My Stupendously Superficial Seven Standard

   The reason I switched over to a more narrative style - as opposed to my standard mini-essays - is that my life yields far more random and interesting episodes than I thought possible.  And very few mini-essays can capture the spirit of the conversations I find myself in.

  Case in point: my Fraternity brothers.

  My singledom has taken up a lot of blogspace lately, and you can just imagine the extent to which my brothers have had to endure listening to my rantings and ravings about how I can't find a girlfriend, what I need to fix in my life, etc.......actually, you can't.

  We're ten years removed from our undergrad days, my particular generation of Phidelts, and now most of us form the majority of the advisory board that assists the undergrads (known as the "actives", short for "active members") with their recruitment, programming, finances, and so on.  I'm the most recent addition, and so a few nights ago, they called a meeting at Michael's house.

  Thursday

  I set out from Burlington and head down the highway, arriving at Michael's house an hour early.  By some mysterious cosmic coincidence, the Toronto Maple Leafs are due to play the New York Rangers when I show up, so I'm looking forward to a solid hour of hockey before the meeting. 

  Of course, I make sure that doesn't happen. Not completely.

  "So, I was talking with Alice today about the rating system," I say to Mike.

  Mike looks up.  "Rating system?"

***

Flashback to Earlier That Day

The following is a poorly reconstructed transcript of a chat with Alice on BlackBerry Messenger:

Me: I still get awkward around girls, especially if they are an 8 and above.

Alice: An 8?

Me: Yeah, 8/10. Some of the guys are trying to get me used to the rating system we used for women. You know, 8/10, 4/10.  We just call them '8's for short.  When I was in the long term with the Big X, I never used it, but now that I'm single, I'm being educated.

Alice: Ah yes. I am aware of this system....So, how would you rate me?

Me: Umm......

(remainder of transcript cut off by the sheer torque of Alice's unintentional man trap)

***

  Flashforward: Thursday Night, Mike's House

 "She said that my system needs some calibration for it to be accurate," says I to Mike as we watch the game.

  "Why?" he asks. "What were your ratings like?"

  "Well, Milla Jovovich would have been a 9, but she lost out on the age and the lack of boobs, so she got a 7. Gillian Anderson was like a 6. She's got the red hair, the blue eyes, the boobs, and the geeky scientist thing going from The X Files, but now she's pushing 40. I gave Uma Thurman a 4 because she's not really pretty in the face without a metric tonne of concealer. Emma Stone, on the other hand, would have rated an 9, but she loses two points for looking like a minor. Maybe in three years?"

   Michael blinks.  "You gave Milla Jovovich a 7?"

   "Uh, yeah."

   Now staring through me, Michael assesses my numbers in his head. He was a Math and Religious Studies major at McMaster, incidentally, so he is keenly aware of the impact of my venial sins down to the sixteenth decimal point (and that's just by using an abacus...don't ask me how. Math to me is a form of voodoo).

  Michael gets up from his couch and walks over to the IKEA movie shelf where he keeps his Blu Rays and DVDs. 

   "Okay," he says, taking an audible breath.  "What's your minimum standard?"

    I look over.  "What?"

   "What's the minimum number a girl would have to rank on your scale in order for you to want to date her?"

   "Umm...." 

   I think about it. 

   Look at most couples today, long term or not, and you'll find that neither partner is really magazine cover material.  I mean, I consider myself decent looking, but I don't have the Clooney or Brad Pitt thing going.  Only something like 2% of the population has those looks.  Myself and the Big X, back in the day, were decent looking people, but I can't assess her objectively, having spent all that time with her, and ask if I would go out with her now.

   When there's chemistry present between two people, when there's true love, the looks become secondary to the feelings between them.  However, if you're at that initial stage of visual attraction - say, at the gym, a bar, or a bookstore - the scale applies because that's all you have to go on.  Given that my ex has been my only serious relationship to date, that means I can't use past experience as a measure.

   (Although she was a definite nine back in Grade Ten when I met her in Geography class. Definite nine)

   That also means that I can blurt out the first number on a scale of one to ten that comes to mind and just see where that goes.

   "Seven," I say to Mike.  "A girl would have to rate a seven on my scale for me to want to date her." 

   Mike nods, picks out a Blu Ray, checks the cast.

   "That girl from Avatar, Zoe Saldana," he says.  "Where do you rate her?"

   "Well, she's cute and all...just no sign of red hair or blue/green eyes...7."

   Michael puts away the movie, pulls out another one.

   "Cameron Diaz?"

   "Not really," I say, "only because I've seen that tabloid picture of her without any makeup, and I can't imagine myself waking up to that every day.  I rated her a 5."

   "Ellen Page?"

