White Leather with Black Velcro Strap

My grandmother passed away, and I'm not quite sure how to feel about it. She was never the warm archetype that the position implies. Very WASPY, even. Not to say she didn't care, or wasn't pleasant, or didn't go out of her way for her grandchildren. She was a lovely person and the very definition of an introvert. Not a cactus, but definitely a succulent of some sort.

The thing I remember most of her (and my grandfather) was their lawn. They were plant folk, without a doubt. Lovely flowers throughout the house, a few on the porch, and an impressive garden behind the house. But their lawn was everything a seven or eight year old could hope for. Big, and by God, softer than you could imagine. Weeds? Please. That thing was immaculate.

Me, my siblings, cousins, and whatever kids in the social circle put a lot of good barefoot miles up and down and sideways on the yard. Sure, there was a truck depot on one side and the ass-end of a huge skating rink dominating the rear of the lot. It's no matter, when you're a bit shorter and the fence looms a bit taller, the tickle of pristine grass is just enough to suspend disbelief. Our own little summer movie. I remember Grandma sitting in a lawn chair on that back patio, watching us be propelled around by our little limitless wells of energy.

One summer there were three or five of us running relays from the patio to the fence line. You know, the only kind of activity you can do when you couldn't afford a Nintendo and the internet sounded like a strangling a digital cat. Well, that's not entirely true - one of those summer vacations we were all psyched up to pick up the latest Commander Keen game to bring home. Except my uncle had brought along his work laptop. My Dad commandeered the whole thing and wouldn't let us touch it until he had made it through from start to finish. It was one of those neat little windows to see the inner kid lurking inside your parents.

Anyways, relays. Back and forth with staggered starts and teams and handicaps. The most serious business a kid can have in bare feet. There was a point one evening where I was poking around the closets upstairs and found a pair of tight white  leather gloves with a Velcro strap. The very next day I strapped those suckers on and away I went. You're damn well sure that a set of sleek, well-fitting gloves made a small kid run faster. Some times you need that extra little something, you know?

I think it was my dad that saw them first. Apparently they were Grandma's curling gloves, and I had better go get permission to use them. I was sure I was about to lose my competitive edge. But I went and found her playing a little Solitaire handheld in her big recliner in the orange-on-brown living room. Shag carpet, grandfather clock, the works. I doubt it had ever been updated from when it was first built. I asked about the gloves, and instead of being turned down, I got, "Of course, go have fun." She wasn't big with the words, but she had this lovely way of lighting up her whole face to to make up the difference.

A few days later at the end of our stay, I managed to sneak those gloves into my bag. I knew I really ought to have asked for permission to take them home. I guess I was afraid and too shy to take those little pieces of magic with me. It's almost as if I learned nothing but approaching Grandma in the first place.

I just took a 45 minute detour away from writing this to tear through my shelves and boxes of memories. I cannot for the life of me figure out where those damn gloves went. I remember keeping them, even after my hands grew too large. They were pretty intimate things for me, like an unvarnished piece of her.

And she had to do a lot of varnishing in her life. Only in the last couple years as she started to slow down did we begin hearing her stories of a wild youth. She went through a version of the world much less kind and understanding than we're used to, and paid the price for it. So she covered it up and carried on, because that's just what you do. I don't know what her inner kid would've been like, but it's clear that it was left behind in some unfortunate circumstances.

That big smile, though. Wrinkles and all. Apparently she chose my brother and I to be pallbearers. We're the only ones of our generation, the others are her sons. Is it because we were the oldest, and in a structured family that's simply how those things work? I don't know. Were we closer than I thought, more than my memory lets on?

It hurts that I can't find those gloves.

-Cril

I tried talking to Jesus,
He just put me on hold
Said he'd been swamped with calls this weekend,
Could not shake his cold

And still this emptiness persists
Perhaps this is as good as it gets
You've given up the drink and those nasty cigarettes
Now leave the party early, at least with no regrets
I watch the sun as it comes up, I watch it as it sets
Yeah, this is as good as it gets

My, my, my it's a beautiful world

Colin Hay - Beautiful World

More of Nothings

Thing I Love #1: Driving in the snow. The darker and blizzard-er it is, the better. Especially when you're the only one out on the road, creeping along and easing in/out of every stop sign and turn. Hearing that crunch of snow below the tires. Giving it just the tiniest amount of beans to break traction and reel it in without fuss nor muss. It gives you a good feeling for car dynamics. But even more, it's just nice to be out in the world when everyone else is hunkered down.

Hell, I'll take it one step further: I love snow. I'm not big on skiing or hiking or whatever it is people do for winter sports. But I love the clean sheet of paper laid over a suddenly silent world. I love how bright it during the day when it reflects the sun and how bright it is during the night when it reflects the streetlamps.

Around these parts it's an unpopular opinion. Seems that snow is the go-to gripe of choice for most people where I live. Hell, I don't even mind shoveling the stuff. I'd take that over mowing the lawn any day.

Thing I Love #2: Kitty cuddles. I got this old fart of a pet, and he's a cat of the lap variety. He'll sit in front of the couch expectantly when I get home. I sit down, he jumps up, he lays down. Sometimes he he just sits there for pets, sometimes he goes to sleep. Stupid fuzzball.

