Dealership Stealership

As someone that reads a lot of car blogs and such and perpetually buys very used vehicles, I had never really had a proper dealership experience. I figured, hey, it can't really be that bad, can it? I mean, yeah, you read all these dealership horror stories but that's got to be some sort of selection bias. Why would anyone report on a smooth, uneventful interaction?

Being the research-happy couple that we are, we ended up doing 6-8 different test drives. The worst was at a Mazda dealership, where we came in and told the salesman exactly what we were there to test drive (a Mazda3 Sport GS). But obviously we're dumb consumers that don't know what we want, because he made us sit down and grilled us for 10 minutes to understand what we were looking for in a car and what would be a good fit. Surprise, it turned out to be what we had requested in the first place. Then he gave us the salesman-y spiel, where you could tell there were talking points he HAD to rattle off before proceeding further. Half an hour after we arrived, we were finally allowed to go on a test drive on the car we asked about within the first thirty seconds of setting foot in the building. For the record, we loved the looks and the ergonomics and quality of the cabin were amazing, but the power-train was lackluster. I mean, for all the talk of "horse and rider philosophy" and driving dynamics, who thought it was a good idea to automatically turn off sport mode after 30s of sedate driving? Ugh.

We also drove a Kia Forte5 (utterly soulless and uninspired), an Elantra N Line (pretty much the same, but well equipped with a huge sun roof, remote start, and OH MY GOD VENTILATED SEATS ARE AMAZING), a Subaru WRX (good power and engine note, but unpleasant cabin), a G37 Sport (bit of a boat, and the infotainment didn't age well, but the power was addictive), a BMW 240i (which was really quite lovely, but the maintenance is outrageous), and a VW GTI (okay looks and interior, but really solid dynamics and power-train). We finally decided we wanted the latter, but we needed a lightly used example to be able to afford it. We quite liked the sales rep we had for this one - he was laid back and didn't try to push us towards a sale. We emailed him our criteria and asked that he let us know if anything came across his radar.

Oh, we should mention that the first dealership experience we had at the very beginning of this process was for a Tesla Model3. We booked ahead, showed up, and when the saleswoman asked if we were actually looking to buy and we said no, she was happy to take us out anyways. It was wonderfully devoid of the usual dealership/sales tactic garbage, and the car was so impressive the next few cars we test drove were an automatic let down.

Anyways, back to finding a lightly used GTI. We found one, at a different dealership in the opposite quadrant of the city. The ad said it only had about 3500km on the clock and was used as an executive demo. We drove up there and found out it was traded in by a family. Upon starting the car, we discovered it had closer to 7000km.

We told our salesman we were unimpressed by the inaccuracies of the listing, and he told us we could get the 3M protective film at dealership cost. The price they quoted us was about twice what a third-party shop would charge. I know dealerships are more expensive and need to cover their costs, but damn.

Still, the overall price, trim, and usage on the car was the closest we'd been able to find over a couple weeks of looking. So we decided to go ahead with things. We filled out some preliminary paperwork, and by the time we left (with plans to return later in the week to complete the deal), we had been there for four hours.

While we were first testing the car, we specifically asked the salesman if the tires were all weather. He specifically said yes. In the days leading up to picking up the car, I found out that GTIs only come with all season tires as standard (which are useless in winter). I called up our sales rep and asked him to please double confirm that it had all weather tires like he said.

A few hours passed, and he said they were indeed all seasons. I told him we were unimpressed and weren't budgeting the money to get new tires right away. He said he'd talk to his manager and get us a good deal on a new set of tires. They sent us a quote. I made a call to do some basic fact checking. Turns out the 'special price' they gave us after 'pulling some strings' was $100 more PER TIRE than the standard retail price at a different VW dealership within the same goddamn city.

I told my sales rep we were unimpressed. Luckily, he 'has a guy', and was able to get us a cheap quote on a cheap set of rubber. And folks, let me tell you, you do not screw around when it comes to tires. Sure, it may be the least sexy part of a vehicle, but all the performance and traction control and fancy brakes and collision avoidance aren't worth jack if you're skimping on the part that actually connects you to the ground.

We ended up passing on the special tire offers they gave us, bought the car anyways, and booked with a tire shop to get a proper product without all the extra crap.

A couple weeks later I emailed the service department at the VW dealership and asked for copies of previous service records just so that we know the vehicle's full history. I got a call from our sales rep, who said, "I don't know what you mean - it's practically a new car, it won't have any service history." Unfortunately, I had been paying attention when looking at the paperwork for buying the car, and the history form made reference to two prior services. To their credit, they sent us the full records that afternoon and we learned that the car had been brought in to fix an oil leak and a strange vibration in the front. Great.

What a crappy experience. I mean, everyone we interacted with treated us well and were polite and didn't seem too skuzzy. But at it's worst you could say this dealership was doing exactly what all those horror stories say, and at it's best they were just hilariously clueless and just didn't have their act together.

I'll hopefully in the future I'll be better equipped and prepared to detect and call out the bullshit. I think our biggest hindrance was that we were on a bit of a timeline to make a purchase and were restricted by our budget. If, IF we ever need to ride this dealership merry-go-round again for another vehicle, I'm only going to consider it if we're in a position where we can pick, choose, and straight up walk away if we're being jerked around again. I can't believe that my first new car experience was just as bad as people say.

As a condition of making the purchase we had to book our first service at that dealership, but I'm sure we'll conveniently forget to bring it in. We'll take it anywhere but there.

On the plus side, though, the car itself is pretty great.
-Cril

Fake Plants and Tweed Twine Walls

I went to church today. After spending the last couple years coming to terms with my time as a Mormon and its flaws as an organization, I figured I needed to look it in the eyes. Have I been building it up into a boogey man? How can I be sure that I'm not living in a preconceived notion of what this thing actually is? And have I been wrong about my decision to leave the Church?

No, a little bit yes, but mostly more no.

It's been about ten years since I was last sincerely active, so the main thing I felt was a wave of strange nostalgia. Fake plants on the wall, uncomfortable tweed/twine walls (yes, really. I don't know how else to describe it), the scent of mild perfume, and sounds of washed-out hymns staggering through the air. At one point I could've sworn I smelled the distinct aroma of emu oil. It was nasty stuff I used to apply as ointment for my rough skin during my teenage years. Whether it actually worked or not is anyone's guess, but the smell certainly made an impression.

