Who is this man (its me!) behind the words and are there other, more remote words that are also behind him? Maybe those words are worth reading. I'll try to look over my shoulder or construct a series of mirrors or just turn around when I take a break and I'll let you know. If I decide to forgo the truth about me and instead go the weird-tangent route then it is because I've come to the conclusion that I must protect my true self sort of like a turtle, except that I'm trying to resist using any tortoise-related analogies at least until the next full moon or until my new shipment of multi-coloured erasers arrives. I sometimes set out trying with the best intentions to be serious and normal and to be less weird and crazy sounding and then something happens. It is hard to explain. It is sort of like the normal writing is a boat, let's say a cruise ship (no that sounds too hoity-toity -do you want everyone thinking you are an elitist snob? No, but it is totally fine for everyone to think that I write/talk to myself? Good thinking.) - okay how about a yacht (much better...you either have no idea how to avoid sounding elitist or are doing it just to bug me knowing how much I have a soft spot for those that write like they are oh so upper-class). Anyways, the honest, normal writing is a boat and the weirder and funnier (read "less marketable" or "impressive if written by a 9 year old") writing is like a large jar of glue which is either holding the boat together or being sniffed ad nauseum by the sailors. And the wacko parties they have after sniffing that glue...I'm not exactly how that analogy works and what it all means - and I wrote it! Imagine how you must feel! On an aside, I once spent a whole weekend trying to figure out how someone else felt and it just made me hungry for sushi - it turns out they felt a little bit annoyed (I was staring and making a series of sketches that I later on had no success selling at popular tourist destinations around town as they came off looking a bit too haunting and green - I only had one crayon) and a little bit melancholic, which I never would have guessed as I needed a dictionary to even have any idea what that even meant, and even after looking it up and reading about it extensively on the internet, I still think they made it up. Back to the boat being the writing - let's just imagine that that was true. Work with me for a minute....so there is this boat ("the writing") and it is a mighty fine boat and it has set sail for somewhere...let's say the Promised Land or a convention for the annual meeting of ornithologists or Guam and the boat sets sail and for the first few days things are very uneventful. There are the usual hijinks you would imagine - a glass-blowing contest, staying up till midnight when the captain required sailors stay up till three or until the next shift showed up mostly to be on guard for pirates, and shaving each other's backs to make learning Spanish more enjoyable (which is hard to do - it is already very enjoyable, or so I've heard from my neighbours who are learning Spanish and can never stop smiling. Having said that, they were always smiling and they could just be like that - always smiling. God, they are annoying! But, multilingual - so I'll have to give them that). And then the storm hits and rocks the boat ("the writing") and luckily the crew has just come from a big sale of glue ("the weird stuff") and have no real concept on how to react to the storm and out comes the glue. Now we all know that I could go on and on about the boat and the glue and use a ridiculous amount of unnecessary detail to try to make this totally superfluous analogy work and we all know that I would never quite do this and wouldn't care as that was never the point in the first place which would raise the salient question over my use and abuse of analogies in the first place and whether I totally understand their use at all and if I should just spend the money and take a course once and for all - one that would force me to learn or make me conform or at least smell better. Or maybe the analogy is a living entity itself (it isn't) and it wants to corrupt or feed off the story (it doesn't) and once it has done so it may find a way into my brain and start setting up camp - this makes even less sense then even the average nonsensical stuff that you are expecting to read and it would be correct to wonder if I am okay and whether I need to lie down for a while and think about elephants or to actually make a few phone calls and get some elephants delivered so I can stroke their big, floppy, ears that just go on and on for ever - I could just wrap myself up in their ears and drift off as a happy as a clam and not just a run-of-the-mill clam either- I'm talking top clam here.