---

You know what I miss? The sheer monotony. You remember: you're young and waiting for church to end, and then you wait for your parents to stop socializing so you can go, then you wait to finish the van ride home with whatever stiff CBC radio program plays every Sunday afternoon. Don't you remember being BORED OUT OF YOUR SKULL so much that it hurt? So much that the agony exerted itself like an oppressive force so strong it could've been considered one of Newton's Laws of Motion?

I remember that same force appearing on the day before my birthday. Christmas Eve. Waiting for my sister to finish chatting on the computer so I could get back into Counter Strike. Walking across the big ass school field on a warm day, the last hurdle between curriculum and sweet, sweet contentment.

Of course, there was the flip side too. The overwhelming joy of tearing into presents on Christmas Day. Grinding away afternoon after afternoon on de_dust2, because no other map quite scratches that itch the same way. Getting so far into whatever book on the walk home that you smack your head on the side mirror of a parked truck. Practically overdosing on the melody, bridge, chorus, and all other anatomical delights of a good song. I swear to you, that there were moments when I felt positively inebriated on listening to the same track ad naseum. Sorry Elders of the Church, but that might be as close as I've ever been to a spiritual experience. 

Sometimes I browse the internet with bleary, glazed over eyes solely as a guise to stay up late listening music. Put it in my veins. But it isn't quite the same.

I don't know if those mental extremes of youth are still accessible to me. Man, I long for the day where I could get sucked into a game again. And I'm slowly coming to appreciate the beauty in having nothing to do for a time. Boredom isn't as boring as it used to be, somehow. I'm getting old. And I miss feeling like I could just vibrate clean out of my own skin in anticipation. 

---

No Nothin' November: I need to stop playing video games. I've lost the joy and excitement, and it's more of a grind. So for the month I'm not going to play anything. Except for my Friday night F1 Grand Prixes with my buddy. That's kinda the highlight of my week. And I'll also keep playing Rocksmith, because that gives me a sense of progression beyond the screen. 

Hopefully that'll get me all refreshed for the Steam sales at the end of the year.

---

We used to have this nice house plant. Every once in a while it would bloom and we'd go, "Oh, that's kinda nice." Eventually it died for whatever reason. We said, "That's too bad, it was a nice plant." 

Can someone please explain to me why people are so upset about the Queen dying? She's the only reigning monarch I've known all my life and I feel no attachment to her whatsoever. Has she even done anything noteworthy once you take away everything that came with her genetics?

As far as I can tell, she was just a nice commonwealth succulent in a teacup.

---

I had a summer job once at a small golf course/amusement park. I vacuumed the greens, drove a small train, ran the till, and cleaned out the bathrooms. It was an education in the service industry.

Early on in my time there, the manager, Merv, passed around this little novel between each member of the staff. It was a trite motivational book about the wonderful attitude at the Seattle Fish Market, and how the workers there chipper and excited and made a great atmosphere out of something mundane and decidedly unsexy. There was a shitty romance angle to it, if I remember correctly. I'm not going to dignify that book or the intent with which I was given it to read by trying to figure out what the title or who the author was. 

The thing was, the manager would leave each day after lunch and return shitfaced in the evening to close out the day's shift. Except he wasn't a happy drunk. Woe to the poor soul who was designated to stay behind and cash out the till; at best he'd chew you out for not counting fast enough or the style of your handwriting. And if the till didn't balance, then you'd get it. Yelling and throwing and breaking things. For a 17 year old, it was a bit much. And then rest of the time when he wasn't drunk, he'd rant and rave about the "fucking idiot" of an owner. 

I don't remember what made me think of that book this week. It was such a hilariously half-assed way for a manger to dictate company spirit without actually doing anything meaningful. Kinda stands out as one of those examples of morale with a capital M and maybe a TM or Copyright after it or something.

---

Goddamn it, Valve. It had been so long since Half Life Episode 2, that I wasn't in a rush to play Alyx. Then I did, and it was freaking fantastic, and made me remember what I loved about the series. Great writing and use of technology (limitations notwithstanding) to make a really engrossing experience. They really are a master of the mature sci-fi genre. It makes you just a bit uncomfortable the whole way through (VR headset aside, of course). And then they get to the end of the story and drop a bombshell that makes you NEED a follow up.

But this is Valve, we're talking about. I'll see you in another fifteen years.

---

Racing games are dumb. Every single Need for Speed and Forza and Whatever Vroom Vroom Else I played growing up had a binary gameplay loop: Start a race in (or near) last place then finish in first to win. If you finish in not first, you lose.

As I've been getting more into F1 over the last year, it stands out how some mid-field teams will go absolutely bonkers for getting a fourth place finish. Even more than Mercedez or Red Bull or whoever came in first. That, to me, is part of the magic of the sport: technically a team consistently finishing in 2nd or 3rd can still win the season. And even for other teams, it's just a matter of clawing your way up the standings to finish one or two places over last year. Winning is a spectrum, rather than the center position on the podium.