The extroverted nature of Mormonism often includes greetings and shaking hands with, well, everyone. Particularly those you aren't familiar with, in an effort to create a welcoming atmosphere. So in preparation for setting foot inside a chapel, I found myself wondering how I'd introduce myself. I decided I'd say I was 'just visiting', and if the inquiries persisted, I'd tell them I was visiting from 'Inactiveland'.

This whole inner dialogue of mine kind of stopped me in my tracks when I realized that, on some level, I was going to the sacrament meeting with a bit of confrontation in my heart; I wanted to get in a heated discussion, tell people why I left and point out all the problems that are lurking under the pews. Part of this notion was sheer curiosity to see if I could stand by my convictions in the face of my own polite, people-pleasing nature. And if I couldn't, would that mean I don't even have convictions?

Alas, I never discovered the answer - I entered and exited the building without so much of a nod or fake smile.

While I was initially getting in the car to to drive over to the church I asked myself if I would feel the Spirit, or Holy Ghost. Knowing that some part of me was looking for conflict and reflecting on all the things I've been learning about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints over the last year, I was forced to confront the fact that I might not even be open enough to have any kind of spiritual experience even if it was available to me. And if that's the case, what was the point of even going if I couldn't keep an open mind?

What if I did feel the Spirit? What would that mean? That my worldview is and has been wrong, I've been living in sin, and that I'm an objectively terrible person.

I arrived, and I sat down near the back. And I felt something bubbling up. Nerves? Latent guilt? Whatever it was, it wasn't comfort or love, and it slowly dissipated as the meeting progressed. To hymns, announcements, sacrament, and members of the ward talking about the nature of joy and having Christ at the center of your life. I winced internally when the last speaker made a point of how we all need to be seeking daily repentance.

Why is that idea uncomfortable? Making steady efforts every day to improve yourself and be a better person is a worthy effort. I've since fallen from grace, but I remember how much I improved by sketching every day. Isn't repentance just spiritually re-drawing yourself?

The difference here, I think, is that repentance isn't just trying to be better, it's the seeking of forgiveness. So that means that every day you have to admit that you've done wrong and you need approval from someone (THE someone) to find peace.

That realization clicked into place, and I connected the dots on another part of what always bothered me about the whole shebang. Repentance for me is people-pleasing God himself, and unlike my coworkers or friends, I don't get to go home and turn off that part of me. God follows me around everywhere, and I'm supposed to fear him and love him and please him all the time.

How exhausting.

After the closing prayer, I took a moment to look around. And you know what I saw? Nothing sinister. Just people smiling, and bustling around, and living their best lives. The leadership wasn't chuckling to themselves while tapping their fingers together, marveling at how they've pulled the wool over all these people. Nope, it was just folks doing their thing, feeling inspired and edified with their (spiritual) community. From my seat near the back, it's all so benign.

Problems are everywhere if you know where to dig, but I've long since tunneled my way out. I think it's time to set the shovel aside and carry on with my own journey.
-Cril

Now I'm going back to my home town
On a journey through the past
And I won't be back
'Till February comes
I will stay with you
If you'll stay with me,
Said the fiddler to the drum,
And we'll keep good time
On a journey thru the past.

James Mercer - Journey Through the Past

I Hate Politics

I really, really hate the argument that "You need to go out and vote, because if you don't, you're disrespecting all those who died for your country." So much so that I'm writing about it unprompted by any type of inciting incident.

How does it disrespect the soldiers? Are we obligated to respect someone's beliefs if they die for it? Do we need to take their values as our own? Did those soldiers actually die to protect the freedom of their country? What if they joined the military for other reasons? What about fighting a war in another country on another continent protects our own form of government? How exactly were they defending my rights or freedoms?

If we have the right to do something, are we obligated to do it? Is the right to vote different from all our other chartered rights and freedoms? Should we be morally obligated to do those too? What's the point of voting for something you're knowingly ignorant or indifferent about? Isn't not casting a vote its own indication of your political preference and/or priority?

I could beat this around all day, but alas, work beckons to me. Perhaps I'll come back to this again when voting time is near.
-Cril

Thrones and Whatnot

So that just happened. It was nice, for a time, to be on the cusp of popular culture with waves of others. Watching an episode the evening it airs, and watching (and understanding) the waves that would ripple out across the internet and casual conversation. Usually I'm on the side of 'make it all available at once so we can binge through as fast as possible', but sticking to a weekly schedule allowed time for suspense to build and the opportunity to savour each turn of events with other viewers. From that personal perspective it was a neat experience.

Now, the story itself... I'm good with how most of it shook out, especially for the Starks.

Sansa got to stand up for herself and her country. She got the respect, authority, and independence she fought the whole series for. She graduated nicely from a girl who had a dime-store idea of what royalty entailed, and eventually grew into a person that could wield true leadership.

Jon finally broke his personal loop of being honourable to a fault. He got to the point where fulfilling his duty to the best of his ability failed to bring himself any satisfaction or peace. They banished him to the Night's Watch (whatever that's for these days), and I'm really glad that he decided to bugger off to the north to lead his own life.

Arya got on a boat in her own Game of Thrones version of 'Go west, young girl'. I wasn't particularly moved by this, but I'm glad that she evolved somewhat from just being a two dimensional badass assassin. Part of me thinks she should have died in King's Landing though, to bring even more personal investment to the death and destruction at the hands of...

Daenerys. Apparently a lot of people were up in arms at her sudden turn towards ruthless dictator, but it didn't bother me. Looking back at past plot points, it made sense and I felt like there was a plausible connection between her actions and established personality to warrant the actions she took. I wouldn't have predicted it if left to my own devices, but the character kinda got under my skin over the last few seasons. It bothered me how entitled she was to the thrown. I'm satisfied with how her arch unfurled.

And then there's everyone else. The Kings Landing Goodtimes Gang all landed on their feet. Too well.

What business does Bran have being King? He's so obviously disconnected from emotion or empathy, and shows no practical interest in being a leader. Why is he on the thrown? Why the hell did everyone vote for him? Tyrion's 'storyteller' speach seemed... weird. What defining choice or action has Bran taken over the last season to indicate he's leadership material? Or, better yet, what choice or action has Bran taken over the last season, period? He allowed himself to sit around and be a lure for the Night King?