I think I am a pretty regular and normal guy, although, having said that, it is all relative. Compared to some people I'm all wacko and a few phone calls away from being removed with the upside being becoming a well-compensated spoken word performer for the king of some hard-to-pronounce Eastern European kingdom or for a guy calling himself the king with little-to-no competition for the title from others as the country had been converted to a republic in a bloodless, coup-less good natured discussion that was over early so they all went out for ribs that were unfortunately substandard (they had discussed having bloody coup but everyone was quite squeamish). And to others I'm almost hyper-normal - sort of like the most normal person you know (right- that guy) only much more normal. When the decision came down to use the words hyper and normal together as a contrast to the weird part of this paragraph I was also drinking raspberry-cranberry juice and contemplating going for a run - I decided against it as it is very hard to write while running and even if I could I would either break out laughing or the writing would be completely unreadable and that is saying something as I would be typing and I use autocorrect. I have wondered if who I am in real life is the same as who I show myself to be in my writing. Do I come across as weirder on purpose or maybe to make myself look good? Do I think that is actually happening? Can I really create funny and odd writing that would have an effect on how someone sees me? And would it actually either trick them into thinking I now look good or would they see me as good in comparison to the writing - I hope I look better than the words I write, or at least in the same ballpark. Maybe who you see come out in the writing is my true inner self who I've kept locked away for years and is finally enjoying the blue skies, fresh air and focaccia bread (which will be store bought- I'm sorry, not wasting my talents and time making homemade focaccia, at least not until I buy some new, masculine-looking, leggings, which may take some time based on current fashion trends and my own struggles with appearing masculine that I am blaming on the lighting in my house). The problem is (according to my wife) that I am almost addicted to being literal and odd. To set things straight, I am not addicted to it. I mean, I can walk away any time and not be literal and not get a case of the shakes or the jimmies. And I don't have to be odd in the same way that I don't have to cut or brush my hair and I can either grow a super-awesome afro or have dreadlocks. I really don't know what happens. Honestly, I don't. I often set out saying to myself "this next piece of writing will be non-weird - the kind I could show my grandmother, or someone else's grandmother if the two of them were chilling together reading creative writing on the internet. On second thought, that will never happen. Although, I've been raised to believe the impossible and if I can dream it, then it can happen. What was I writing about again? Oh well - open the flood gates!". So, I want to be normal and then some crazy force, either internal or external or a combination of the two collude where the two join forces to take me down! Why is everyone trying to join forces to take me down! (What? Are you saying this isn't happening? That it's all in my imagination? Wow...quite the imagination I've got. Good job me. I can sit back in revel in that for a while. I had nothing to do this Friday anyways.) Anyways, the writing often starts out along a straight path before it goes all haywire and fun and I start laughing and loving the strangeness and all connection to reality is long gone (reality is lying by the pool enjoying a cool drink and contemplating a swim before hitting the restaurant for some lightly-seared scallops in a wonderful beurre blanc). On second thought (it could be my fourth or fifth, I lost count - that's how it is with thoughts, so hard to keep track of unless I could come up with a numbering system or get them to line-up outside my brain like kindergarteners coming back from a recess of splashing in puddles and sharing their peanut-laden snacks with a willy-nilly disregard for allergies), who wants to be normal? When I was in my 20s I used to take being called normal as a criticism or a put-down and I am still that same guy, or just an older version of that guy with a depressingly smaller afro (some would say no afro and they would be depressingly correct) and a more refined taste for bitter foods (those two things may be connected on some level -or could be connected -don't think I can't! I should have a Ph.D in making connections between things that others think can't be connected). So, it is totally incorrect and misleading (at the same time - I am crazy like that) to describe the process as poor little old helpless me being ambushed or attacked or beaten around the face and neck by strangeness. I am a willing participant and I welcome the diversion from regular stuff and thinking - it is inside me and I am far from blocking it's rise to the forefront - I bought it an annual first-class ticket on the train and it is riding that train all night long! That's right, baby! Ride that train like the badass you are! I'm not totally sure how bad-ass riding a train in first class actually is what with the pampering and tea and crumpets. Never been there or done that. Maybe a better way of looking at it is as a prison break, but that would be comparing my mind to a prison or maybe it is not a comparison and my brain is an actual prison. I don't think so, as nothing and no idea is trapped there against their will. Possibly it is better to describe it as a voluntary mental institution where everyone can check in and out whenever they see fit. My words and ideas can come and go as they want, have guests, roam the grounds, catch a show and just obey the curfew, because if you don't I can't be responsible for what happens. I mean I could be responsible, but I'm usually asleep at that time which makes the consequences for missing curfew up to my cat and my cat has a lot of pent up anger and aggression probably stemming from a past life as a mole. I totally get that comparing my mind to a psych ward is far from complimentary for me or for psych wards themselves - no one said that this writing thing was going to be full of compliments.