So I'm learning to race and not develop the Menu > Restart > Confirm muscle memory that seems part and parcel with meaningful progression in most titles. It goes to show just how shallow most of them are. Nothing gets under your skin as laying down a blistering qualifying lap, and then biffing it in the race. And as hard as it is to watch yourself come in a shade of last, it gives you something to aim for the next time around. You have the pace, but not the consistency. THAT is where the challenge lies, not in restarting a race until you get it right. It's kind of maddening and freeing.

---

This Is Us wrapped up about six months ago, and we just got around to binging the last season. Damn, it was emotionally exhausting. The writers deserve commendations for their quality of their work, but once all those loose threads have to come together to wrap up the series, you're left with a nice shirt that has one arm 2" shorter than the other. The dialogue started to get a bit too philosophical, everything was wrapped up a bit too nicely, and some of the beats were forced. For a show of its scope it was understandable, and they deserve props for doing as well as they did, I guess. It was what it had to be. The bright point, though, was undoubtedly how Rebecca passed over the threshold. There was some real artistry on how that was handled. It was creative and beautiful.

Optimized Engagement Fatigue

I'm getting really tired of being entertained. Being targeted and catered to as if I am, and we all are, the most common denominator on the lowest shelf. You know what I'm talking about: the cringey thumbnails, the clickbaity titles that you WON'T BELIEVE, and the narrators that take the most trivial fact and stretch and pull it out to a ten minute video that's treated as life and death. And don't forget the ads, of the pre and post roll variety, that sell a product that doesn't matter with the most trite attempt at humour. Next up: more of the same videos on autoplay, but made with a slightly lower target IQ in mind. You want to say it's just a series of small steps downward, but we all know it's an escalator. It's moving slow enough that we don't notice the destination as we gawk at the pretty lights to the left and right.

I think Reddit in particular has let me down recently. As all good technological endeavors, it has recently starting worshiping via Algorithmic Communion. Once you open a couple links, it has decided that you've locked in your interests and there shall be no deviation. Hopefully you liked that goofy cat video and the road rage incident, because that's 90% of what you're going to see from here on out. And because there's infinite scrolling, you're going to get a lot of it.

My brain is turning into mush as a result. First off, yes, the dopamine drip feed has rewired my head to seek out the quick little fixes. Why waste time on something substantial when a thirty dozen memes in a row will suffice? What, didn't you hear? Long form communication is dead. If it isn't a short video, GIF, or image with pithy caption, it isn't worth consuming. Your brain has a maximum character count, and you best stay within it.

The second is the overoptimization of it all. Thumbnails made to eke out every last view and whatnot. Less thinking and more consuming, please. It's the most benign form of being plugged in to the Matrix: an endless well to drink from with no regards for how much you've drank so far. Did you know that over hydration can make you lethargic? But pay that no mind, because now the water is flavoured and comes in nifty little shot glasses! How fun! Have another!

This all becomes a played out imitation of the cautionary articles and old folk ramblings about technology and its impact on society. We all know how it goes, and suffice it to say that I'm seeing more and more of the symptoms manifest in my life.

I've gotten sick of Reddit, as I mentioned. So sue me, that's my one social media vice, but it's getting to be too much. Too optimized. It's less the Front Page of the Internet as what was once touted, and now an Optimized Content Engagement Fest. I still like being connected to the outside world, so I'm glad I discovered old.reddit.com, where the typography is terrible but the content is untargeted and paginated. I'll allow myself to look at the first page, but no further. A step in the right direction, right?

I didn't understand just how dire the situation had become until I adopted my new self-imposed restriction. There's this grey, misty space somewhere between after dinner chores and bed where you're not ready to call it a night but you don't want to really lock into anything too cumbersome. Enter what would be doomscrolling through the evening hours. But instead now I found myself with the uncomfortable realization that I didn't know how to spend time with myself. I was at a total loss on how to proceed, and it scared me at how dependent I've become on the cheapest, most effortless forms of distraction.

Following a suggestion from a friend and that appealed to my inner and inevitable quest to become a cranky old man, I've picked up Sudoku. It doesn't really scratch, but it does semi-aggressively rub the itch of easy distraction. Plus it lets me pretend to engage my brain. It's a bit of manual mental labour in exchange for some dopamine gruel. Please sir, I want some more.

Here's where we introduce the concept of spending quality time with yourself. For me there's a difference between what I want to do and what I end up doing. I don't really want to cruise memes and dumb YouTube videos. When I'm at work or stuck in traffic, I don't find myself saying, "Wow, I could really go for fifty low effort comments about a shit post right now!" I'd rather draw something or noodle on a ukulele or play the next chapter of that game. None of those things are really productive, but they're engaging and give me a bit of something in return. The social media feed? Let's be honest, you're lucky if you go, "Heh" once for every hundred posts. It's a low-resistance, motorized hamster wheel for your consciousness.

So I'm trying to be a bit more conscious about how I'm spending my free time. This rambling blog post, for example. We'll see how long it sticks, but I've been feeling more and more desperate to retain a sense of self among the onslaught of the Digital Culture Wars. We're simultaneously recruits and bystanders, you know. And this great big Branded Content Machine is determined to flatten us all for the sake of clicks and ad impressions. Perhaps this is my attempt to check myself into a field hospital, but the roar of cannons are never far away. Some say it even fills up your pockets and follows you around.

