological integration, antidepressants, sedatives, psychedelics, and, as I like to call it, the 'beautiful melancholy of the digital paper.'
For those not familiar with what 'Esquimalt' means, or as to where it is, it's the township I've been living in since the end of October 2013. After moving to Victoria on August 9th of the same year, my attempts to live completely on my own quickly caught up to my financial neglects and inabilities. I convinced a friend to move down to the city and live with me so we could split the costs and, after sleeping in my living room for almost a month in my one-bedroom suite in Quadra Village (located between Downtown Victoria and the University of Victoria), we found a basement suite in the adjacent Township of Esquimalt that was within a realistic price-range. Although the both of us had preferred not to live in Esquimalt (as it is slightly out of the way, plus not quite as enthralling as the Downtown core or periphery), it was the only option we had at the time and, as such, we took it. We have both grown to love the place to some degree.. however I, personally, have a desire to eventually vacate the area in favour of a neighbourhood within or in proximity to Downtown.
Regardless of my general indifference to Esquimalt, it is only a 10 minute bus ride from Victoria proper, and does indeed have plenty of beautiful things about it. It's a strange blended mix between the poor, the addicted, the well-off, and the retired. Along most of Esquimalt Road, one gets the impression that a good percentage of the Townships residents are living off EI, Disability Assistance, or a meagre welfare income. Not that I wish to generalize or make it seem as if they are less for this observed impression.. just that it often gives off an air of melancholic defeat by forces of economy and social convention greater than oneself. There is very little 'victory' in the air, I suppose.
That being said, it also fades into homey areas which bode a grandmotherly or grandfatherly vibe, with British-style colonial housing from the late 19th and early 20th centuries acting as confirmation of comfortable pensioners mellowly enjoying the twilight years of their lives. It is also home to areas overlooking a pristinely mysterious ocean, such as Macaulay Point. These are my areas of preference on the rare occasions when I finally work-up the motivation to go on a jog. 'Esquimalt,' as a word, is usually translated to "place of the shoaling waters." It originates from a name for the area ("Ess-whoy-malth") that the Songhee's people coined in what Kerouac would assume to be a 'primordial era of glowing impressions' or some such poetic subliminality. The area is also home to the Pacific fleet of the Royal Canadian Navy, with the naval base itself being a literal 7 minute walk from my front door.
Somehow, my move to the neighbourhood played into the cult-of-personality and personal 'mythologising' echoed by my new group of close friends. A good friend of mine one-day coined me as the 'mystic hat of Esquimalt,' and the name stuck, as both an official 'nickname' of sorts, and an appropriate name for my novel. As is, the novel is in a state of limbo due to my moody and sensitive nature; my assumption that the novel will never be good enough, among the throng of other artistic disturbances very familiar to one who puts their soul to the light for the world to see.
I have been oversaturating myself, as well, in the never-ending expletive flow of current events, paying attentive and detailed attention to the developing situation in the Ukraine; the fall of Yanukovych to the Euro Maidan movement, the subsequent pro-Russian protests, and the out-of-left-field annexation of the Crimea by Putin and his administration following a referendum in which 95% of participating Crimean voters cast in favor of joining the Russian Federation. Said referendum, however, is seen as having been illegal by the majority of Western powers, the interim Ukrainian government, and the ethnic minorities within the peninsula itself. Russia now poses a very real military threat to the rest of the Ukraine, where the eastern half hosts a large ethnically Russian population which Putin may say need to be 'defended,' and will thus justify further territorial incursions to the theorised point in which he could push as far southwest as Moldova and absorb the pro-Russian Soviet ghost-state of Transnistria. Whether or not this is even a possibility remains to be seen.
Around the world, everyone has had their eyes glued to the sky and the ocean in search of Malaysian flight MH370. From wild fringe-theories including aliens and some sort of Bermuda Triangle scenario, to more benign assumptions such as a fire in the cockpit that choked out the pilots and caused them to lose contact before crashing somewhere in the Indian Ocean or the jungles of Malaysia, the entire situation has quickly become one of the greatest mysteries in aviation history. For the sake of why-the-hell-not, I'll delve into my fringe-theory regarding what may have happened (I am by no means saying this has occurred at all).