Here is what you should know about me as it is both revealing and strangely not-revealing at all as that is almost impossible to do in a blog with no pictures. I do not profess to conquer the impossible with this blog, but if that was to happen coincidentally then I will gladly take full credit. I have been known to revel in coincidental accomplishments and, in case you missed those times, will gladly do it again. Let's get to some juicy details about me, which is tough because I have reduced my juice intake a great deal and that includes intake through the mouth, ears and eyes (sometimes I was very inaccurate with my pouring skills, missing holes where juice could flow into and instead relying on the absorption rate of my skin - I owe my skin so much. Remind me to thank it sometime. What's that you say - I should do it now as there is no time like the present? I guess, but between you and me I just don't feel comfortable thanking my skin in while everyone is listening - it's personal.) Here we go - I love hitting things with racquets - usually balls, but I am willing to hit whatever comes my way and I often walk up and down the streets (I'd call it roaming the streets but I signed that court order saying that I would stop roaming and that I would also stop calling it roaming), racquet cocked, just ready to hit things. I do this as I heard that this is what some world champion tennis players did in their youth although I never quite believed it, I'm not in my youth and I'm pretty sure they weren't wearing nothing but goggles and shockingly tight underwear while doing it. In all seriousness I love playing squash and tennis and have done both for years and am now, as I approach the twilight of my youth, finding great joy playing my two children. My face lights up with pride and pleasure (among other random and fleeting expressions that I have no control over - it's sort of like I'm waiting for the hypnotist to snap his fingers - except that their is no hypnotist and only fingers. Lots and lots of fingers) to see their young, pretty faces in high degrees of anguish as I lead them through hours upon hours of grinding, energy-sapping drills. I kid, I kid, we only play for short periods of time, but they are showing great promise and it feels very dad-like to be on the court with them, which is doing wonders for me and my stock as a dad. If my dad-ness was on the market I would suggest buying now as the stock only goes up every time someone walks by the court as they are probably thinking "now, there's a dad!" unless they happen to wander by when I'm growling at my kids which is highly probable as that makes up much of our on court time. Before you judge, they have requested that I do that as it is a big step up from teaching them using mime or yelling. I am attempting to use less vicious-appearing hand-gestures and high-arching eyebrowed expressions as, again, it does not makes me look good and, in the end, that is essentially what this and everything I do is all about. Anything that does not make me look good is worthless, unless I happen to be making money while doing it and then it does have some worth, just not enough for me. I am a man who prides himself upon extracting and compiling as much worth per minute of each day as I possibly can and, to play racquet sports while doing so. I am joking about the hand-gestures and overuse of eyebrows - I am what you would call a "nice" guy and a "gentle" man and a "proper" person and all things not nice, gentle and proper are either beneath or beyond me - depending on where I hid them and where I happen to be standing. Squash is a wonderful game - I love to run hard, work up a sweat and figure out a strategy that helps me win or at least not only lose all of the time. It can be a lot of work, but I am usually up for the challenge and when it is all over and I sit in the steam room stretching, I feel like I have accomplished something - nothing major like building a fence high enough to keep the prying neighbours from seeing me suntan in my backyard (who am I kidding - I don't tan, I only burn and excuse me, but I like to burn in peace. And yes, I do understand, that in times of war, I should still use an SPF of at least 45). No, the feeling I get after finishing a tough match is more like tying my shoelaces with hands covered in vaseline while swimming away from a playful seal - I have never done this, but it sounds challenging and it is in my current top 10 of completely made up daydream accomplishments. I still haven't decided if I befriend the seal in the end or if the seal is fairly standoffish and turns down my invite for tea. Or if I should give the seal a turn with the shoes - who am I to hog all of the shoe-wearing in this scenario? This is quite different from an actual daydream, as it is purely made up and I'm trying to think about it often enough until the dream just happens and then later on it actually occurs in real life, which is the opposite of how it usually goes down in my life where real events turn into daydreams and then into figments of my imagination. Most of my imaginary friends and possessions used to be real and that is why I cry myself to sleep most nights. For the record, and in case the lawyers need to know, the seal's name is Guido.