It's now late and I'm now tired. I don't know how to bring this thing to an elegant close. But I didn't waste the evening gorging on mental garbage, so that's a start.

-Cril

Don’t tell me that you love me
I’ve got nothing left in turn
Except this empty bag of promises
And second degree burns
On the tips of my fingers
From touching certain fruit
That I never should have touched in the first place

Well the sky’s raining fire
But I think I’ll go to bed
Because there ain’t much you can do
When it burns down on your head
Except pray and beg for mercy
From this hell that you created
On the corner of Satan and St. Paul

John Fullbright - Satan and St. Paul

Fermented Fragments

 The Book of Boba Fett: Why is the dialogue so clunky? Both in the writing and directing. Everything feels so forced. Really makes me miss the first season of the Mandalorian, which used words very carefully.

What purpose did it serve to show Grogu's training? And why show so much of Luke? Why show him at all. I kind of wished they would only show his back or from the waist down and never have him speak any lines on screen.

It's indicative as Star Wars as a whole, I feel. They're reluctant to let the viewer do any of the work. I can also feel the focus testing behind the scenes, where they strive to make sure even the lowest common denominator can understand everything that's happening. It's part of the whole pop culture thing, I suppose. Gotta dumb it down for the masses.

And man is Star Wars self obsessed. It just can't tell a story without linking it back to a major existing character. Can we be done with the Skywalkers, pretty please? The universe and its style is so rich (Vespa chic robo gang notwithstanding) that there has got to be some stories to be told without relying on what's come before. Imagine if the Beatles, still all alive, decided to get back together as a cover band. WHY?! They have the talent and people and resources, so make something new and different. You know, like what Star Wars was when it first came out. Take some risks, damn it.

---

Go watch The Landscapers. It's on one of those HBO services I can't be bothered to differentiate between.

It might seem pretty standard if you're into true crime thriller-esque shows, with two versions of events that collide. Yes, the craft of the show is great - acting, directing, cinematography, writing, it's all there. It's refined and tight and you couldn't ask for much more if you're into this genre. But it delivers more anyways.

It is the best use of the 4th wall that I've yet seen in movies or TV. It's not a subtle nod and cliche wink to the viewer at key moments. It's carefully, deliberately scattered throughout in such simple and complex ways that it makes your head spin with the confusion of the plot. It's masterful. It's not a gimmick. It reinforces the theme in such a clever and unusual way that it keeps you off balance. You'll find yourself wondering, "Wait, what? What am I watching here?" It's such an appropriate device given the context of the story. A natural fit for the most unnatural way of storytelling.

---

I’ve been listening to some of Adam Savage’s livestreams recently and found them to be fantastic. The guy is a natural storyteller and has a great sense of enthusiasm and optimism about the world and his passion. There are two tidbits I’d like to record here, just in case I ever stumble back this way in a moment where such things are needed.

1) Treat things like a job, even if they aren't. Take on and see projects through as if someone is watching.

2) There was this author who spoke about creative block. She said that when she was stumped, she made a point of sitting down and copying other author's works in longhand. The point is to sit down and write, so that's what she did. Eventually those fragment's of inspiration would knock the internal crud loose and she could proceed with her own creations. 

---

I'm working on my 240z and met this guy who's restoring one to a factory finish. He came and looked at my wiring and then invited me to go and look at his (for the coolant routing and several other things). And there was his 240z, under his McLaren on the lift, in a detached garage with granny suite, on a property near downtown, with a massive new contemporary home on the lot. Talking with him he drops the fact that he's had a few different classic Porsches, a BMW i8, an NSX, and a bajillion other Hondas. Dude's well off, and made some passing remark about 'owning some IT companies, including a couple overseas'.  And, to his credit, he was very welcoming and down to Earth.

I mean, come on. At least if he was a stuck up bastard I could hate him a bit. I don't make a bad wage, but this is something else. In the few occasions I've poked my head into the lives of the wealthy half of society, I've become immediately uncomfortable. It's hard to pinpoint why that is, but I think it's a mix of coming from a lower class background and feeling out of place, plus a bit of envy that this kind of lifestyle will always be out of reach for me. Even a taste of this life will always be beyond my grasp.

Here I am struggling to save up money to buy a garage and maybe a used Cayman to put in it, and this guy makes some off hand casual remark how he owned a Cayman S once, among a string of other Porsches, like it's no big deal. And that he saw the new Top Gun, which featured a 964, so now he kinda wants one. As if it was some special controller he saw a streamer using once and wants to try it out.

It's a different world, man. One in which I am undoubtedly an alien.

---

I'd just like to take a quick moment to profess my love for Everything Everywhere All at Once. What a weird-ass script with fantastic production value. Editing, directing, acting, writing, set design, it's all there. And the more you look closely, the more there is to discover. It was such a marvel of human storytelling inside an absurd, abstract vessel. You have no idea where it was going, but everything seemed to fit together just so. Probably the most original film I've seen in years. So original that the best analogy I can come up with is how I felt watching The Matrix for the first time. This one had a bit more soul to it, though.