Which points to my ultimate conclusion: the wheel has not been broken. The King doesn't care about his responsibilities as leader (like Robert Baratheon before him). Bronn, The Master of Coin, has no qualifications and is fairly openly corrupt. There's potentially another King Beyond the Wall in the making, to some capacity. Sansa is a strong, power-oriented woman that's behind the helm of the largest house, and is mainly just concerned for her corner of the world. Maybe all these parties have fresh new best intentions, but how long does that last? I don't think it'll be long until it all repeats.

That conclusion suddenly made sense to explain a lot of the individual plot points and choices, but it intuitively didn't feel right. Why? Because that was not the tone taken to portray all these new events. Either the show runners wanted to obscure this conclusion somewhat to give people a more 'feel good' ending, or the writing just got sloppy.

A prisoner/traitor to his queen nominates a candidate for king, who once elected names said prisoner to Hand of the King? And everyone's okay with that, while Jon has to be banished to a life on the Wall? Something here is either very lazily put together, or they've hidden the true theme of perpetual corruption under a veneer of A-OK-ness.

By the way, what the hell happened with the Night King? Seemed like he was barely a bump in the road. He didn't prevent all the rebel forces from marching on and conquering King's Landing. No major characters died. Obviously he didn't even kill enough normal people to prevent a war-ready army from immediately forming, and he wasn't able to make any significant damage to Winterfell to prevent it from being the de-facto seat of power for the North. His only purpose, it seems, was to unite the forces of the north under Daenerys. Gah.

The show is what it is. You can't please everyone, and especially with something of such huge scope and audience. For the most part, I think they did alright.

If nothing else, it was refreshing to see a string of strong female characters who didn't need rescuing and were able to forge their own paths that weren't reliant on marrying and having children.
-Cril

One More Mormon, Pt 3: Making Sense of It

In the wake of stepping away from the Church, I inevitably told my parents. I remember telling them that me attending and not feeling anything was cheapening the experience for everyone else there that was invested and feeling the Spirit. I think my mom called me out and told me it was a load of crap, and in retrospect she was absolutely correct. What I was trying to do was alleviate some of the guilt I had by rationalizing it as a way to benefit other people. It was a weak conclusion, but I was desperate to find a reason, any reason, that I wasn't wholly flawed.

After those first few months of being an 'inactive member' (as active members like to say), I pretty much labelled this corner of my mind with a huge 'THIS IS SLIGHTLY UNCOMFORTABLE' sticker and promptly walked away from it. Over the last couple years I've been finding myself slowly going back to blow off the dust and start sifting through the remains.

I've now come to realize just how absurd the whole thing is. I mean, hey, I'm cool with religion. One of my favourite parts of the the Church of Latter Day Saints is the eleventh Article of Faith, which states:

We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.

That's pretty dope. I'm all for letting people believe what they want, as long as it isn't causing harm or preventing anyone's search for happiness. More power to the Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and everyone else between that finds meaning in their faith and tries to make the world a better place. Live and let live, yo.

I guess I skew fairly agnostic, but at this point I'm confident that the Mormon doctrine in particular isn't the path for me. As I've done more research I've discovered more and more problems with this church that gives me pause.

The doctrine is the first obvious red flag. I will freely admit that I am not, and never really was, a scholar of the scriptures and church teachings. If you are, I'd invite you to read the CES Letter. It provides some pretty damning black-and-white evidence that the scripture and tenants the LDS Church was founded on aren't all they seem to be. And that the indefatigable Joseph Smith wasn't exactly an upstanding guy. I was certainly never taught he was polygamous, never mind the fact that he married underage and already married girls.

Oddly, though, it isn't the black-and-white stuff that's the biggest hangup for my trepidation. No, that goes to decisions the LDS prophets and leadership have made that contradict a lifetime of teachings that told us Christ was a person of infinite compassion and grace.

Thing 1: Why did it take the Church so long to not only allow black individuals hold the priesthood, but for their families to get sealed in the temple? I asked about this once way back in the 'Mission Preparation' class, and was told that the Church is a product of its time, and couldn't 'rock the boat' in a society that wasn't ready for it.

Really? Seriously? We were taught time and again that God's standards never change. That the Prophet was the direct conduit for the Lord's will, to guide His church to be closer to Him. And yet, for some reason, salvation and covenants were withheld based solely on skin colour. For some reason, the God did a better job of speaking to the Quakers in the 1800's, and it somehow took a hundred years for the 'One True Church of God' to get on the same page.

Then you read about the history of overt racism in the LDS leadership and things start to make sense. Some say that the leaders were just human, and flawed products of their time. But what about "The Lord will never permit me or any other man who stands as President of this Church to lead you astray."? If these men claim to be infallible and speak on God's behalf, and yet are influenced by societies' standards, what the hell is even the point?

Thing 2: Similarly, the church hates gays (and Ls and Bs and Ts and all the other letters). A lot of the above reasoning about African Americans can be filled in here, and I'm sure that as criticism grows, the church's stance will mysteriously change over time (as it has today, even). But here's where they've lost me: can anyone seriously say that Christ, who expressed ultimate compassion and love to individuals from all walks of life, would look at a gay couple and say, "THAT'S JUST WRONG, YOU'RE GOING TO HELL." I don't know if I'm a Christian any more or not, but I know in my heart that the Christ I was taught about would never turn his back on two people finding love and happiness just because of their genitals. I find that an insult to everything I was taught Jesus was supposed to embody. If God exists, if Christ exists, the policies the LDS leadership have put in place are nothing short of a perversion.

If you can't tell, those things really burn me up.

Another thing, less of a burn and more of an uncomfortable heat, is the secrecy. I'm a financially-minded kinda guy, so it gets on my nerves that the church demands 10% of all its members' income and yet doesn't disclose how all the money is spent. You could argue that the real estate and shopping malls are all serving the material needs of the saints and are just good business sense. The fact that so much of the finances are obscured, though, causes me to raise my eyebrows. Why is it a sin to not pay a full tithe, and yet you're not allowed to find out how the money is used? It strikes me as shady at best.

That isn't to say, though, that the church doesn't put that money to positive use. During a couple particularly tough years, my family benefited from paying a full tithe; we were given access to the Bishop's Storehouse, which supplied us with essential groceries for a period where my folks were having a tough time making ends meet. The secrecy still kinda rubs me the wrong way, but I can appreciate that some portion of the income goes to help the members who need it most.