   "See? She's tricksy.  When I saw her in Juno, I didn't think of her that way, but since her appearance in Inception......I dunno, she also gives off a friend vibe.  I think I'd be friends with her...maybe a 7?"

    Michael shakes his head.  "Oh boy."

    Long story short, my ratings went like this:

   - Scarlet Johannsen: 7/10 (little on the skinny side)
   - Naomi Watts: 7.5/10 (ditto)
   - Jennifer Connolly: 7.75/10 (lack of red hair and little tall)
   - Erin Karpluk (from CBC's Being Erica): 9.95/10 (semi-red hair but otherwise a potential dream girl)
   - Jennifer Aniston: 6/10 (....meh)
   - Eva Mendes: (6.5/10)
   - Kate Winslet: (7.75/10)
   - Isabella Rossellini: (6.5/10)

   "YOU GAVE JENNIFER ANISTON A SIX?????" 

    Michael looks like he's about to throw me out of his house.  I shrug.

   "I mean, she's nice, but she doesn't really do much for me.  She's kinda plain."

    By this time, some of the other guys have shown up, and we run through a couple more before roping them into the conversation.

   - Angelina Jolie: 7.5/10 (getting up there. Adequate boobs. Used to wear a vial of Billy Bob Thorton's blood around her neck. Might cut me during sex, and Jody don't play dat)
   - Drew Barrymore: 7/10 (adorable, sexy, and yet....I dunno, 7). 
   - Elisha Cuthbert: 7.75/10 (blondes are aight)
   - Zooey Deschanel: 9/10 (Maxim Magazine called her "the thinking man's sex symbol".)
   - Jennifer Goodwin (from He's Not That Into You): 8/10
   - Shakira: 10/10 (under duress: Michael implied he would kill me on the spot if I rated her any lower. Strongly implied.  As in, he showed me the ice pick.)
     
  Pretty soon, the gathering is complete,  but before we start the meeting, Michael shares my assessments with the guys.  Here are the reactions:

   "Totally with you on Jennifer Aniston, Jody.  She's just....meh."  - Mr. B.

   "Yeah, Jennifer Aniston's okay." - "Raymond"

   "I don't follow celebrities, but I"m going to go with Jody on the Jennifer Aniston question. Total six. Maybe lower." - "Walter"

  (He didn't say it, but Michaels' reaction to the Aniston Question: "Seriously, eff you guys.")

  Yes, I'm aware I haven't noted the plethora of reactions to my rating system from the guys.  Suffice it to say it generated tons of laughter, incredulity, some sympathy, and a couple of dares to actually post this on Facebook, but only to all of the female friends who I currently rate a "7" and above.  I've run that simulation in my head movies several times now.  My conclusion? The only winning move is not to play..

  The Point

  I like morals to my seemingly pointless stories, so here it is.

  "This was just with celebrities, Jody," says Michael as we wrap the discussion and start talking actual business.  "What you've done is said that you would not date most of the top 2% of supposedly beautiful women out there.  Most of them rate 7 or less. How do you think real women are going to measure up?"

  Michael can be Yoda-like when he wants to be.  It's why he's Squadron Leader.

  This is one of the reasons why I made the recent decision to abandon actively seeking for a partner.  I'm off of dating sites, and though I'll maybe flirt and check out a girl that I run into in my daily routine, I've got too much else on the go to make this a priority. 

  In fact, that really is the best way to go.  Contrary to the cliché, you actually can't "expect the unexpected", otherwise it'll just become more of the "expected".  And contrary to what eHarmony would have you believe, most couples meet offline through pure serendipity, by doing things that they'd normally be doing, and finding someone who's also going their way.

  And when that happens, chemistry always takes precedence over appearance, if not right at the beginning, then over time.

   I may just abandon the rating system altogether.  It's obviously flawed; it places too much emphasis on superficiality and first impressions; and it sets up unrealistic expectations.  If the guys and I are just shooting the shit and talking, sure: it's fun to daydream.  But some people are serious about its usage in finding a mate, and that can't be terribly functional. I'll trust to time and chance that it'll work out for me.

  And hope that somehow my talent work will lead me to Erin Karpluk.  She's dreamy AND local....

What this Blog Is Really About

   Recent events in my personal life that peripherally involve my writings have inspired this entry.

   I've had online journals before, all of which I let lapse.  As I had finished my first book and approached the middle of my second manuscript back in late 2009, restarting a blog was definitely on my mind, but I procrastinated. 

  Then, this past January, my marriage ended in a very dramatic way, and suddenly I had a lot I wanted to share with people I knew, even people I didn't.

   Looking back over the archives, it's been a long journey.  I've covered far more mileage than most people in my situation would have.  I'm a very different person than when I started, a better one, if maybe more frenetic, at once more and less certain of himself and the new identity I am still crafting for myself. 