---

So we'd been working our way through Under the Banner of Heaven and we got to the part where the main character realizes that the LDS church might not be what it seems. He has this red book called "Mormonism: Shadow or Reality?" in his lap that he knows weighs more than the combination of its physical dimensions.

In a weird knee-jerk reaction to the scenario, I (internally) told him not to open the book. Oh, the total freefall that knowledge unleashes. Sure, the rug gets pulled. But so does the floor and foundation below it. It's scary shit to not only realize that what you were taught wasn't true, but that you were actively mislead by the very thing your entire life was built on.

It's a testament to the strength of the writing, directing, and acting of the show that it surfaced such a guttural instinct in me. I guess I may have walked away from the church, and I like to think I've discarded most of my baggage. But it's like the church poked little holes clean through my skin and soul, and whenever I move in some directions, the cool air finding its way inside my body is too jarring to ignore. 

---

Sometimes songs are like sticks. Some are longer, or more crooked, or curl around to the left and down a bit with a little sprig at the end. Keep in mind, though, that you're soul is in a full-body cast, and you know you have an itch to scratch. Or maybe two or three or twelve. 

And that's how I end up in front of my computer for an hour after I should've gone to bed. I'm digging through my drawers of different songs, looking for the right one(s) to reach and ease that certain discomfort that's been driving me crazy. 

Sure, I'm checking my RSS feeds and poking Reddit and writing my way through these odd little thoughts, but it's all an excuse to keep listening. I'm just getting lost in my music library, taking some of the trusty hits for a spin and rediscovering the neglected gems.

I could just stay up all night scratching. I don't know if it's for the relief or just an honest joy for twigs.

---

-Cril

Wish I knew what you were looking for
Might have known what you would find
Wish I knew what you were looking for
Might have known what you would find

And it's something quite peculiar
Something shimmering and white
Leads you here, despite your destination
Under the Milky Way tonight

The Church - Under the Milky Way

A Lonely Solo

Let me take you down, because I'm going to the killing fields of my youth. The year was Two Thousand and Something of our Lord, who I have since distanced myself from. I now live in a dimension where time runs like oil paints.

I digress; it was nearing the end of Grade 11 and I was starting to feel distanced from my friends. Maybe it was a introverted temperament setting in or the fact that I wasn't build for the constant swapping of barbed quips. You know, jockeying for position as young men tend to do. I found it tiring, and right at the end of the year I remember them roaring with laughter after tricking me into drinking something technically (although not effectively) containing alcohol. Ah, to be a young Mormon in a small town. Your church teaches you not to have friends outside outside of the congregation. And pity on those who are lonesome even inside their faith. You try to keep your head and morals up, only to make you a lonesome, easy target in secular social circles. Like the weakest member of the flock.

I took offense. Well, not really. I was just hurt. I thought these guys were my friends, and here they were having a grand, Machiavellian chortle at my expense. Ah, the lowest rung on the ladder. Why did I ever forsake thee? Something snapped inside and it was time to hop off the ladder entirely.

I coasted through the last couple weeks, and off to summer break we went. I managed to get another season's worth of work at the local mini golf course. In my fervor of working and picking up extra shifts where I could (you gotta get money for the Palm Pilot somehow!), I didn't really touch base with anyone. My brother went away to work for a relative, so I'd spend my free time playing the original Call of Duty. I beat it through twice in a row, if I recall correctly.

When I set foot back in school that September, I was immediately overwhelmed. Not by anyone, but just by everything washing over me. Dealing with mobs of angry American tourists was easy, but for some reason the throngs of high school students were a step too far. Some of which were supposed to be friends I no longer had the capacity to maintain relationships with.

I didn't realize it at the time, but that summer seemed to be an easy weightlessness of freefall, one sunny day after another. 9.8m/s² of acceleration for 60 consecutive, oblivious days. The school's front doors, I suppose, provided the surface that I'd inevitably shatter against.

A 16-hours-of-sleep-a-day style of broken works like this: Get up early for an hour of seminary (bible study), grab something to eat, go to school. Keep your head down and shamble around like your insides aren't full of glass. Get home around 3pm, eat a snack, go to sleep. Some time around 7 or 8pm your body says, "Whelp, I'm rested!". Instead of getting up, you persevere through the rest of your night because your mind just can't hack reality.

I think this went on for about two weeks. No one really intervened because teenagers are gonna teenage. Eventually I realized that I couldn't keep going, so I gutted my course load like a rotten fish; not looking too closely at what you're doing, just waving a knife around until you can hear entrails slapping against the floor. I cut Math and Band. Traded one for work experience where I knew I could be alone doing menial computer maintenance for the elementary school, and traded the other for a spare/open block. This left me with the bare minimum credits to graduate. Meanwhile, the IT prof let me 'claim' a workstation for myself in the second computer lab, so even though I was taking Graphic Design, I was allowed to be in a room on my own with my head down while getting the work done. To round it off I purchased a pair of collapsible JBL headphones to compliment my trusty MP3 CD player. I drowned out the rest of the world in musical morphine wherever the opportunity arose. 