Remember the mass-stabbings of civilians at the Kunming rail station in the Yunnan province of China earlier this month? Chinese state-television blamed it on secessionist militants from the contested northwest province of Xinjiang, in which the ethnically native Uyghur people have been massively repressed by Chinese authorities for the past few decades. Islamic extremists apparently run rampant in the area, going so far as leading to sword attacks on police officers attempting to 'keep the peace.' Since roughly the beginning of a centralised communist China, the authorities have been flooding all the contested provinces (including Tibet) with Han Chinese. Such a colonial influx has the obvious consequence of nullifying 'referendums' of any legitimacy, as well as effectively neutering the natives of said areas of any meaningful representation. This causes Tibetan Buddhists to resort to radical protest in the form of self-immolation, and the ethnic Uyghurs to use physical violence against Chinese authorities, targeting military, police, and bureaucratic institutions.
My impression of the Kunming stabbing spree is that it was a false-flag operation on the part of the Chinese government to justify further repressive measures in Xinjiang. Once again: this is all wild speculation on my part, so please take what I'm saying with a grain of salt.
Malaysian airlines flight MH370 was flying from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing when it went missing. Many Chinese citizens were on board when the plane mysteriously disappeared into thin air. It is my batshit crazy assumption that the plane will eventually show up (whether as a functional whole with everyone alive, or as a shattered wreck), and the entire incident will somehow be tied back to Islamic extremism. The Chinese state-media may assert that it was the work of violent Islamic separatists from Xinjiang province, and thus justify further repressive measures by authorities in the region.
Honestly though, I really don't know. But it's certainly food for thought, and another fringe theory to add to the thousands already accumulated throughout intellectual circles the world over. The thing is: the plane could be as far as Kazakhstan, and even if it isn't Uyghur separatists, there is some speculation as to if it might have some tie to al Qaeda or the Taliban, potentially having landed somewhere in Afghanistan with all 239 passengers being kept hostage for one socio-religious objective or another. I guess we'll all know for sure in 2016 when it's finally aired as a subject on the History Channel. The obvious assertion will be that it must have been taken by an alien force from Alpha Centurai (the same aliens that helped us build the Pyramids of Giza and the lost city of Atlantis).
As well as all this playing-the-crazy-witness, my girlfriend of 3 months will be moving in with my roommate and I in mid-April. It's a leap of faith on both our parts, but seems like the right choice at this point, and makes the most sense in terms of economy. She is from Florida, and wishes to potentially put school on hold for a year or two to figure herself out and work in Canada. As of now, she is still waiting on the acceptance of her application for a work permit, but we're both sure it won't be much longer.
I am still very much in debt to multiple companies and friends, but will soon be able to start making larger payments with the financial alleviation provided by my girlfriends move. I recently re-obtained my job as a Customer Experience Representative (CER) at the Chapters bookstore downtown (which I am massively excited about, seeing as combining work with books and fantastic co-workers is a recipe for a very important form of happiness). I also work as a part-time dishwasher at a gourmet restaurant in the same area called the Clay Pigeon. The people I work with are stellar, friendly, and very intelligent. They also have a very good sense of humor, and this, combined with the meditation of the dish-pit and one ear perpetually plugged into podcasts ranging in topic from current events to Terence McKenna make it a job I don't plan on leaving anytime soon. If I can combine my part-time evening shifts at the Clay Pigeon with my part-time floor shifts at Chapters to get somewhere in the range of 30 to 40 hours a week, I will be a very happy camper for the next little while (providing I can still make time for my art and the band I am starting with a couple good friends.. as well as exercise, which I don't get enough of).
This sums-up a satisfactory-enough synopsis of what my life has been like for the past while, and as a result, I hope you all feel an inch closer to enlightenment. I've forgotten how therapeutic and relaxing blogging can be, so I believe I'll be returning to it as much as I can afford time to as the spring and summer months roll on.
One love, blue planet. I'll see you as soon as I look up from this screen.