A final sticking point for me is how it was hammered into us from a very early age to be wary of any criticism of the Church. We were told to only consult official LDS resources for answers to questions, and to stay well away from any third parties who were only Satan's tools to 'lead you astray'. Anti-Church literature plants a seed that's difficult to stop from growing, apparently.

Then President Oaks said, "I suggest that research is not the answer" in regards to Church history and doctrinal issues. Then a member of the Seventy counselled that, “Truth can be discovered by doing.” Seems like they're not a fan of people looking into things. It's a far cry from what J. Reuben Clark said in the 1960's when information was a bit easier to control: "If we have the truth, it cannot be harmed by investigation. If we have not the truth, it ought to be harmed."

It took my many years after leaving the Church to become comfortable with even the idea of reading non-pro-Mormon sources. I'd often turn away from it on instinct and it took a while to override that impulse. I was conditioned so thoroughly that it's frightening.

The most painful areas of my parting with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints involved one of its one of most central teachings: that obedient and worthy families would be reunited after death, and continue to be together for all time and eternity. Maybe if I was part of a different family with more internal friction this wouldn't have been a big problem. The thing is, though, that my family is pretty dope. I'd be totally down to spend eternity with them doing whatever it is you do after your days of death and taxes are over. I love my siblings, and although we've all gone our different ways, I know we'll get along really well whenever our paths cross. And I love my parents, too. Sometimes our circumstances growing up were pretty awful, but I know they care for me unconditionally and will support me however I need it.

So look at things this way: becoming an ex-Mormon, or apostate, or whatever, doesn't just mean that I've rejected the values that my parents hold dear and have based a large part of their lives around. It also means that I'm depriving them of a son in their eternal afterlife. And when I think about my other siblings that are no longer practicing members it breaks my heart. So much love in the here and now, but as far as my parents are concerned, they'll spend eternity separated from their children. I can only imagine how deep that has to cut, and how they might feel like they've let down their family when the stakes were highest. It hurts to think about, and is the only enticing reason for me to return.

Why has it taken me so long to write all this out? Guilt and shame by the heapful. As anonymous-ish as I try to keep this blog, I'm worried that it'll float back to my parents and cause them further grief. That's the last thing I want to do. For those of my family that are still involved with the Church, I'm cool with them doing their thang. If it brings them happiness and meaning, who am I to argue?

I still feel like a failure sometimes for not being able to make it work in the Church. Like I did something wrong and screwed up. At other times, I feel betrayed by the leadership for some level of deception. Some days I feel cheated out of my faith. Other days I feel liberated from it.

This'll probably conclude my writings on the matter. It had been building up over the last couple years to the point where I've found myself hoping that someone would ask me about it. Then I'd finally be able to burst like a dam, but who the hell would want to listen to all that? Stories like mine are a dime a dozen and have been told many times over. Maybe if you're on the fence or trying to deal with the aftermath of leaving your faith this will be of some solace. Mostly though, I had to just get it out of myself. I had to process and straighten my story and understand my own emotions on the subject.

Perhaps I might even find some resolution and closure. Just maybe.
-Cril

Lady of the Chicken

Let's set the scene: It's my second year at art school, and the flesh is falling off my bones due to a disease called curriculum. Every Wednesday? Thursday? night I spend a couple hours at the drop-in tutor session, helping miscellaneous apathetic students with grammar, thesises, and dreaded MLA citations. For the last few weeks I've helped out this old Chinese lady in her late 50's, called Eran. She's a painting major, and has absolutely zero idea about how the concept of a formal writing style is supposed to work. Those sessions with her are a bit tedious; whereas most of the other international students benefit from having an elastic, young mind, this older lady was, well, old. There's a certain saying about dogs and tricks that applies here.

After a few weeks, she brings me some candy. Next time it's some fries. The time after that, some potato wedges and chicken strips. Then two cartons of pineapple juice, because I had mentioned it was my favourite fruit. I was a physically and socially malnourished art student, so the gesture was absolutely appreciated.

We'd been in the middle of working on a hefty art history paper that was creeping up on its due date. The next time I lock eyes on this asian lady at the drop in session, she's CARRYING AN ENTIRE ROAST CHICKEN. You know, the kind you get from a grocery store in a plastic container that you keep because you think it'll be handy, despite never actually reusing it. She hands me the chicken: no buns, napkins, forks, drinks, nuttin'. Just one. Roast. Chicken. She knew I'd be staying late on campus, as I usually do, without any benefits of cutlery. But, goddamn it, she wanted to show me her appreciation.

And thus began a 8 year relationship with who I'd affectionately refer to my friends as The Chicken Lady. Over the course of our schooling, she'd come to me for help her with her essays. She'd call me every once in a while to bemoan the behaviour of her 'godson' (who was clearly taking advantage of her for the money), and I'd on occasion run over to her house to help set up a wifi router or new printer. Sometimes she paid me, sometimes not (I never really asked to be), but she'd always take me for lunch after.

It went like this: we'd show up at a very Chinese restaurant. You know the ones that have actual Chinese writing on the menu, with wonky English captions in some bizarre font. Tables were set with chopsticks (no forks/knives unless you asked for it), there was a huge clear plastic slab over the table cloth to make for easy cleaning, and it was assumed you wanted a green tea to start the meal. We'd sit down at the table, look at a menu, and she'd ask what I like. Then she'd bark at the waiter in Mandarin and place an order. For both of us. In Mandarin. I had no idea what was about to happen. Eventually, though, a massive plate of sweet and sour pork or beef with broccoli would appear (as I indicated was my favourite). Sometimes there'd be an extra soup or dumplings or egg rolls, if that's what Eran decided I'd enjoy. Over the years she'd stop asking me what I wanted and just order, all in Mandarin. She knew my tastes, and I just had to trust her. I think she was quite chuffed that I, a mere white boy, would enjoy Chinese food so much.

And things would roll on, just like that. Sometimes I wouldn't hear from her for months and then she'd call every couple days when something was on her mind. She'd ask for advice about her relationship with her godson, which I'd give and she'd promptly ignore. She had her own way of doing things, you see. Very self-oriented and driven. Most conversations are a two-way street, but Eran was on a one-lane divided highway, going wherever she wanted. You had to be ready to pounce if her road ever intersected with yours.