  And though I've hesitated at times, both off and online, I've ultimately had no qualms sharing it all with the entire wired world in this forum.

   But make no mistake: my openness about my doubts and weaknesses, moments of frustration, does not give you the right to treat me like a weakling.  In many ways, because I can open up, I'm stronger than the manliest alpha, because I've got the balls to walk with an open heart.

   So what is this blog?

Odd Place is My Web Presence. You'll notice the tabs I keep for my new talent work, my bio, my books, and my freelance work. This is the professional portion of my home page. Everything else is for fun.

Odd Place is My Story:  My life's far more interesting than it might seem at the outset. Off the top of my head, at least fifty or so good souls out there consider me a good soul, a close friend, and someone they care about.  My story thus matters to several people, and I don't mind sharing it. 

  (Hell, if I never wrote this blog, I never would have met Alice, and my BlackBerry would be tragically vacant)

Odd Place is My Therapist.  Yes, I've taken therapy in the past.  It's helped. 

  I hear rumours some of you consider it unmanly or gay to take psychological therapy, to openly talk about dreams, emotions, ideas, and the dreaded "f" word for most straight guys, "feelings".

  You know what, how's this for an "f" word? Fuck that! 

  Half the benefit of all therapy is simply knowing that another human being out there knows your insides, can clue in to what's happening to you. Writing here about major problems, frustrations, and anxieties helps me feel better.

  And if you guys think this misrepresents me to be more fucked up than I am, consider this: I have to be in a clear, calm, and content frame of mind to be able to write about anything, let alone a major personal problem. 

  By the time you read about something like my nervous breakdown or my frustrations with working and dating, or whatever, it means that the negativity is already out of my system.  It's gone, out of my mind, body, and spirit and onto the page, presented in such a way that it can benefit someone else experiencing something similar. 

  This is how I vent, and when you meet me in real life after I've posted something dramatic here, I'm more than okay.  I'm Tony the fucking Tiger.  I'm GREAAAT! 

Odd Place is My Canvas.  Finally, I'm an artist.  Always have been, always will be. There are days that I crave heading out to the bars with the boys or out to play baseball or hockey, and there are days where I'm content to lose myself in my own daydreams. Lately, the introvert days outnumber the extrovert ones.

  I've grown into a social animal, but in many ways, I am still the kid who'd vanish to a grassy hill in the spring, lay back, and spend his lunch hour staring at the clouds.  I've had many events happen in my life that could have potentially killed that kid, but he's still around, seeing sailboats where the rest of us see cumuli. 

  Some people were born to throw a football around; others to run a city; maintain the law, or advance science and technology.  I was born to be a writer and an artist.  Whether the medium's electronic or acrylic, paper page or plasticine, I will use it to express myself. 

  This is a place where I can create whatever the hell it is I want to create, in a medium where I am proficient to the government-tested tune of 134 WPM.  A place where I can manifest as quickly as I can think.  People talk about "playing God"; how many of them put the emphasis on the "playing"?  Not many.

  So that's it.  If you're curious about the events in question, they're still ongoing, and if I do decide to comment, it'll be after they've passed.  Until then, have a pleasant evening!

Smile Power

  In The Holographic Universe, the late Michael Talbot noted that back sometime in the latter half of the last century - scary that we get to say that now - physicists tried to calculated the energy potential of a simple cubic centimetre of empty space. The math ended up revealing that there was more energy than something like 10,000 hydrogen bombs contained in every cubic centimetre of the universe.  Talbot noted that many other physicists felt the calculation was somehow in error, and there is still some controversy today over the implications of what that calculation would mean if it's correct.

  Talbot didn't note, however, whether the physicists in question had considered the power of a simple smile into the equation.

   In the colder months, Tuesday nights are Hockey Night in Hamilton for Jody.  Michael and Julius have been going to pick-up floor hockey on the East Side of town for a few years now.  In previous years, I was a spectator, but when I found myself suddenly unmarried this past winter, I started joining in.  With baseball season over, it's now time to lace up the runners and go balls out crazy on the gym floor of the elementary school where we play.

   With a couple of hours to kill before hockey, and with the sun shining, but setting earlier than ever, I decide to get in my hoodie sweater and head out to the park, tea in hand, to potentially finish Eckart Tolle's The Power of Now.  The trick about that book is there are intermittent pauses throughout where you not only reflect on what Tolle says, but to let go of thinking altogether and just be....which is the point of the book. 

   To experience the Now means to go out of  your mind.  It's like that state of being when you wake up, alert, experiencing pure sensory input without sorting it out.  Much like what I went through with the sex couple next door, who have been remarkably quiet these past few nights.  I almost miss it....almost.  But I digress.

