-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualJ'ai toujours eu besoin d'un dictionnaire. Non par ce que je ne connais la langue, mais par ce qu'elle change d'un jour à l'autre, et donc l'on doit se reintroduire. Peut-être qu'elle ne me reconnait plus, mais moi je la connaitra jusqu'au moment ou je ne serais plus rien, et encore là. Elle me dira "Qui es-tu déjà? Mathias?", et avec le coeur à mi-berne, je lui dira "Et non. Je suis Marc."
I understand why I love science and books and don't play well with people. It is because I'm a dope, a slowpoke. I never thought I'd get to a point where I'd genuinely find others childish (spoilt, stupid, naive––any of these perhaps, but not childish), but here we are. Your beautiful sun-kissed hands are being eclipsed behind whatever it is you seem to not understand about me. Your hug was desolately unfamiliar....Created 2019-10-31 04:54:27
-------------------------------------------Mood: SleepyTime for bed (not yet)
I feel so heavy, so tired
Like there's a randian giant
trapped inside of me
alas, I hope he'll rise
and pick up this momentum
I've been weaving since birth.
Waiting, I've been waiting
for so long
to feel it. to feel it live.
to feel it at last.
whatever it is my mind keeps
I feel so heavy,
like I'm at the end of an under water marathon
holding on with the very tips of my finger tips
hanging under the overhanging cliff
huffing along like a train without all of the mechanical bits.
I have my eye locked on nature,
truly tied by sight to it––
the other one is a little too lazy....Created 2019-09-01 01:48:57
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualIt's the Persian fellow who answers my questions best
that scares me the most. His meticulous mind
unwinding my every action to dissect what's
imperfect. He's polite, or so he tries.
There is a bit of me in there.
My used-to-be neighbour's ability to make small talk
was like a bridge that could extend far beyond
the support subtending it. My responses lacked
a degree of caring. But I smiled.
This could be me given the right accident.
In a room of people clamoring to be anywhere else
there are those who can't help but speak up all
of the air, as if to say: SEE ME, I AM HERE.
I do not make any eye contact with them,
I'm ashamed to be there.
The knife wielding girl who shorts everyone––
she has this kind of burning sun inside of her hands.
The warm kind of blinding that soothes you and
gives you a moment of peace when you look up,
before the bus pulls up. She has her God.
And I hate God. I might be jealous....Created 2019-08-21 23:02:15
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usualhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8id4pcpd7yw
Not much makes me feel that feeling of wanting to dance. Mais une jolie gosse qui taquine, ses yeux si profond, résignés à une existence misérable––cela me pousserait à danser....Created 2019-03-17 03:32:15
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualTu murmures tes petits mots en cachette
comme un renard à nez long qui voile ses
intentions carnivores. Tu regardes de tes yeux
pointus le rossignol qui chante à poitrine
pleine d'air fraiche ses chansons d'oiseaux
sur sa branche périlleuse. Tu l'écoutes, et lui
à son tour, écoute son voisinage pour entendre
la chanson qui sera chantée en réponse. Ton ventre
lui chante une belle chanson de gargouillement,
chaque note plus longue que la dernière. Il
s'envole avec sa réponse, encore une fois déçu....Created 2019-03-08 21:10:33
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualÇa fait un bon moment depuis la dernière fois que j'vous ai emmerdé avec mon français. Quoi que ça fait également aussi longtemps que je n'ai pas eu de raison pour écrire mes pensées. Je commencerai bientôt mon prochain emploi avec le gouvernement et ce dans un poste bilingue qui, d'un côté, me tâchera d'écrire souvent en français. Alors, pourquoi ne pas pratiquer ici, avec vous, les personnes sur qui je dépenderai possiblement pour le restant de ma vie.
Débutons notre correspondance avec une histoire peut-être sans importance. Celle de monsieur Lapelle Sectuvoeux, ou Sec tout court. Courtois, raffiné et d'une allure stricte; c'est un homme avec une petite stature et une épaisseur qui laisse peu à en vouloir. Une mine épouvantable, lamentable et qui n'inspire aucune considération de respect. Histoire d'en finir avec cet exercice, c'est un homme peu notable, peu désirable et de petite importance.
Voilà que, comme je suis sûr est le cas pour plusieurs d'entre vous, ses matins commencent au bout d'un repos insuffisant et au début d'une sonnerie qui sonne un peu trop fortement. Il ne se souvient pas d'avoir eu des rêves, ni de brosser ses dents avant de sortir de la porte. Pressé, il se dirige entre les voitures sur l'autoroute 34, lentement dans sa petite Peugeot. Avancer c'est un exercice du diable. Finalement arrivé dans la voie qui bouge et elle resserre, toutes les voitures s'arrêtent. On se regarde par les fenêtres: la madame qui se coiffe toujours la face avec encore plus de maquillage, le monsieur qui commence déjà sa journée de travail sur son mobile, la mademoiselle qui ne porte pas attention parce qu'elle envoie un message. Au fait, c'est seulement notre héros du jour Sec qui observe. Je ne suis pas si digne de me croire plus important, il se dit. Ne t'en soucis pas Sec, tu n'es pas important, non, mais eux ils sont plus importants que toi, ça j'en suis sûr.