While I was away in New York she called me a couple times. I mentioned how stressed I was and how expensive things were. She ended up sending me a bit of money online to help out - she said I could consider it a graduation gift. I hadn't even asked her for help or even done anything for her over the course of the year. But she had a one-track mind and insisted. It was a heartwarming surprise.

At one point she began developing heart problems. I didn't have many specifics, but it may have included an actual heart attack (or two). Around the same time, she started having a dispute with the condo board of a property she owned. They were suing her because she refused to pay for repairs they had conducted on her behalf, when they hadn't been able to prove that it was actually her fault. I told her to get a lawyer to help take care of it, but she wasn't interested. Lawyers are expensive and scumbags, apparently. So she went to court and represented herself. She even filed a counter-suit. The condo's lawyer filed for a delay, but Eran refused. They tried to settle out of court. Eran refused. She stood her ground, they went to court, and the judge found in her favour. I had kept telling her to get a lawyer, but she kept refusing. She stayed on course like a freaking freight train in face of a (cardiac) derailment, and triumphed. It still blows my mind today.

Then things really started spiraling downward. She wouldn't commit to treatment for her heart, so her physical condition deteriorated. She bounced in and out of a few different hospitals. During this time I'd show up with my trusty laptop to help her deposit some e-transfers for her various rental properties. Then I helped pay some bills and pick up things she needed. Then she made me her emergency contact at the hospital.

She is/was an absolute pain in the ass. She'd call me every day at all hours of the day, 10-15 times a day were not uncommon. She'd leave me messages accusing me of abandoning her. She'd tell me there was an emergency, and when I called, she just said that I needed to inquire about paying a particular bill. She wanted everything now, now, now. Anything else was a personal betrayal.

One day she told me that she was flying to Hong Kong the very next day to get some medical treatment, and she told me to manage her affairs while she was gone. She'd pay me once she got back, she said. So being a good Samaritan and friend and general chump for helping people in need, I agreed. It was a busy eight months.

She called one cold February day and said she was at the Hong Kong airport and wanted to fly back to Calgary right away. I was actually elbows-deep in my uncle's old Honda, trying to pull out a transmission, when she instructed me to drop what I was doing and get her a plane ticket home. So I did.

The next day I picked up a thin, wrinkled, wheelchair-bound impressionistic sketch of the Eran I knew. I spent the next few days helping her get around - doing some banking, getting a phone, going to ER for medications, etc etc. She was definitely having a rough time, and I was the only one in the city willing (and stupid enough) to help out. And from there it all just... fell apart. A trip to the ER turned into an inpatient stay. An inpatient stay turned into a code and visit to the ICU.

So here we are. Organ failure and an expected handful of hours to live. She's semi-conscious at best, but otherwise just seems to be sleeping. I don't know when it'll happen, but it should be soon. She's burned every bridge between her and her family, who's in Hong Kong. I have a handful of her tenants who are trusting me to keep their electricity and heat on. I don't have a single blood or legal connection to this woman, but I'm sitting here watching her die. Just seems like the decent thing to do.

When I arrived this morning, seeing her in this state, I finally told her that I call her the Chicken Lady. I just kinda unloaded my anxieties and guilt about our relationship. And I also told her how I admired her spunk and determination. Yesterday morning I visited with her for three hours before I left. She begged me to stay longer, but I refused. That's the last thing she said to me, actually. "Chris! Stay..." Kinda sucks. Though earlier that morning I mentioned that I was thinking of applying to teach at the art school where we me. She just looked at me and smiled. I think that's what I'd prefer to remember as our last interaction.

I was typing all of the above to the steady rhythm of her breathing. It had been oscillating between relaxed and raspy all morning, but it was always constant. All of the sudden it abruptly stopped. I paused for a moment and there was a shallow gasp. The pause between these gasps continued to lengthen, so I got up, stood by her side, and held her hand.

I told her that I was there with her and wouldn't leave. She didn't need to struggle or fight any more, and she could finally rest. Everything would be taken care of, she didn't need to worry. Relax. I said her mom, dad, and her darling cat would see her soon. Go to them, Eran, they're waiting for you. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay.

Her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. A single, half-tear collected in the corner, and before it could become a full one, she was gone. That was it.

As stupid and cliche as it sounds, within about thirty seconds of me telling her it was okay to go, she went. Just like those stupid Hollywood movies and second-rate daytime dramas. Those tears worry me, though. Was it fear? Relief? I'm hoping it was joy. In that moment she let go of my hand to cross through the veil.

I went outside, told the nurses, and signed for her belongings. While I was waiting for some paperwork, I leaned against the wall. Two people walked by, one of them laughing about the vacation they were excited to be leaving for later that day.

Life spins on. Beautifully onward.
-Cril

Sun's up, mhmm, looks okay
The world survives into another day
And I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

I had another dream about lions at the door
They weren't half as frightening as they were before
But I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Walls windows trees, waves coming through
You be in me and I'll be in you
Together in eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Up among the furs where it smells so sweet
Or down in the valley where the river used to be
I got my mind on eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me
And I'm wondering where the lions are
I'm wondering where the lions are

Bruce Cockburn - Wondering Where the Lions Are

One More Mormon, Pt 2: Testimonial Void

I think the earliest sign that the whole Church Thing wasn't for me manifested itself to me as a teenager still at home. I'd often be 'too tired' or 'feeling gross' to roll out of bed and get all dressed up early on a Sunday. And as a teen, hey, getting up early on a weekend is obviously not an enjoyable task in the first place (especially when you're waking up at 6am every weekday for seminary). But if I was a bit more self-aware at the time, I should've been able to notice that my lack of motivation might've been indicative of something more substantial lurking beneath.

Eventually I moved away from home for the last time, to pursue work in another province. Under a warm blanket of indifference I didn't attend much church. I'd go for the odd meeting - sneaking in the back hoping that I wouldn't have to actually engage with anyone. I was fiercely lonely at the time and disconnected from the greater world, but having to shake hands and make repetitive small talk from behind a fake smile seemed to be an even worse fate. When a religious culture is built on extroverted engagement, any strange face is fresh food. Inevitably you'll be asked where you're from, and the last thing you want to explain time and again is that you actually live just a few blocks away. It reveals that you're (gasp!) an inactive member.

I worked an entry-level job at a small company. At one point I even took a evening charcoal drawing course at ACAD. I made it through the whole thing, then for the last two classes I discovered that we'd be doing some figure studies. Which, lo and behold, meant drawing actual live models. That were nekkid. It shouldn't be surprising that a Christian upbringing kinda skews your perception of nudity: I was so uncomfortable at the notion of seeing an unclothed human in the flesh that I skipped those last two classes.