   I walk to the first bench facing Lake Ontario past the War Memorial and have a seat.  Across from me, wind is rippling out over the water under a blue sky with swirls of wispy cloud.  The air is cold and humid, containing early traces of winter chill.  The sun is setting, the day's last rays amplified by the thin curtain of stratus on the horizon, turning the trees lining Lakeshore into comfortable autumn silhouettes...

  .....and before I get too smitten with my own powers of description, I'll say this much: it was real purdy out, y'all....

   Very few pedestrians walk the walkway as I put on my headphones from my BlackBerry Brain (she's my very favourite phone...her name is Vera) and listen to tunes while I read the book.  The only people you typically see in weather like this are dog walkers. There are a few out here now.

   Tolle has an exercise in which you just fill your body with awareness, head to toe.  It's an old practice, very related to ones I've read from Wayne Dyer and Whitley Strieber, but it's so basic that it's hard to assign credit, and if you try, you're missing the point of the exercise.  You just become aware, usually first of your toes or fingers, and move inward until you are sensing your whole body. 

   Feel whatever each part of your body feels like, acknowledge it, focus on it.  Then, when you're experiencing pure sensation, stop thinking about it and just become that sensation.  It's trickier than it looks to describe it in words, given that words themselves are a form of thought, but Tolle does a good job.

   I close my eyes and perform the exercise.  I am not shutting out the world around me, but acknowledging awareness of self, inside and out.  After a few minutes, I feel...presence.  I am simply here. 

  I open my eyes.  The Unfinished Pier is directly in front of me.  The gibbous moon has emerged from behind a cloud, and a tanker bound for Hamilton Harbour is now steaming towards the Lift Bridge.  All three objects form a triangle that is perfect for a few moments, and I experience a small, non Jon Stewart-related Moment of Zen.

   Just then, a dog walker passes in my line of sight.  She is late thirties, no ring, walking a grey curly haired thing on a leash I can barely identify as a dog.  She looks my way, and sees that I have my headphones on, so conversation is a moot point.

  
   But she smiles at me. 

   And it's the brightest, most energizing smile I've seen in a long time from a stranger.

   Her face seemes to glow with an inner energy, a recognition of another spirit on a human adventure, just sitting on that bench. 
 
   And I smile back.  In fact, I don't stop smiling for five straight minutes.

   I don't know if it's a result of the exercise, but I had just been refocused on sensation.  And it makes me wonder: what is the power of a smile when you can just immerse yourself in it?  When you can just drop the social conditioning that has us treating each other as potential threats, obstacles along the daily grind towards nothing. 

  About ten minutes later, the sun now below the horizon, but the light of the smile remaining on my face, I get up and headed for home.  As I walk, I smile at three other people.  Each of them return it.  And with each one, the same warm energy flows out.  Powerful stuff.

  I get home into my apartment and head upstairs. I see no one else, but I take a quick glance at the resident directory.  I marvel at the isolation that many people in these buildings feel.  This is where people like me come to start over, where we lock away our senior parents and retirees, where young immigrant families live without knowing the language.  We're all isolated to some degree.  Often, we do it to ourselves.

  But as I close the door and get myself ready for hockey, I truly wonder if the main message of a smile, when truly experienced, is a reminder that we're never completely alone, anywhere, at anytime. 

   10,000 nuclear bombs in each cubic centimetre of space.  I'll put my money on those physicists any day.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 2

(cue pre-intro theme from "Battlestar Galactica")

Previously, on Dispatches from the Alternate Universe:

"I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing. Then my brain reconciles the sound. Heavy breathing. Two people. My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall.....This is the last straw."

"I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday. Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take. Tuesday, I showed up an hour early...Boss... that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing."

"This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad. The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities....was this all there was?"



"5:54am. They haven't stopped at all. And I'm angry. Determined....I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass. Determined to make a change...."



***

Thursday

Thursday begins well. 

Spurred by the late night sexcapades of my nympho neighbour, I am set to get back in the vibe and be a productive individual. Today is the begininng of a special project that I am not allowed to talk about in detail, save that it's something that my boss has given me ownership of.  I am ready to kick ass.  And asses are kicked today.

I'm also excited for two other reasons. After work, I'm going shopping for clothes for a photo shoot I am doing on Saturday for my upcoming work in advertising and commercials.  I am getting professional head shots done and this could be the start of a whole unexpected chapter in my life. 

I'm also due to meet with my BFF - let's call him Dom to prevent undue and inadvertent libel, though I may have mentioned his real name here somewhere - for coffee afterwards.  He has been travelling through Europe for the past three weeks, and I want to hear about how his trip went.