I have always loved cooking. Or more accurately, I have always loved cooking aside from that one week when I was 16, when I just didn't like anything except bouncing a ball against the wall and curling my tongue. There is just something about preparing food that makes me happy. I also love eating the food. I love planning the menus, buying the food, cutting it up, cooking it and feeding the results to my family. I'm not a huge fan of watching the cooked food go into their mouths as that is a little weird and hard on the eyes almost like staring directly at the sun (I do take photos of them eating and stare at them after everyone else has gone to bed which is only slightly less weird or possibly on par), but I like seeing their satisfied faces after consuming the meal. Cooking is a hobby (some people call it a chore and I call talking about those people another hobby although sometimes, when I'm tired, it feels like a chore) and I look forward to taking out the knife and chopping up the vegetables and then watching them fry in the hot oil, defenceless. I also enjoy grating things, which is a welcome break, for all around, from me being the thing that is grating. Seeing the thick, proud, seemingly-impenetrable block of cheese transformed into a mound of small strips provides such a release for me although, I am quite aware that the tables may be turned some day (in fact, we were contemplating rotating them later this week). Someday the cheese may rise and overthrow us. I am expecting it, what with all of the melting and I am just trying to become one of the humans spared - they will need someone to wash the floors. I also feel that there is nothing more pleasing then whisking a thin cheese sauce and watching it thicken on a beautiful autumn afternoon just after the rain has stopped. The loose sauce reminds me of myself in my youth - loose, pretty pale, lacking a sense of fashion, a little lumpy and then the whisk comes along and the sauce metamorphizes into my older self - thick (in a good way - like I'm not just going to start oozing all over the room when company is over, or at least, oozing a lot less then I used to), bubbly, and delicious (I would say so myself, but true story - a random group of religious zealots just happened to stop me on the street the other day and comment on my relative deliciousness apropos to nothing, although I could have been mistaken as they were speaking in what resembled tongues and I was trying not to appear to interested as I have a tendency at being sucked in and idolized by zealots of all shapes and sizes). There is a time and a place for cooking - the time is almost always 9 or 6 and the place is usually the kitchen or, in desperate times, the front hall closet. I hate be restrained (unless there are multiple pigs and a saxophone involved) and I am trying to open up my mind to new times and places to cook. Like why can't I cook at 2am in the bathtub? Or why can't I create a temporal wormhole where time and space lose all meaning? Or throw away all time pieces and cooking equipment, paint the whole house black, cover ourselves in molasses and let the wrestling begin. We can order in. There may be lots of questions asked. My favourite meal to cook is weekend brunch but I have to qualify that by saying that I was bought off and they got to me. Previously I didn't care for weekend brunch, but after hours of brainwashing and sampling some of the finest brunches in town, I gave in and now I love it. I have always said that if I have to be brainwashed at least let me eat some really good Hollandaise at the same time. So now, I make omelettes, frittatas, smoothies and entree-sized salads with a smile that is very similar to the naked eye to all of my other smiles and even can be mistaken for my grins and smirches as well. Brunch is fleeting and in a blink of an eye it is over especially with certain company who takes more than their share. As for my least favourite? I don't love making school lunches in the evening before going to bed. More accurately they are the bane of my existence mostly because I was advised to have a bane in the first place once I earned enough points to have an existence (and it took a long time, let me tell you). They just go hand in hand I was advised. So when it comes time to make the lunches, I'm tired, it's redundant and I'd rather be watching TV, even a show where they are making school lunches - "poor sap", I'd think, watching that guy on TV making lunches, "stuck making lunches like a loser" I would get close to mumbling before noticing that I too, am a lunch-making loser. At least I have new socks, so there is that. You know I did take exception to be called a "lunch-maker" as I found the term both repulsive and derogatory for reasons that made very little sense and could have just been a result of watching too many gory online videos after making one too many lunches. I also appealed the term loser, but I was told that I had signed the contract and should have paid closer attention to the finer print which is ironic because I am 1/10th finer print by birth. There is a certain amount of power providing sustenance for a group of people - it's almost like "I am allowing you to eat now - pray before me! Which