Math was an easy cut. I knew I could drag myself along through sheer force of will, but the subject matter had become so abstract that nothing was coming intuitively. One of my former friends told me, "I won't just let you give up like that." and then proceeded to do nothing. The math prof stopped me after handing back the textbook to remark that he wasn't sure what university I'd be able to get into without the course. Internally I was wondering what the absolute fuck would I go to university for. A meaningful choice of career continued to elude me and caused me no lack of anxiety, thanks to a lifetime of watching my folks struggle financially.  

Band was a harder loss; it was consistently one of my favourite courses in secondary school. Alas, this year I was lumped in with a small class that consisted of people I didn't know plus a few impressively obnoxious individuals that I couldn't stand. Where was the fun in playing music with people that didn't bother to follow along? I kept attending jazz band after school, though I think I hurt the band prof by ditching the main course. He was a really good dude.

Herein lays the reason for this whole jaunt down adolescent nightmare's lane. I still have dreams about missing out on band that year and how I disappointed good ol' Mr. G after he had nurtured me to be one of his better players. The dreams change, but the familiar themes of regret linger. Dare I say, Grade 10 Band was the highlight of my highschool days, so this was quite the fall in a short time span. Sometimes I dream I was too careless to enroll, others I sign up but there's no class, or there's no trusty Jazz Band and I'm destined to spend the year musicless.

And thus I scraped by my final year of high school. I never spoke with anyone or set foot in the 'Senior's Lounge' where only the Grade 12 kids could hang out. I was about as isolated as I could possibly get and as hopelessly lost as someone who had discarded themselves could be. Had I not been such a coward I would've attempted, intentionally, to do something terminally stupid. I thought about it a lot. Those were bleak days where I didn't feel like I belonged anywhere. I was woefully lonely, so I self medicated with isolation and writing shitty journal entries while listening to Linkin Park.

Looking back, I feel really sorry for the kid I used to be. Goddamn, he really could've used an actual friend or someone more involved in his life. Someone to shake him a lil' by the shoulders and maybe across the face when he needed it. But mainly someone to just actively listen to him rant and rave and process all those polluted teenage emotions with.

My folks, to their credit, were over their heads with other stuff at the time. Church was a joke and succeeded in poisoning any fertile soil where self esteem could grow. School was just... too much. That left me with gaming, I suppose. I had found a Counter-Strike group to play with. And while I didn't get the emotional support I really needed, the structure and community gave me a space to exist outside of my current hellhole. I knew what to expect, and no one made fun of my skin or religion.

Of course violence = bad, and thanks to one CBC video segment on Al Qaida skins, I remember my folks remarking, "Counter-Strike? Isn't that the game you play? It looks AWFUL!" And just like that, I wasn't allowed to play any more. This little domestic policy was eventually walked back, but the 'no internet or chat in the bedroom' rule stayed in place. Because Christian reasons, naturally. It ultimately meant that, when it was time to scrim, I had to run upstairs to co-ordinate and get server IPs on the family machine, then run downstairs and try to connect, and then bounce between at any instance where actual communication or planning was involved. Looking back... what I joke that was. For the record, I was okay at pubbing but garbage at competitive. But I was mostly there just to be around familiar faces screen names that didn't hassle me. That got me through the year.

The end of Grade 12 rolled around, and at the award ceremony Mr G asked all his senior band students to come up. You see, back in Grade 7 we were the first group that he taught, and now here we were graduating. He'd been with us each year. He gave everyone a little statuette or something, but he didn't have anything for me, because I was no longer in Band Proper. That one hurt a bit. It's not hard to see why when you put yourself in his shoes, though. Outside of my hazy cranium there was no good reason for me to drop his class like I did.

I didn't want to go to the graduation ceremony. The last year had been utter hell for me and I was still broken and exhausted, emotionally unable to process the act of celebrating the culmination of my misery. My parents said I didn't have to go... but it sure would mean a lot to them if I went. So I did, and I wore my CS jersey, because that was the only damn thing in my life that I felt I could be proud of. I was a shit player, but I was glad to be a part of that group. My mom would chide me for a few years afterwards whenever she saw me wearing it again. "Oh, breaking out THE TUXEDO are we?!" Har har. It wasn't a tuxedo, to that lost and frustrated kid it was a goddamn suit of armour that helped keep his scrambled insides upright. I remember finishing the grad ceremony, meeting up with my folks, and begging to leave. I was so spent. They refused, and said we needed to hang out more.

They applied some (soft) guilt to get me to go. Okay, fine. But not letting me go home at that point just hurt. I didn't go to the reception or after party, I just walked aimlessly around town until 1AM because I didn't feel like I had anywhere to be. I still feel kind of bad about going, because it was genuinely inauthentic way to recognize just how bad my senior years of highschool were.

All of this is just as, if not more, angsty than it sounds. That's who I was and that's all I had, and I wish it would've/could've gone a different way. I've been pretty diligent in covering up those memories, because I lot of what I did was incredibly cringey and the residual feelings dark and sticky. But I just didn't have the support or resources to do anything else with what I felt. It was really unhealthy. So, 17/18 year old Chris, I see you. You desperately needed help and a guiding hand that never came when and how you needed it. That year was shit, but you did the best with what you had. And now you're twice as old and half a continent away with your feet up. Things do get better.