 
As I do my shopping, I can sense a manic energy running through my system.  This isn't necesssarily a good thing, because I've felt this before, and it usually precedes a huge crash.  No matter, I'm getting new shoes, new pants, a new blazer....all things I've needed to complete my wardrobe.  They won't all get used, I know this, but at least it's done, and I'll be equipped for any type of event. Shopping can be a temporary salve during a state of life crisis. 

I come home, head into my bedroom and drop off the stuff in my closet.

And I hear them again!  It's 6:34pm.  This time, she's really raunchy, and sort of a turn-on.  My female BFF Alice suggests that I ask to join them, but that's not in the cards for me.  I barely have enough courage to talk to a girl one on one for just me: a three-way (and a devil's three-way, at that) is out of the question.

Still, it's like a determination refresher that motivates me to go to the gym and experience the mother of all workouts (which I do).

I return, shower, change, and head out to meet Dom. 

Dom's been there for me pretty much forever, but especially since the drama started with my breakup and divorce from my ex.  As single men, we formed part of an endangered demographic in our circle of married and long-term-partnered friends, and as "nice guys", both of us are accustomed to the pitfalls and vicissitudes of post-school dating while not being a douchebag.




I go to the cafe a little early, and find out that my other friend - again, let's call him Rick for anonymity's sake - is working that night down the street and will come over to meet us when he's done.  He's also recently left a relationship, but was starting something up with a girl at his job that was going somewhere.  Rick, too, has been a loyal ally in this dangerous world of singledom, and though at the time, I simply treat this as a casual coffee with buddies with no overarching symbolism, it occurs to me afterwards that these are my wingmen.

Dom shows up, and it's good to see him again.  His trip to Europe was kick-ass, and he's got an energy about him that's basically vintage Dom, except ramped up 15%. 

And I rapidly find out why.  He's now got a girlfriend that he met on the tour.

My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree! Awesome news!  I mean, Dom's probably the greatest guy ever, and if there's anyone who deserves excellent karma for years of being true to himself, putting in his best all the time with the people around him, and looking for a relationship where he can be authentic in all ways, it's him.  I am very excited for him, and wish him all the best!

Rick shows up, and we talk for a bit . Turns out, he too, is now off the market (well, at the time, sort of) and was deliberating on what to do next.  We shoot the shit for a while and I go home at midnight. 

Though it occurs to me at the meeting, it doesn't really hit me until I go to bed (now wary of ANY sound coming from the other room).

I am probably the only single man in my group of friends.



Still, as I drift off to sleep, I do fall back on my own New Age philosophical leanings.  Things that happen in your life also have symbolic meaning, as well as literal. 

 My apartment, for example, is either clean or cluttered depending purely on my mental state.  I'm quite direct in my symbolism - for others, a clean apartment is a sign they're avoiding dealing with other issues, whereas for me it's a sign that I am bringing my surroundings into alignment with my calm and organized mindset at the time - and so I realize something that, in my lingering mania, gives me hope.

  Sex is happening three feet away from me.  My best friends are now experiencing either the start of new love or are seeing opportunities for love right before them.  The universe is surrounding me with the very experiences I wish to have, have been looking to have again for many long months now.  It's only a matter of time before it's my turn.  Not much longer to wait.



  On that thought, I fall asleep.  And yet, outside, in the dark, my apartment is a complete mess.

  Friday

  If I'd known how the day was going to end, I would have probably slept in a little later.  For the first time in two days, no sex from the other side of the wall.  Good.

  I get to work, and today's the day that I am to finish up my project and get the arrangements made.  Part of this project involves collating a significantly large number of documents that, in turn, require organizing.  I figure I can get all of this done myself, impress my boss, and be a champion.

  I don't count on the involvement of the other middle manager in the office.  Let's call her MM.

   MM is hyper organized.  It's her thing.  And she's a nice lady, personally (aren't all the evil bosses nice people outside of work matters?).  But she is organized to a fault, way past the border of OCD.  And I'm about to feel her wrath.

   Leaving my project for lunch, I return to find that she has taken over my collating piles, reorganized them, and is now telling me what to do down to the last detail.  I can't go to my boss for advice because she isn't back until Monday.  Nor can I protest, partly because it's insubordination and I have two weeks left on my technical probation, and because she is offering me critical help.

    The workforce has this phenomenon that I can't quite name, in which there's no practical reason why you should be unhappy for some policy, someone's help, someone's directives, but where there's something wrong where you can't put your finger on what it is.  And for me, I realize that MM has taken away my bragging rights for getting the project done myself. 

   More than that, I also know that if there are any discrepancies, my boss will blame me for it. 

   Worse yet, MM is altering my original directives given to me by my boss, and I am working on complete faith that this is what my boss really wants. 

    MM issues one last reorganizing directive that, if I am to complete, requires me to stay late to ensure completion of the project, then leaves.  By this point, I am demotivated, stressed, and despairing, because my boss already has me on the hook for schedule issues.