Life ebbed and flowed. I worked for a few years before enrolling full time at ACAD. Once paying significant tuition for drawing courses that tied directly into the Almighty GPA, I came to appreciate what a beautiful thing the human body was and how it wasn't (gasp!) inherently sexual. I saw man parts and lady parts and it was all just... a non-issue.

Somewhere in here, I became regularly involved with the LDS singles' ward. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, this is a Sunday session made up entirely of youth/young adults from 18 to 30 that have yet to be married. Gotta get them kids starting families, apparently. After all, that is the only way to receive the highest level of salvation and be with Christ.

Aside from the distinct feeling that you're now starting to live your spiritual life from within a meat market of companionship, it was an alright place to be. The bishopric was a lovely set of gentlemen that really seemed to care for their young (and sexually-repressed) congregation. 

It needs to be said that there is a 'second-class' of citizen within the church. And that is, most definitely, young single men of mission-serving age who have not served a mission. Women aren't 'duty-bound' to serve a mission, you see, so they're all good. Returned missionaries are a very hot commodity - they usually get married off within six to twelve months of being home and move on to a regular family congregation. And it's no wonder most young women hold out for one of these men; they've had a spiritual experience, served their church and lord and fellow men, and are equipped with a superior spiritual arsenal. It doesn't matter where they went or future prospects, they are the complete package.

This whole 'second-class citizen' thing really isn't plainly spoken of in the church, but I can assure you it's true. Someone who hasn't served a mission must have something wrong. Not damaged goods,  per se, but questionable.

So being a single, rather introverted, non-mission-serving-Mormon young man... was a tough go. I remember walking to church early and then strolling around the block so that I could enter at the last possible minute. Anything to minimize being engaged by people you don't have much in common with under a sugary coating of fellowship. But eventually people caught wise to me. The bishopric gave me a calling as the building caretaker. This meant I locked up at the end of the day and had to organize groups to clean the chapel. It was perceptive to give me a non-social duty - it made sure I was regularly attending, and in a capacity that wouldn't totally overwhelm and drive me away.

During this time, my bishop spoke with me about receiving the next level of the priesthood. And the truth came out: I admitted I didn't have a strong enough testimony. This was an oddly freeing realization to have and communicate, because for a long time I knew that I just didn't quite have the same thing inside me that brought my other brothers and sisters to heartfelt tears of joy. I was missing... something...

And thus, for a period, I was a Very Good Boy. With the bishop as a guide, I was regularly attending sacrament meetings, fulfilling my priesthood duties, reading the scriptures every day, and somehow abstaining from such self-guided bodily activities that are particularly difficult for young men to abstain from. For a period of... four? six? months, I had an honest yearning in my heart to develop a true testimony of Christ and come to a personal knowledge that Joseph Smith was a true prophet of God. As a popular passage in the Book of Mormon states,

I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.

To set a frame of reference, during this time I was in my second year at ACAD. Which was brutal. I was doing about 80hrs of classes/homework a week. For the first time since I started school, I wasn't even working part time, which meant I was enjoying the same three extremely cost effective meals on repeat. I hadn't touched my gaming computer in months, I didn't hang out with anyone, I wasn't watching any shows, I didn't eat out. The entirety of my life was school and trying to be a faithful servant of God and seeking to be an upstanding member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

And so I prayed with all sincerity and intent my heart had to offer. When I received nothing, I read more scriptures, and fasted more meals, and paid more tithing. And yet... nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I was even lower than young men who never went on a mission. Maybe I just wasn't good enough. How come everyone else got these feelings? What was wrong with me?

An aside: the above passage, known to Mormons as Moroni's Promise, is generally boiled down to:  Read, ponder, pray > Ask with sincere heart/real intent/faith in Christ. If the Holy Ghost testifies to you, you're all good. If he doesn't, then obviously you need to repeat steps one and two because something in your process is lacking. Nowhere in the formula is there a result where the church isn't true. The only two available outcomes are either a) the church is true, or b) you need to try harder to find out the church is true. There is only one exit from the loop.

My story now takes a turn for the cliche, because a girl happened to me. A precarious balance of scholarly pursuits and spiritual yearning was casually discarded, but unlike the weathered Hollywood tropes, this love story came with precious few redeeming qualities.

Those of you familiar with winter driving in Alberta (or most of the prairies, for that matter) are familiar with rock chips. Essentially, during the icy months, big orange dump trucks with an over-sized pepper grinding attachment coat all major roads with half a quarry's worth of fine salt, sand, and pebbles. Some of these particles aren't quite as fine, though, and soon lodge themselves in your windshield. A rock chip in the windshield is the time-honoured price motorists pay in exchange for appeasing the God of Commuter Traction.

And as the weather warms and cools and gets freakishly cold, that little chip turns into a spider. Before the season is out, the pressure of the glass and extreme temperatures causes one (or more) cracks to run the full length of the windshield, plotting a course right through your line of vision.

Unlike your average windshield, the chip caused by this girl turned into a run that, once reaching across the entire span of my vision, abruptly fractured the whole damn thing.

Okay, once more but without the drawn out metaphors: I broke the law of chastity, which states that any significant physical activity between individuals outside of marriage is a sin. To give it some conservative Christian Mormon-tastic context, this is about as terrible of a thing a person can do outside of murder or denying the Holy Ghost. I was officially a horrible, corrupt, worthless person.

And I didn't know how to handle that. Do you get excommunicated on the spot for such things? Would they notify your parents? The thought mortified me.

So I did what any good Mormon would do: I told my bishop. But then I did what any terrible Mormon would do: I told him I needed to step away to process things, and I promptly handed in my building key on the spot, turned around, and walked out. I had reached my breaking point.

The literary opportunity dangling in front of me right now is to say that the windshield had completely shattered, and I could finally see clearly again. That really wasn't the case though; my vision was more messed up than before, and now I was desperately swerving across four lanes of traffic.

I was in a relationship I wasn't equipped to handle, overwhelmed with school, and now there was a void where a foundation of pure purpose was supposed to sit (even if I wasn't 100% sold on it in the first place, at least it was something). Deep down I knew I didn't want to keep attending the church. And even if I did, I didn't know what kind of hurdles I'd have to jump to return, and the shame that'd entail. Forget the whole missionary thing, now I was legitimately damaged spiritual goods.