To begin: the stream-of-consciousness prose paragraphs and pages I've been publishing have been parts of a poetically-licensed autobiographical work I've began writing titled: The Mystic Hat of Esquimalt. The 'Mystic Hat' derives from my eternal affinity with toques of different style, pattern, and design.. and the intimate relationship which begins to form between said toque(s) and I as a result (at least in terms of how they each affect my self-image and contribute to a betterment in my self-confidence due to my unusually irrational insecurities regarding my hair). It is written in a style heavily influenced by famous Beat author Jack Kerouac (for those of you who are somehow not familiar with him, his most famous works include On the Road, The Dharma Bums, and Big Sur). It may be a naive and young affinity with Kerouac's irresponsibility, alcoholism, and brilliance.. but he was the first author to truly wake me and cause me to feel a work 'in my bones;' as opposed to reading him, I witness the flow of his words and feel him in the most intimate and subliminal of ways. As such, I am attempting to achieve the same sort of effect in my writing, but in a modern context which takes into account the effects (positive, negative, or otherwise) of modern culture-concurrences like the internet, vast technological integration, antidepressants, sedatives, psychedelics, and, as I like to call it, the 'beautiful melancholy of the digital paper.'
For those not familiar with what 'Esquimalt' means, or as to where it is, it's the township I've been living in since the end of October 2013. After moving to Victoria on August 9th of the same year, my attempts to live completely on my own quickly caught up to my financial neglects and inabilities. I convinced a friend to move down to the city and live with me so we could split the costs and, after sleeping in my living room for almost a month in my one-bedroom suite in Quadra Village (located between Downtown Victoria and the University of Victoria), we found a basement suite in the adjacent Township of Esquimalt that was within a realistic price-range. Although the both of us had preferred not to live in Esquimalt (as it is slightly out of the way, plus not quite as enthralling as the Downtown core or periphery), it was the only option we had at the time and, as such, we took it. We have both grown to love the place to some degree.. however I, personally, have a desire to eventually vacate the area in favour of a neighbourhood within or in proximity to Downtown.
Regardless of my general indifference to Esquimalt, it is only a 10 minute bus ride from Victoria proper, and does indeed have plenty of beautiful things about it. It's a strange blended mix between the poor, the addicted, the well-off, and the retired. Along most of Esquimalt Road, one gets the impression that a good percentage of the Townships residents are living off EI, Disability Assistance, or a meagre welfare income. Not that I wish to generalize or make it seem as if they are less for this observed impression.. just that it often gives off an air of melancholic defeat by forces of economy and social convention greater than oneself. There is very little 'victory' in the air, I suppose.
That being said, it also fades into homey areas which bode a grandmotherly or grandfatherly vibe, with British-style colonial housing from the late 19th and early 20th centuries acting as confirmation of comfortable pensioners mellowly enjoying the twilight years of their lives. It is also home to areas overlooking a pristinely mysterious ocean, such as Macaulay Point. These are my areas of preference on the rare occasions when I finally work-up the motivation to go on a jog. 'Esquimalt,' as a word, is usually translated to "place of the shoaling waters." It originates from a name for the area ("Ess-whoy-malth") that the Songhee's people coined in what Kerouac would assume to be a 'primordial era of glowing impressions' or some such poetic subliminality. The area is also home to the Pacific fleet of the Royal Canadian Navy, with the naval base itself being a literal 7 minute walk from my front door.
Somehow, my move to the neighbourhood played into the cult-of-personality and personal 'mythologising' echoed by my new group of close friends. A good friend of mine one-day coined me as the 'mystic hat of Esquimalt,' and the name stuck, as both an official 'nickname' of sorts, and an appropriate name for my novel. As is, the novel is in a state of limbo due to my moody and sensitive nature; my assumption that the novel will never be good enough, among the throng of other artistic disturbances very familiar to one who puts their soul to the light for the world to see.
I have been oversaturating myself, as well, in the never-ending expletive flow of current events, paying attentive and detailed attention to the developing situation in the Ukraine; the fall of Yanukovych to the Euro Maidan movement, the subsequent pro-Russian protests, and the out-of-left-field annexation of the Crimea by Putin and his administration following a referendum in which 95% of participating Crimean voters cast in favor of joining the Russian Federation. Said referendum, however, is seen as having been illegal by the majority of Western powers, the interim Ukrainian government, and the ethnic minorities within the peninsula itself. Russia now poses a very real military threat to the rest of the Ukraine, where the eastern half hosts a large ethnically Russian population which Putin may say need to be 'defended,' and will thus justify further territorial incursions to the theorised point in which he could push as far southwest as Moldova and absorb the pro-Russian Soviet ghost-state of Transnistria. Whether or not this is even a possibility remains to be seen.