   I am damned if I do, damned if I don't.  If I leave on time, the project will not be finished, and I will hear about it Monday.  If I stay late, I will hear about it on Monday.  I decide to stay late, sending Boss an email explaining the situation. 

   As I finish the set-up though, it dawns on me: nothing I ever do will impress my boss.  Her management style is the old school one in which the only feedback you receive is when you do something wrong.

   I am an intelligent human being doing peon work, and being treated accordingly.  I have no upward momentum, and nowhere else to go.  But I'm forced to stay because I need money.

   In the stressed out, demoralized atmosphere of my mind, the usual levvies that allow me to separate home issues from work start to crack. As I finish up my email and start for home, the leaks get bigger.  More chunks fall out from the levvies and the fluids begin to gush and mix together.

   I am single and divorced and alone and lonely.  Everyone is in a relationship but me.

  I am an intelligent, university-educated Arts major doing work that I am overqualified for and bored by, but that I need in order to pay my bills.

  I am trying to please a boss for whom nothing will be good enough.

  Everyone else is living what I want to have: love, and sex and babies and houses and success.

  And I am 30 years old and one week and nowhere near where I thought I would be in life.

  These elements swirl together, gathering momentum, and create a perfect storm in my mind that only breaks when I get home. 

  The manic energy spikes....then, ultimately....CRASH!

 I get into my apartment and just lose it.  When Jody has a nervous breakdown, it becomes rather epic.  Status updates abound.  Text messages fly.  I call everyone to vent.  I allow myself to cry, a behaviour which I've internalized as not being "manly", which I don't even do on my own half the time, but which is just too much to repress any longer.  I lose my typical cheer and optimism and become all about the cloud, not the lining.

For about two hours on Friday night, I alternate my time between venting out the strain, scaring the shit out of my friends and family who mistake the venting for my imminent demise, and just completely losing my shit.  Like most violent storms, though, it's over with quickly, but while it's falling, it's intense and dramatic and scary.

  But then, it's over.

 The comparison between the end of a nervous breakdown and a storm is apt.  The stillness and sheer awareness is the same, the feeling of energies dissipated, of a mess that's left behind now requiring clean-up.  Silence. 

  I get up from the couch, now in the dark.  I look around.  The place is a mess.  But I feel better, if not a little puffy and stuffed up.  I make a few phone calls, talk to a few people who have seen my updates and are worried about me.  The first glimmerings of gratitude and light appear: I am lucky to have the people that I do, people who care about me.  Who love me, even when I can't understand why they do.

  I sit for a while, idly browsing the web, start to put a few things away here and there, but otherwise, not doing much else.  The storm's passed.



  Flashforward: The Weekend

  I feel relieved to have these feelings out.  The weekend is here.

   Saturday, I pack up half my closet, clean myself up and head to Toronto for pictures.  There, I'll visit an actual celebrity photographer in a real artsy loft, the kind I've only seen on TV.  He is friendly and delightful and makes me feel right at home.  I'll chat with a make-up artist who's worked with the big stars all over the world as he gets me ready for my head shots.  He'll tell me that he's been doing work for over twelve years, and that he has confidence that I will get lots of work.  As I leave, he wishes me well and says, "See you on TV." 



  I drive home through Toronto's busy Distillery and then through the Entertainment District.  I feel the energy of a city I have always loved to visit, and may be seeing more of soon.

  Afterwards,  I'll have a belated birthday party afterwards with some of the people I care about most in the world willing to buy me drinks and laugh with me. 

   Sunday's sunny and warm: perfect hangover weather for walking and doing nothing, enjoying the sun and breeze.  That morning, Rick will have crashed at my place and I'll drive him to work at the bookstore where I've applied for seasonal work.  After browsing some books, I'll decide to take a ballroom dance class starting in January. The school is within walking distance of home, and they say partners are not necessary for the group lessons. 



   I'll spend much of the day giving my brain a rest, nursing a slight hangover, indulging in just sitting under a tree, walking through grass, looking at clouds that remind us of the infinite vastness of sky and the wind-chopped waters of an inland sea that leads to the ocean. 

  I'll meet with my baseball team for our last beer call together.  I don't know it on Friday, but I'll win Rookie of the Year from my coach Julius, another good friend I'm lucky to have.   Tuesday, I start floor hockey again.

  At that same gathering, I'll buy a stag and doe ticket for November, another opportunity to have fun and meet new people, possibly someone who'll be special.  Another whim decision, unexpected, and new, like my decision to work in talent.  A psychic told me this summer that the next special girl I meet would be at an unexpected party in the winter.  Could this be it?  We'll see. I tend not to believe most self-proclaimed psychics, so I'm not going to expect anything.  But I can hope.