I had no idea what I was doing or what I wanted out of life. On some base level, though, I knew I couldn't continue trying to be a Latter Day Saint. After spending a lifetime of missing out and not quite getting it like everyone else, I was exhausted and broken.
-Cril

One More Mormon, Pt 1: Faith of a Child

I think my first memories of Mormonism, or church, or religion in general was having a sacrament ceremony in the living room of our home in a remote fishing village. I remember how we'd sing songs from small, brown, worn hymn books before my dad would take out special table cloths. He'd break bread and prepare water in a bunch of small disposable and plastic cups. They were maybe an inch tall, and the size of a quarter across. He'd cover the bread and tiny cups with another special cloth, and recite a prayer.

For some reason, I have it in my head that we'd usually close the curtains during our Sunday 'meeting'. I don't know if that's routed in fact, or shaded by the emotional colours of an intimate and isolated experience. Either way, it certainly felt special.

I don't know how long it took me to realize that performing a sacrament in our home just for our family was a Strange Thing. I don't think I thought it was one of those things everyone did behind closed doors, but I didn't understand until many years later how uncommon it was to get permission to perform that ceremony within a home.

Towards the end of our time in that village, we started attending a United Christian Church, even though it wasn't my family's specific faith. I never felt comfortable in that big church with stained glass windows, but you can't deny that a sense of belonging and socialization is a big part of having faith.

We moved away to a more populated area, and started attending a proper Latter Day Saint ward, with many more people. We had visited proper congregations before, so I wasn't totally thrown for a loop.

Because we had been so isolated, I hadn't had the chance to be baptized when I turned eight. Now at the age of ten, I remember being told that I was technically going to be a convert and had to be interviewed by a pair of sister missionaries as part of the baptism process. I can't remember if I liked getting the specialized attention during a time of change, or if I was a bit miffed that I didn't quite qualify the same as my sister and brother. I was regardless a bit frustrated when the missionaries had me identify biblical figures from a standard case of Mormon illustrations - I had gotten one of them wrong. I remember thinking how dumb it was that I had to identify these people when they were all  old white men with beards, furrowed brows, and beards hiding frowns. I think I got Moses and Abraham mixed up or something. I still maintain that they all looked similar.

Alas, I got baptized. I picked a hymn to sing from the newer hymn books at the church (There is a Green Hill Far Away, which in retrospect I may have liked because it featured my favourite colour) and a small program was drafted for the event. My mom had me sign each one, and I think she has even kept one or two somewhere. My baptism faithfully followed the program, and by the end I was a certified, ratified Later Day Saint. As was family tradition, my parents got me my own set of brand-new scriptures.

The next few years followed, and outside of the odd, temporary friendship, I never really fit in socially at the church. There was a lot of activities - young men's meetings, men's meetings, scouts, youth activities... And they all just kinda grated on me. Every Tuesday was activity night with other youth, which I really started to loathe.

My testimony through this time waxed and waned. As pre-teen I had a pretty bad run-in with some depression, anxiety about my skin condition, and general loneliness. During these periods I remember getting up in front of the congregation and sharing my testimony with everyone - it was really helpful to have a spiritual outlet for my temporal woes. It was a means to believe that all my suffering was building towards something that would benefit me in the long run. I light to look forward to.

As I grew into a teenager, this didn't work the same. I became more introverted and started to internalize, rather than spiritualize, my problems. I'd speak in front of the congregation for assigned talks, but the last time I really got up to bear my testimony out of my own volition was when I was fourteen or so.

Then came Trek (and not of the Star variety, unfortunately). It was a big deal, a multi-day event where the youth (with select adults) emulate the journey of early LDS pioneers from the east coast to the promised land of Utah. We dressed in period-accurate-ish clothing, loaded up a giant handcart with belongings, and pushed it along a huge hike through back country roads. We ate bread and broth for meals and slept under tarps. Everyone in the church made it out to be some fantastical, spiritual experience. For me it was... an inconvenience? I was never a fan of outdoor activities (much to the chagrin, I think, of my Dad who was the Scoutmaster for many years), and was terrible at socializing. Everyone told us we'd grow closer to God and Christ, and feel the Holy Ghost burning in our bosom to give us undeniable proof of the one true church.

I remember during Trek we were all encouraged to take the afternoon for a quiet time of spiritual reflection. To feel the love of God. I took this opportunity to pray for the knowledge that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet to bring His church back to man. I prayed in earnest, with every ounce of my soul - I really wanted to know. For so long I was aware of a hole in my being, missing the feeling and confidence that everyone around me seemed to have. Where's the burning in my bosom? I laid out my heart before God and prayed in earnest. I was desperate to know.

I received nothing.

For the last few years of highschool, LDS youth are enrolled in a church-led course called seminary. It lasts four years, one for each of the Old Testament, New Testament, Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants. It's a class for studying the scriptures and church history, that takes places every day before school. That's right: a bunch of teenagers were getting up at 6am each weekday to study the word of God. We diligently tried our best to hoover up factoids and doctrine. We'd memorize important passages and race to find them as quickly as possible. I look back at that time as a grind as well. Waking up so early for something that I wasn't super passionate about wasn't fun. And our class took place in our home. There were some kids and a teacher that drove half an hour to attend. Oof.

A reoccurring theme in the church, especially for young men, is serving a mission. I remember singing I Hope They Call Me On A Mission as a kid, and listening to returned missionaries speak to youth about how awesome it all is. Ubiquitously attached to the concept of a mission, though, was the $10,000 price tag. I think that alone caused me to check-out on the whole concept from a young age. Growing up in a poor family where the $60 we got for our birthday was the most spending cash we'd get all year, ten grand was an unfathomable amount. When I voiced my doubts, members would chide me, "Oh don't worry, your parents will help you out!" When you have vivid memories of your mom crying over how $8 of strawberries wrecked the entire monthly budget... Let's just say I never entertained the notion of making my parents pay for something that wasn't essential.

I had moved away and worked for a year, bought a car, and came back home. And I felt damn proud of that - an embarrassing story my mom likes to tell of me is when she found a certain five-year-old sobbing late one night. I was in absolute tears because I would never have enough money to buy a car when I grow up. Looking back, I like to think I've made that little five year old proud. And I was proud of that first car I bought. A silver 1996 Honda Civic CX, if you're curious.