always sounds good in my head or in front of the mirror in my room (that mirror has witnessed many a self-affirming diatribe and now won't settle for anything less or else it will be "too tired" too reflect and will give me a refraction instead which does not do much for my self-esteem), but significantly less when said at the time especially because everyone's mouths are full. I always chicken out and continue to feed those that love me, although I have started to wonder about the relationship between the food I give and the love they return and their relative values and wondering if we could make a killing if we bundled the two together - I did go as far as buying a chart and some over-sized graph paper that is lying in an unused pile in my closet next to my pile of old newspapers just waiting for a paper mache day, my framed portrait of a dog-Mozart (it is so cute sitting at the piano with that look on his face) and my collection of used mops. Those graphs of the food-to-love equations could sell like hotcakes and even more so if we threw in a few hotcakes to sweeten the deal (I would provide some sort of sweetener up to a point and then you'd have to purchase some as honey does not currently grow on trees). Don't get me wrong, I love making food for my family and I don't take the responsibility any lighter than I take any other responsibility (or any heavier - and I have had them weighed - it is usually within 5 lbs) and I don't want or need anything in return except for the occasional series of pats on the head or the back, some unexpected jerky and something to grease my wheels, preferably grease.
I love puzzles of all kinds - crossword, jigsaw, math, ones involving action figures - you name it! Puzzles are fun in-and-of-themselves and also because they make me feel smarter. I'm unsure whether they actually make me smarter, but I don't care - all that matters is how I feel. A few minutes of puzzling and I feel like a new, incrementally smarter, man ready to face the world. But, I don't want puzzles that are too hard as those ones make my head hurt (most likely from all of the banging), cry for my mommy (who never answers my cries!), and feel less smart than I did before. Puzzles that are too easy aren't great either - no, what I'm looking for are ones that are just challenging enough without being an insult to my intelligence and a waste of time or overly frustrating. When I find a puzzle like that and I solve it I am overcome with emotions (I'm usually found weeping like a little boy or bleating like a little lamb or contemplating cooking a nice meal of roast lamb and handing it out to the very first little weeping boy that I see.) My current favourite are large 2000 piece jigsaw puzzles. These puzzles occupy a huge piece of prime real estate on our living room floor for the time I am working on them. I have tried to get lost in a puzzle which is really hard to do seeing as I am quite three dimensional - I once had this amazing dream where I became two dimensional after a horrible vacuum cleaning incident and was able to live inside the puzzle which I thoroughly enjoyed aside from all of the dust inside the puzzle box until I started missing some of my favourite, three dimensional activities and then I couldn't break free as I had put down a damage deposit for a new two-dimensional living space and had also signed up for some two dimensional pilates classes and wanted to get my money's worth. In the end, I enjoy sitting down and putting some pieces together, standing up and shaking my legs that have fallen asleep and then walking away - I really enjoy walking away and have considered writing a song about it. I could get lost in walking away from puzzles but, thankfully, there are always walls and/or couches to bump into. I also love Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzles. They are the correct level, they make me feel smart while doing them and I love the play on words. For those that are just joining us, I am absolutely taken with wordplay and expressions and these crosswords are right up my alley, which was hard to construct seeing as I live in a townhouse complex where no alley previously existed. It is very probable that I will get fined for the whole alley thing, but I will argue that it was beyond my control, it was my destiny and that the crossword made me do it which is all very hard logic to argue against and believe me I tried throughout my youth with my crazy, crossword-completing, destiny-following, alley-building grandfather. He followed his destiny until his last day at which point he was fairly certain he had made a wrong turn a ways back and also that he should have drank more milkshakes with ground flax seed and kale for the fiber and nutrients. Finally, number puzzles have always been one of my favourite activities. I enjoy "seeing the numbers dance" or dancing myself with stationary numbers all-the-while trying to convince the somewhat shy numbers to come join me on the dance floor. They claim the song is hard to dance to and that I am embarrassing them and that they would rather play a game on their phone. I counter by saying that it is my phone, that they are just numbers and that I should stop conversing with them as