  The day will end with this blog entry.  Tomorrow I return to work, and whatever trouble I may find myself getting in, if at all, despite my best efforts.  But I'm not going to spin my wheels anymore for no reward.  I will do what's required, focus with all my best, and then walk at the bell.  Become what we all expect of a typical government worker.

  I'll be living with my 30s for the next ten years, so I'll have to get used to it.  It'll take time, but what else can you do?  30's typically a difficult year for most people in those unexpected ways. This is just my time to deal with it.

   And as my friend Rick has been telling me for a while, I just have to be patient that I'll find someone, and find something to do to enjoy my time in the meantime. If I'm in the flow of experiences I enjoy, I won't need to worry about the interpersonal dynamics of approaching girls or not approaching them: we'll meet each other halfway.  And it won't feel like work.



 Nervous breakdowns happen to everyone, even me. Not often, but this one was a long time coming, and now that it's passed, I still feel that calm that follows.  It won't last, of course - nothing lasts - but at least for now, I can just sleep the sleep of the tired and the lucky.

   It's unrealistic to feel grateful and joyous all the time, but at least I can be conscious of the stormy days, be aware of things as they happen, and try to get through them with a minimum of damage to self, surroundings, and reputation.  The contrast of pleasure and pain makes life.

  This breakdown cleared the air.  Eventually, I'll be grateful for it, but in the meantime, I'm happy with just not being ashamed of it.

   9:40pm as I write this sentence.

  I now go to bed and sleep, turning out the lights on an apartment that's clean once again.

  Let's see what the neighbour chick's got in store tonight.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 1

(Preface: this is very closely related to Allie Brosh's the Sneaky Hate Spiral.  Click here to read before continuing if you haven't already.  If not, I bid you continue)

5:43am.

That's what the BlackBerry screen says.  5:43am.  My alarm's not set to go off for another hour or so.  I was dreaming deeply, of markets and sunsets in faraway places. 

So why am I up? 

Then I hear it.  Muffled, intermittent, human.  Heavy, from behind the concrete wall that my bed backs onto. 

I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing.  Then my brain reconciles the sound.  Heavy breathing.  Two people.

My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall. 

Three feet of concrete separates me from their hot and heavy, yet somehow I can hear it. 

This is the last straw.

Flashback to Tuesday

The first work day back from the Thanksgiving weekend began poorly.

The preceding week, I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday, before my two day vacation, then Thanksgiving weekend..  Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take.  I had offered to make up the time before Wednesday, but my boss advised me that she prefers I "do it afterwards".  I interpreted this to mean that my very next shift I am to show up early.  This has been the process at other workplaces I've been at.  Of course, this thinking made an ass out of you and me (mostly me)....

Tuesday, I showed up an hour early, only to find that my government building was still closed, business hours having not begun.  Fortunately, I found an unlocked door and made my way in.  However, the elevators are also locked until 8:00am, meaning that unless I have a special base pass, I can't actually access my floor.  Again, fortunately, some kind souls working extra - like me! - showed up and took me to a floor three stories above mine. 

That's okay, I thought, I'll just take the stairs down to my floor.  And I made it to the stairwell.  And I descended to my floor.  Only to find that the door to my floor was, in fact, locked.  I tried other doors on other floors, only to discover a rather unfortunate truth: I was stuck in the stairwell. 

I checked the time.  7:36am.  Not bad, boss isn't usually in for a while yet.  I suddenly remembered the phone number for security, called the guard, identified myself, and asked him to come up and unlock the door.  He did so, and I gained access to my office.

Boss was not in, so to give her some proof that I did my best to be in an hour early, I sent her an email (those are time-stamped, right?).  45 minutes made up, will make up the other 15 somehow later.

Boss never came in.  In meetings out of the office all week.  But she was checking her email.  Two hours later, I got a reply.  Essentially said that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing.  I sighed heavily, rubbed my eyes, went on with my day, mostly conscious.

Nine hours later, I headed home.  Around the afternoon, I developed a headache.  Intense, like little lightning storms striking my skull.  It developed for no reason whatsoever, as the rest of the day had gone well, but then it was followed by stomach queasiness and a general feeling of "what the fuck" flowing through my veins and nerve endings.

I'd had plans to go play floor hockey that night, but instead I came home and lay down, napped for a good two hours.  Though I would eventually get up and get the wherewithall to go to the gym and do mild cardio, my evening, for all intents and purposes, was shot.  The headache and stomach sick vanished just as quickly as it appeared.  I had no idea why.

Wednesday

Wednesday dawned, and the day was slow, so I blogged. Coming home, I decided to go to the Second Cup and write for a few hours.