Anyways, it wasn't a suggestion but a sacred duty of a young man to serve a mission. When I returned, I was put in a 'mission prep' class at Sunday school. I think this was where they stuck all the young men who had yet to be called to serve, but were still eligible. They wanted to get us out the door, is my guess, and the class itself wasn't much different aside from the demographics. I remember it was taught by a returned missionary that had abruptly dumped my karate instructor (a lovely soul, and non-member) so that he could climb the social ladder within the church. Met, engaged, and married a nice Mormon girl within the span of six months, as returned missionaries tend to do. It made me a bit skeptical of the class from the get-go.

Months later the new Stake President (stakes consist of several wards) dropped by our congregation one Sunday and started interviewing all the young men. Once it was my turn, we made some brief chit-chat. I told him how proud I was that I had just moved away from home and bought my first car. He then blatantly called me to serve a mission on the spot, making some off-hand remark about how my car would be in the junk yard within a couple years. If I wanted to do something really worth while, I should be preaching the Word of God to others.

Aside from being insulted by the casual belittling of my recent accomplishments as a semi-independent adult, I did something I'd never done before in my people-pleasing existence of a human being: I stood my ground and said no. I told him flatly that my testimony wasn't strong enough for a mission. He invited me to serve anyways, ensuring me that I'd find it in the service of God. I told him I simply wasn't ready to commit. He was obviously disappointed, and shook my hand before I was dismissed. On my way out, I passed my brother and gave him heads-up before it was his turn.

I mean, seriously. As an introvert, I could not fathom a more unpleasant experience than a mission. Imagine living in an unsettled environment for two years where I have to share every waking moment with a companion I don't know, going door to door to speak with strangers, and doing everything I can to help every person I meet. Knowing how I'm socially wired, I can't think of something that'd make me more miserable.

That experience with the Stake President left a sour taste in my mouth. Up to that point, everyone I interacted with from the church were fairly well-meaning, pleasant individuals. That man, though, clearly saw me as one more bullet that could fit into the magazine of missionary work before being shot around the world. Pray and spray.

I moved out of the province shortly after for work and school.
-Cril.

A Non Linguistic Title

Last night mah girl and I went to see Bobby McFerrin in concert. I thought I had purchased front row tickets in a rare act of self-indulgence. Alas, apparently when you use the little web interface to select the seats at the very front of the theatre, they decline to show the three rows ahead of you which are apparently reserved for the rich and famous individuals that don't trouble themselves with silly things such as purchasing venue tickets. I was excited to have front row tickets for the first time in my life. I even marched right up to the very front row and was about to sit down until my girlfriend pointed out that this row was labeled "AAA" while our tickets had a lowly "A". Kind of a disappointment.

As for Bobby McFerrin, well... Let's just say that, quite literally, all of his music I've heard is the cover of Come Together he did with Rob Williams and bits of Don't Worry, Be Happy. Truth be told, I'm not even a fan of the latter can't bring myself to listen to it all the way through. So that amounts to about 1.75 songs. Why spring the extra bucks to buy (apparently not) front row seats? I heard that his concerts were a really special experience. Then between his Grammys, a short TV profile, and my girlfriend's appreciation for vocalists, I figured why not. I find a lot of improv-driven music to be a bit grating, but maybe this would be worth it anyways. 

It's hard to describe what exactly the show was like. If you wanted to be a bit dismissive, you could call it two solid hours of scat with some beat boxing mixed in. But it was more like Bobby was a composer and conductor, playing people like instruments. He had four other vocalists on stage with him, plus four groups of middle school students. He'd go to each of the middle school groups and sing a passage which they emulated and looped. The four other vocalists helped out or added their own parts. It was kinda like watching a musician work with a looping guitar pedal, but somehow more organic. It was hard not to be transfixed as he went through and a song started to grow out of the stage like a beautiful tangle of vines.

I thought the improv (and it was improv - watching the students react and try to catch on was proof enough) and non-linguistic quality might grow old or pretentious. There's some jazz I can't stand for these reasons, the seemingly endless and objectiveless meandering kinda gets to me. This concert was much different, though. Each song seemed to be a joy to watch unravel. It was like watching a textural tapestry unfold in front of you.

Good vibes. It just filled me with good vibes to hear (and see) seemingly simple melodies intertwine into one piece without any planning or instrumentation or anything. I feel like the world is a better place for having this kind of beautiful creation and creativity in it. Who'da thunk something like that could be so enjoyable and so human.

Experiences like that certainly seem to be rare, and I was really, pleasantly surprised. And despite the seating fiasco, I think I got my money's worth.
-Cril

Play It Again, Sam

When was the last time I failed at something?

You could say I've failed over the last month to get my portfolio in order, but that's mainly for a lack of trying. When was the last time I put effort and hope into something and come up short? I don't know, to be honest. And that makes me feel kinda gross.

How come getting laid off is such a blow to my self-confidence that I can't seem to build up momentum and drive to find something new? Am I really so fragile? Why am I overcome with doubt? Compared to a month ago, it seems my anxiety has been replaced with resignation. It's all useless and pointless, even if I find a job I'll be laid off in the next recession, etc, etc.

Did you know that you have 150% higher chance of getting hired if you're already employed? And that after the age of 35 your hireability decreases by 8% each year? Good stuff.

I got head-hunted a couple weeks ago by a really nice architectural/experiential firm. I had a phone interview. It went well, but they're mainly looking to grow their team in New York. If I didn't have a girlfriend I cared for, I think I'd have gone for it. Unemployed and single in Calgary? Forget that nonsense. One of my coworkers from the job I got laid-off from just got a divorce and got a visa approved. He's moving to NY next month, I'm super excited for him.

I wish I wasn't so incapable of feeling confident about my work and skills and values. Part of me thinks it's time to change careers/industries to something more black-and-white, rather than the subjective hell that is art and design. It'd be so nice to know that you could get an answer 'right'.

Here I am, making excuses and indulging my fears without even applying to anything first. I haven't earned the right to contemplate a career switch until I at least try to weather one wave. I think applying for a different type of job is so appealing because I don't need to confront my portfolio. I gotta get in gear, make a plan, and stick to it. Start applying and see what happens.

Where did my hustle go? It's about time I go out to the proverbial backyard and dig that corpse back up. It is 2019, after all.
-Cril