C'est tout pour le moment. Je me rends compte que c'est probablement difficile à lire, parce que ça fait longtemps que j'ai écrit quelque chose en français. Mais bon, ça n'importe (plus ou moins parce qu'il n'y a pas de lecteur). J'y reviendrai bientôt, j'espère....Created 2019-01-06 04:38:40
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usualhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01KVhyBNPDw
I'm actually in awe of movie and show scoring, or more particularly the people who do it. Daily, casual music for the sake of expression always dances around the paradox of being so relevant and irrelevant. It always makes sense right now, because this moment in history is its only plausible context. A context which invariably and quickly becomes lost.
The grand imagination it must take. Movies kind of solve that problem, and in it music doesn't have to deal with all of this nonsense. It just has to focus on what makes us human, and how to tell that human side of us a story.
Just to be clear, with things like Dumbo, the music sinks into and supports the story. With things like frozen, the dialogue is just emboldened, but the music often comes at the price of story pacing. I've always hated musicals....Created 2018-03-13 13:19:57
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualI've wondered once or twice whether single-serving emotions exist,
or whether saying your baseline mood is sad
is just being in denial of depression.
It is okay, because this is what you're used to.
It is okay, because this is what you can handle.
And sure, maybe that breaking point isn't as far off
as it could be, but that's also okay;
we should all live a little more dangerously,
on the edge.
A challenge is beautiful, a whole new world onto
dimly lit minds, glistening brightly like fire at night.
And the warmth of tragedy, before the frigid solitude of shock;
that warmth is sublime humanity -- should it exist.
Maybe that's the point though, that change is good.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to move that baseline
up a couple notches. But how? Love yourself,
or love the world. Maybe both. Maybe love is the problem (the gateway to romanticism).
What if change means death -- death to the you
beneath yourself, beneath the behemoth struggling
to force itself onto you. What if, change is giving up? It could be amazing to be unchanging.
It could be tragic too. An untidy statue....Created 2018-03-11 23:57:33
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualDrugs are amazing....Created 2018-01-16 01:29:06
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualIt's nice to not be on the cusp of anything. I have a heart for the sadder things in life, tragic beauty and such. I openly admit that my baseline is being sad, and that sometimes I find that pleasing for lack of a better word (and because saying it makes me happy to be sad is certainly nonsensical). Depression is also a bit like a canyon in that it is snugly hugged by peaks -- or to phrase it differently, a colorful life allows for greater accents. Sadness bring that extra oomph to the party when you're happy.
I might be on the cusp of going bald though.
I was in my dad's hospital room, when he was still in the ICU, and it was quiet. I don't think it would've ever occurred to me before then, but my regrets about my relationship with him... they felt like this magnetic force. The growing repulsion as I got closer, my inability to form words, and how crushingly small it all made me feel. I think my mom thought I was apathetic, but it glaringly obvious to me that I wasn't. You see, I love my father. The problem is, that wasn't ever something we talked about, or that even I talked about in general. It's not like I've lacked retrospection over the years; I've always known my relationship with him was severely lacking. It always just felt so out of my control.
First the divorce, which lasted the better part of a decade, but left me and my brother with my mother. Invariably the focus was on my parents, and their disputes -- their pernicious lies, attempts at manipulation. Child protective services was an awkward little bout followed by foster housing. My brother kept acting out, and escalating until finally everybody stopped. Nothing refocuses two adults like their children being taken away. You could say the focus was on us, but the truth is my brother spoke for both of us by default of my refusal to become emotionally involved. I chose avoidance because I just understood the divorce had little to do with me (outside of the trophy role I was given). My brother split from my mom's the moment he legally could, at 13. He actually spent a second stint in foster homes while CPS sorted out evaluating my father's housing situation. Prior to, he'd literally just been sleeping on a mattress in the back of his taxidermy store. Who'd've thought a work space with poison, chemicals, biological waste, etc., wasn't adequate living circumstances. I used to love the smell of his store, and the barrels full of guts and blood never struck me as anything other than innocuous. I did sometimes wonder though if my father bathed in the same bath tub he used to remove that stuff from the animals. The blood stained bath in his basement -- kind of murdery on second thought.
Before then, my father had to make an effort to see us otherwise he'd never see either of us. But after my brother left, it was a different story. I was welcome in either home (legally) after I turned 13 myself, but I was walking on the thinnest ice with my mom. She sort of transitioned from her marriage into, well, filling that hole -- trying to -- with work. She left with us at 8 in the morning, but she'd often only come home after 9 or 10. I often say I grew in a second home because I'd spend the better part of the 10 hours I had outside of school and sleep in somebody else's home. I never acknowledged as a child the impact the situation had on her, or why she was the way she was or did the things she did. I wasn't the only way applying the avoidance strategy. I just knew she was volatile and could really hurt me. She was the only person who ever actually took things away from me; like a sheltered child, I viewed her as the enemy.