The band class dreams don't need a passport to follow along, though. It's almost comical how something so trivial creates a notch for your subconscious to stub its toe on. It obviously meant a lot to the kid I was then and the man I am now. I miss playing my sax in a group. Maybe there's some community band I can join. Some day.

But if that's the biggest anguish to haunt me from my youth, then I think I've done alright. We got there, buddy. We're out of that mess and went far away to better shores. Regrets may collect like old friends, but fuck Facebook. Some things can be left behind.

-Cril

No one I think is in my tree

I mean, it must be high or low

That is, you can't, you know, tune in but it's all right

That is, I think it's not too bad

Let me take you down

'Cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields

Nothing is real

And nothing to get hung about

Strawberry Fields forever

Richie Havens - Strawberry Fields Forever

Old Man

An old man died yesterday morning. Or maybe it was in the preceding night; he was found unresponsive in his bed around breakfast time. 

It wasn't really a shock. He'd abused his body as a tradesman for years, had diabetes and lung problems, and was connected to a breathing machine for the last few years. He was eighty-something. Because at that age, who really gives a shit any more? My own age seems like a bit of whimsical trivia I'm not really attached to outside of the initial 'Huh!' of discovery. And his age was just a figure to be plowed down and overrun by sheer, grizzled determination.

It'd been a rough few years to be his friend as he slowly started divesting himself of his valued possessions. First I got his camera at a steal of a price. Then it was an old wireless drill set with missing batteries. Then a handsaw that's about 100 years old and his grandfather brought over from England. Then a collection of WW2 ammunition that his father brought back from the war. Apparently he returned from that experience as a proper bastard to his wife and kids. I have those rounds, including a decommissioned 40lb mortar shell, on display. It's a reminder to me that war destroys lives at both ends of the the barrel, no matter the size.

Then it was a large format printer - he was getting too old and too stationary to go out and take photos to print. Then he had to move and gave me his treasured record player and vinyls. He was moving into a single bedroom and didn't have the space to bring the last vestige of his career as an audio engineer with him. Besides, his hearing wasn't what it used to be. He might wince to know that I have it hooked up to a Bluetooth transmitter received by a crappy TV sound bar. But all the pops and crackles come through okay. It adds warmth, as he once told me.

For the length of time that I knew him, he was always an old codgy son of a bitch that only grew older. He didn't have patience for kids or dogs, but he'd take all the time in the world to show you how to use a lathe even if you were slow and inept. He collected people somehow, and spoke glowingly of all of them. You got the feeling that he was a scraggly tom cat and you were just living in his neighbourhood. And with that he had seen some things, had the scars to show for it, and pushed each of his seven lives to the max.

He had a... damn. I can't remember. Austin Healey? Triumph Spitfire? He was working as an electrician on a big job and blew it all on some old British sports car. He also rode motorbikes. He tried to give me his old jacket and helmet, both painted the kind of yellow used to highlight the most exciting parts of a health and safety document. I was glad they were to big, it gave me a good excuse to turn down the offer, allowing me to buy something in both my own style and risk tolerance.

I always got email forwards from him, the kind you'd expect from old people. The kind that included mp4 attachments that you'd diligently scan before opening. A lot of them weren't really my taste, but it was kind of nice to see them pop up every week or so. He called me a week and a half ago, but I was at work and didn't pick up. I'll call him back, I told myself. I didn't, and now I'll just have to put up with telling myself that again and again in regret. The last time we spoke it was short and little more than a perfunctory check in. He was there, and I was here, and we marched on. Why would he ever not be there?

He was married once, and never had kids. He told me once that the most important things in a relationship are, in order, communication, money, sex, and communication. I've tried to remember that. I was dating someone he knew at the time. When we broke up, he said that he was hoping we'd be able to make it, but if they're not the right person, there's nothing more that could be done. 

He loved trains, especially old steam ones. He photographed them, scanned them, built miniatures, and restored the life-size kinds. Apparently he completed the restoration of an old passenger car in a nearby heritage park. He was proud of that one. He told me how he'd travel out to the coast by rail as a kid, and you could see his eye light up at the memory. The rhythm of the rail was enough to put you asleep for hours. The best sleep he ever had was on those trips. 

When he was found, his housemate had the paramedics come over. They lifted open an eyelid and proclaimed him dead. The housemate told them to try again; they had just shone a light in his glass eye. We're pretty sure he would've laughed his ass off at that one. I never found out the story behind that eye though.

Now he's gone. There won't be a funeral, as per his wishes. Maybe we'll have a BBQ in his memory once the summer rolls around. He always loved a good beef roast. He'd organize dinner parties at other people's house. He'd bring the meat and somehow escape the responsibilities of cooking and hosting. But he sure loved having a bunch of his favourite people in one place.

I knew him as a force to be reckoned with that meant what he said and acted accordingly. Big heart in a grizzled exterior. Makes me wonder what kind of a character he was as a fully-animated young man. I may never know, and his force is no longer here. His concentric ripples are still moving outwards, though. Perhaps more muted the farther out they travel from the source, but enough to distort the glass-like finish of life's surface.