people are starting to stare and not that I mind people staring as long as they are doing it for the right reasons - like a perfect cartwheel - those are awesome. Numbers can do almost anything if you believe it, and even more if you sweeten the deal (just don't use anything too sticky). They can add, subtract, multiply and divide all while keeping a straight face and not blushing - very hard to do! They can also sit cross-legged for hours at a time while snake-charming or allowing themselves to be crunched up to a point (even numbers have a breaking point, I have learned the hard way - I wish I still had that 4). Number puzzles are logical, attractive and sharp quite like a take-no-prisoners accountant/model who will file your taxes by day and then hang on your arm at the club at night or like a model/accountant who walks the runway at night and keeps getting hired based on her looks and fired when she can't operate the calculator. I believe I am quite alone in this view of number puzzles and I am also alone right now with my number puzzles and the two of us are a team ready to take on this cold, hard world where letters and pairs of people dominate and aim to keep us down. I am also contemplating going back to school to study either modelling or accounting and eventually writing a thesis on how models/accountants will represent our best chance for survival when the aliens arrive as long as we have constructed enough runways. It's also highly probable, that one day in the near future numbers will rise and all those that fear them will tremble and shiver (we also plan to use a few high-powered wind machines mostly for the effect and also as we may want to take a break and go fly some kites). When the numbers are correctly in their spots and the puzzle is done I often put on a new shirt and then take it off and return it to the store as it is not my colour. What was I thinking when I bought that shirt?
So there you have it. You have now learned a lot more about me - the man behind the writing you probably skim through as it is so long. Why do I have to make it so long? Good question! I will work on making it incrementally shorter each week dropping all that is superfluous and redundant until it is only a series of vowels and periods. I hope you feel that I am relatable, intriguing and human or at least not less of those then before you read this. I am quite relatable - some would say hyper-relatable and others would just refuse to comment. I have an immense amount of respect for those who refuse to comment for reasons that are totally beyond me and I like that arrangement - some things are better left unknown especially the code to my strange uncle's safety deposit box. Can you imagine what sort of weird stuff that guy kept? It is interesting how one comes across compared to how one really is and think of how hard that would be for two or five for that matter. Man, am I glad that I am not 5 people - think of the challenge splitting the bill or playing doubles! And all of the whining! I have been told that I whine enough for 10 people sometimes, which means if I was 5 people that would be like 50 people all whining for more sauce on their noodles or to have a few more minutes in the bath. While on the topic, I am also glad that I am not part man/part cat as I'm sure my cat-side would expect my human side to lick it clean and also for all of the unwanted attention when I'm shopping for clothes or investing money. One day I plan to write a book or just walk with more attitude - either way really. I also think it would be pretty cool to experience incandescence at least for a few minutes. So, what have you learned? I'm all ears - which is completely inaccurate except for the part that are my actual ears and then that is all ear - meaning I would love to know what you all think? I only require you to submit your thoughts in a 15000 word essay using correct APA formatting and references. Now that you know more about me can you help me make it big (I'm pretty sure I will need some gold-plated gloves, a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds and some industrial-strength yarn) or at least bigger (I have some clothes I am still trying to grow into) or failing that, can you help me learn how to whistle and snap my fingers? Once I learn to do those, I will be unstoppable! I'll just walk around whistling a happy tune and snapping and pointing at everyone making the shades and leather jacket-look slightly more tolerable to all of you critics out there always following me around, lurking in corners and critiquing my every move - it is highly probable that this evidence of my over active imagination that is always highlighted by an unhealthy dose of paranoia and superstition. I wish I could find a practical use for paranoia or have it be "cool". Anyways, I am always trying to improve and to grow and to become the best me that I can and I will only settle for second best when all of my sock puppets grant me permission (those sock puppets run a tight ship and leave me in a constant state of fear and with cold feet - all the freakin' time!). Writing this was not at all cathartic for me - sorry - you get what you pay for.
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