It didn't help that my dad was continually serving hate-your-mom koolaid, or that my brother drank it by the gallon until every problem in his life basically boiled down to being her fault. But much like I just understood the divorce wasn't about me, I knew I couldn't just abandon my mom. I also hated myself greatly going into puberty and adolescence and donned the mantle of enduring my mother like this punishment I deserved. At least, that's how I'd play it with anyone who asked. I like to think deep under that that I also just loved my mom, and hated the ultimatum of having to choose a parent over the other. The government/court had made the original choice, and for that I couldn't be held accountable. But if I left her, I'd be the one responsible. Avoidance.
But invariably that just meant I couldn't really spend that much time with my father, yet. Every time I went over there, I got the double agent treatment from my mom. And I grew tired of being treated like my mom's spy by my brother and father when I did go visit them. High school kind of breezed on by, and then came university. That's when the person who got in the way of my relationship with my father was, well, me. I left Toronto. I was just far enough away that habitual road trips weren't practical. My dad lost his truck because he's stupid and won't stop driving when he's tired. He was too poor to get another vehicle.
Post university, I stayed in Ottawa for a while working. I had already known by then that my dad was terminally ill, but what was I going to do? Eventually, my mother came to visit and broke down her situation for me back in Toronto. If my dad had just been sick, it would've been one thing. The usual process of becoming decrepit, between the ages of say 70 to 100+ mixed in with Parkinson, is essentially what my father was going through in the span of 3 years. Adding to that was my brother who'd never developed the ability to take care of himself, and remained emotionally stunted by, well, everything. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which can often manifest as a whole lot of violence towards maternal figures in young men, alongside a lot of other things. I left Ottawa to come help my mom here, in Toronto. I did the brunt of taking care of my dad so she could focus on my brother. Unfortunately, my dad's illness had already intensely limited his ability to communicate by then. I'd been at it for just over 2 years, when he finally passed. I hated watching him, but that hate was always crushed beneath the weight of how much I loved him. I would lose my temper on a regular basis though. A restaurant didn't have accessibility despite it saying otherwise online; some asshole occupying the only accessible space in a food court despite not having any mobility devices. I snapped at bus drivers who drove too brusquely. I was a freaking mess, but I tried to put a smile on because.. I didn't know what else to do, and I felt like whatever the fuck my dad was going through in his mind, he didn't need to see me sad all the time.
In the last couple of months, in that ICU room, I began to realize he just needed to die. Which is so messed up. But in my father's terms, it would've been a great mercy the way you kill an animal you've fatally wounded by haven't killed. You just end their damn suffering. And I hated that I thought about him in those terms. What I regret is how empty my relationship with him was, or rather how distant I felt from him. Even when we'd had the opportunity to bond more freely when I was in high school, there was friction. The baggage from the divorce, but also how old school and just flat out racist he could be. He felt restrictive to my life at times, and not in that responsible parental way my mom was.
I got close with one of his friends after I moved back to Toronto -- just about the only person who visited him more than once. Apparently my dad was filled with all these insecurities about me. So I know it wasn't just me; he also knew there was this strange distance between us. I also didn't drink his koolaid like my brother did, which made it harder for him. I think he respected that about me, wrote it off as me being too intellectual for my own good. But by the time I was headed off to university, I felt like I'd already long left him in the dust intellectually. Which is a weird thing to say, rude, disrespectful, and was probably in large part my youthful hubris getting the better of me. But he was, like my brother, barely high school educated. The thing is, he still had so much to offer as a father and I know that.
He used to take us fishing before the brink of dawn, hiking on these trails to go bird watching (and get eaten alive by mosquitoes), snowboarding -- he used to pick me up, after my brother had left, from school during my 30-45 minute lunch break to go eat at these botanical gardens. He would drive us down to Niagara falls to go see the butterfly conservatory, play in the arcades, go to the beaches, go-karting, go on long ass bike rides -- especially on Toronto Island. My dad loved nature, loved animals, loved cooking... he loved all the sides of life that just are beautiful. Hunting wasn't the moral taboo and didn't have to be this sacred ritual, but he also stopped every time there was road kill to check in case there was any good meat. He would build toys for me and my brother when we were young, and carve silly things out of bones. It's hard to put an exact name to it, but those sides of my father I wish I could somehow live up to, adopt, integrate into the very essence of my being. I think my dad knew how to be happy and how to shamelessly enjoy life. And I know those are things I struggle with. I mean I have faith I'll figure it out eventually. I feel like I owe that to him....Created 2018-01-09 04:30:50
Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
It means a lot to them, as it does to you.