Around the world, everyone has had their eyes glued to the sky and the ocean in search of Malaysian flight MH370. From wild fringe-theories including aliens and some sort of Bermuda Triangle scenario, to more benign assumptions such as a fire in the cockpit that choked out the pilots and caused them to lose contact before crashing somewhere in the Indian Ocean or the jungles of Malaysia, the entire situation has quickly become one of the greatest mysteries in aviation history. For the sake of why-the-hell-not, I'll delve into my fringe-theory regarding what may have happened (I am by no means saying this has occurred at all).
Remember the mass-stabbings of civilians at the Kunming rail station in the Yunnan province of China earlier this month? Chinese state-television blamed it on secessionist militants from the contested northwest province of Xinjiang, in which the ethnically native Uyghur people have been massively repressed by Chinese authorities for the past few decades. Islamic extremists apparently run rampant in the area, going so far as leading to sword attacks on police officers attempting to 'keep the peace.' Since roughly the beginning of a centralised communist China, the authorities have been flooding all the contested provinces (including Tibet) with Han Chinese. Such a colonial influx has the obvious consequence of nullifying 'referendums' of any legitimacy, as well as effectively neutering the natives of said areas of any meaningful representation. This causes Tibetan Buddhists to resort to radical protest in the form of self-immolation, and the ethnic Uyghurs to use physical violence against Chinese authorities, targeting military, police, and bureaucratic institutions.
My impression of the Kunming stabbing spree is that it was a false-flag operation on the part of the Chinese government to justify further repressive measures in Xinjiang. Once again: this is all wild speculation on my part, so please take what I'm saying with a grain of salt.
Malaysian airlines flight MH370 was flying from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing when it went missing. Many Chinese citizens were on board when the plane mysteriously disappeared into thin air. It is my batshit crazy assumption that the plane will eventually show up (whether as a functional whole with everyone alive, or as a shattered wreck), and the entire incident will somehow be tied back to Islamic extremism. The Chinese state-media may assert that it was the work of violent Islamic separatists from Xinjiang province, and thus justify further repressive measures by authorities in the region.
Honestly though, I really don't know. But it's certainly food for thought, and another fringe theory to add to the thousands already accumulated throughout intellectual circles the world over. The thing is: the plane could be as far as Kazakhstan, and even if it isn't Uyghur separatists, there is some speculation as to if it might have some tie to al Qaeda or the Taliban, potentially having landed somewhere in Afghanistan with all 239 passengers being kept hostage for one socio-religious objective or another. I guess we'll all know for sure in 2016 when it's finally aired as a subject on the History Channel. The obvious assertion will be that it must have been taken by an alien force from Alpha Centurai (the same aliens that helped us build the Pyramids of Giza and the lost city of Atlantis).
As well as all this playing-the-crazy-witness, my girlfriend of 3 months will be moving in with my roommate and I in mid-April. It's a leap of faith on both our parts, but seems like the right choice at this point, and makes the most sense in terms of economy. She is from Florida, and wishes to potentially put school on hold for a year or two to figure herself out and work in Canada. As of now, she is still waiting on the acceptance of her application for a work permit, but we're both sure it won't be much longer.
I am still very much in debt to multiple companies and friends, but will soon be able to start making larger payments with the financial alleviation provided by my girlfriends move. I recently re-obtained my job as a Customer Experience Representative (CER) at the Chapters bookstore downtown (which I am massively excited about, seeing as combining work with books and fantastic co-workers is a recipe for a very important form of happiness). I also work as a part-time dishwasher at a gourmet restaurant in the same area called the Clay Pigeon. The people I work with are stellar, friendly, and very intelligent. They also have a very good sense of humor, and this, combined with the meditation of the dish-pit and one ear perpetually plugged into podcasts ranging in topic from current events to Terence McKenna make it a job I don't plan on leaving anytime soon. If I can combine my part-time evening shifts at the Clay Pigeon with my part-time floor shifts at Chapters to get somewhere in the range of 30 to 40 hours a week, I will be a very happy camper for the next little while (providing I can still make time for my art and the band I am starting with a couple good friends.. as well as exercise, which I don't get enough of).
This sums-up a satisfactory-enough synopsis of what my life has been like for the past while, and as a result, I hope you all feel an inch closer to enlightenment. I've forgotten how therapeutic and relaxing blogging can be, so I believe I'll be returning to it as much as I can afford time to as the spring and summer months roll on.
One love, blue planet. I'll see you as soon as I look up from this screen.
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