-Cril

We'll meet again
Don't know where, don't know when
But I know we'll meet again
Some sunny day

Vera Lynn - We'll Meet Again

Accounting, Driving, & Walking

So sue me, I spent the last portion of the year in a bathtub with the lights off and candles on. And after the faraway fireworks faintly tapped at our windows and the missus left for bed, I remained in the household deep. My fingers and lobes finally achieved a parity of wrinkle density, so went for a mental drive. My inner roads were slippery, partially thanks to the cider and champagne, but I managed as I cruised through whatever portion of 2021 I managed to retain in my mental landscape. I did some some year-end accounting as I drove through. Let's have a look.

Expense: Money. A lot of it. The most I've ever seen go out the door in a year. A bit of money for cars and hobbies (which, in my case, appear to be one and the same), some for gifts, some for odds and ends. But most of it ended up going towards...

Income: A house. Yup. Never thought it would happen, to be honest. I figured I'd be a perpetual renter so I wouldn't have to put up with property taxes and roof repairs. Yet here I am. Women do funny things to a guy, apparently, and now we're moved in to a home so new that it's never been lived in before. Coming up next: furnishings, storage, and a garage.

Expense: The house and move have left me with some weird anxiety. After moving twice within the last ~4 months, I can't help but look around my half-settled belongings and think about what it's going to take to get it all packed up and moved again. We recycled a bunch of cardboard boxes we packed stuff in - won't we need that? And the giant Ikea shopping spree we just completed will bring more furniture and accessories that'll be a pain to lift up into a moving truck. I know, I know. We're in a house we built. We're not likely to be going anywhere any time soon, but I can't help but think about it. I guess the whole thing has consumed me pretty well for most of the year, so it shouldn't be surprising. 

Income: I've figured out how to trade stocks. A couple shares of GME which will never go anywhere, of course, but more importantly: options. And not buying them either, that's a sucker's game. Nope, I've been selling options. I'm not getting rich over the token amount I've dedicated to this little financial experiment, but so far I've been beating the standard 4-6% gain most financial institutions say you can expect from mutual funds and ETFs. My early results are encouraging, but I have no idea where things will go. For now it's helping me fund my automotive-based compulsions.

Expense: Employment that disappeared two days before Thanksgiving. I want to say that I knew I was on borrowed time, but the truth is that I thought I had found an organization complacent enough to let me keep coasting through. 'Twas not to be. It was a good job to lose, though, because in return for their meagre salary I was paying out in small chunks of soul. I knew it was taking a toll on me, but I needed that kick in the ass to get going.

Income: Salary. So get this, I was laid off and was paid out for three weeks as final notice, plus unused vacation pay. Within days I was able to slide into a temporary position with a regular client. About a month later I had an offer on the table from another organization for a handsome increase over what I was making before. It appears that I've moved up in the world with some uncanny grace. Which is actually just dumb luck all dressed up.

Expense: Time. So much time. On top of my full time work, I'm sorting out an estate on the side. It's kind of fascinating, to be honest. I'm learning all kinds of things and talking to interesting people. And in sorting out the remnants of this person's life, I've managed to construct a pretty good portrait of what they were like in life. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes sad, sometimes it leaves me feeling regret for things undone and unsaid. Not for this person I knew, but just as a human having a human life. This lady hoarded all sorts of things and people and money, and died in pain in a hospital bed. She had such grand plans and resources to pursue them, right up until she was in a semi-conscious state and her stats began sliding. I guess there's an emotional expense that goes with this role, as I've taken charge for a someone's shadow.

Income: So many video games. I've been enjoying F1 2021, but I need to learn to race without rewinds or saves. I also got Half-Life Alyx, Deathloop, Rocksmith, and a handful of small indy titles over the last few months. As gifts, no less. I have so much to play that, for the first time in a long time, I won't buy anything during the Steam Winter Sale. Weird.

Expense: Expectations of time management. That Rocksmith game also came with a gift certificate for an electric guitar. I've been wanting to learn for a while now. But what about all those empty sketchbooks I have? And unread books? And bikes and cars and cooking and all those things I feel compelled to do? It's easy to throw down resolutions at this time of year. PLOP! Like a damp rag slapped against the pavement, it makes an impressive sound and impact. But then you've gotta pick it up, do something constructive, and clean up the impact's mess. And committing to all those goals at once either means not being able to enjoy the process or just outright failure. I don't know how to balance that. Do a Thing a Month? Maybe.

Income: Calories. And as my metabolism slows and I turn to stress eating, they tend to accumulate. I've gotta get this under control in the new year. It's an easy goal to declare, though, as you come out of the holidays and gorging yourself on every manner of sweet, fat, and salt. Part of me misses being single when I could operate on an indulgent schedule that included an hour at the gym every day. But that's only half of it; I need to cut the intake first. I have obesity on both sides of the family, and I'd like to nip this in the bud before a drift out of a healthy BMI.

So where do the totals leave me? I'm getting settled in a new home at the beginning of a new year, and it feels like it should be a new beginning. But we all move all those possessions along with us, including the emotional baggage. Those didn't even need a UHaul rental. I think the year will start off on the right step, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm playing QWOP 2022. But as long as there's forward movement, who needs elegance?

-Cril

Reality is sharp
It cuts at me like a knife
Everyone I know
Is in the fight of their life
And I believe there's a better way

Ben Harper - Better Way