Outside, an autumn rain, the equal and opposite of spring rain, fell in torrents, cold and bone chilling and dreary.  It was the dreariness that got to me, the type of weather that not only soaks your clothes but gets into your heart and pools, weighing it down.  My friends a city away from me, most of them, no girlfriend or wife to go home to, I felt sad.  True to my bilingual status, all I could think was "le sigh". 

This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad.  The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities.  Where you dwell on wrong turns taken in the road that led you here.

Was this all there was?  We go through childhood and school dreaming about what we would be when we grew up, and I was none of the things I had dreamed about.  Not an astronaut, not a fighter pilot, not a police detective, not a cartoonist, nor a professor. An author, sure, but not successful in the financial and commercial sense, not yet.  A career in limbo then, working at a low level minion job where I am viewed as a peon - essential to operations, but not someone to be appreciated or thanked - to pay the bills until that success happens. 

The mood didn't get much better as I talked to Mom on the phone, laying out all the reasons for why my life wasn't going the way I wanted to.  "I like what you wrote in your blog," she said, "but I also know what you say to me when we talk about the same things.  You're trying to convince yourself as much as you are others when you do your motivational entries."

Mom's where I derive much of my crazy, I think, my different way of thinking about things.  And she hit the nail on the head, though I answered that even if I am doing this to convince myself of what I should be thinking, if it helps someone else deal with their shit, it benefits both of us.

But that night, I just felt generally stuck.  Making enough money at my job for food and shelter, but not enough for plane tickets, night school classes, or dance lessons: places and experiences where I could potentially meet Miss Right and thus restore my life to the normal function it had for over a decade.  I am no good single.  No one appreciates me at work, and I have no one at home to give validation that I matter as a human being, that I matter to someone else.

I'm also far more intelligent than the work I do, having passed up management jobs here and there throughout my twenties because, well, I've never seen any industry, any economic activity that I could devote 100% of my passion to.  Nothing about the management lifestyle lights me up except for the cash, which I'd gladly accept if I didn't have any responsibility.  I hadn't, however, factored in the hit that my self esteem would take by doing minion work when I'm way more evolved than most minions. 

And, of course, the 30 thing, which I realized was wishful thinking on my part to regard it as just another day. 

This was the mindset I was in on Wednesday night.  I went to the gym, came back, washed up, and went to bed, alone...again. 

As I tried to sleep through the mania that was keeping me up, I wondered why it was so hard to meet women my age. 

Myth#1 of all frustrated single "nice" guys like me is that there aren't women around.  Not true, I see them everywhere.  The thing is just approaching them.

Do women really like being approached by guys?  I can't get a satisfactory, absolute answer to this question.  I've always thought it was borderline creepy to just walk up to a random girl and say "Hi".  But apparently, that's the way to go.  I meditated on the paradoxes of dating: that girls will claim to want "nice guys" but will be turned on by assholes who will hurt them later; that if you go up to a girl with a plan, she'll deride your "agenda", but if you just flat out tell her you're interested with no games, she'll find you boring.

More excerpts from a book I've quoted here before by Lori Gottlieb called Marry Him in which all the fortysomething singles increasingly pine for the "nice guys" they weren't attracted to in their quarter life years, guys who are now married to the women who were saavy enough to lock them down when the getting was good.  Meditated on where those women were at this moment.

More contemplation: why is it so easy for almost every other guy I know to just approach a girl?  Why is it I can give speeches to crowds of dozens, raise the roof, flirt with cashiers and baristas, make friends with strangers, but I freeze when I see a girl at a bar I'm interested in seeing romantically?  This comes naturally to almost 90% of men out there.  I'm having to learn it from books. 

I contemplate entering the priesthood to simply remove the dating option from Jody's palette of options.  Not Roman Catholic.  Maybe Shaolin. I'll know kung fu.

Oh, and the fact that I've been an Aberdonian version of what Barney Stinson calls "The Sexless Innkeeper" for nearly a year, after having lived a decade of my prime years where access to sex wasn't in question. That was about the last thought I had before finally drifting off.

Around 1:45am or so, I finally fell asleep. 

Thursday

I'd only seen the girl next door once. 

Blonde, twenty five or twenty six, decent shape, somewhat nice, but like all other quarter-lifers, not terribly sociable, no small talk kind of thing.  Small talk and walking up to people to say hi is the domain of the older generation.  We said awkward hellos, took the elevator down to the parking garage, said goodbye, and that's it.  No other communication.

Until I hear her having loud sex on the other side of my bedroom wall with a boyfriend she had acquired.  And that communication is not only one-way, but unintentional.

5:54am.  They haven't stopped at all.  And I'm angry.  Determined. 

This is the closest I have physically been to that kind of energy in a long time.  It seems that the good things in life that I'm looking for are happening all around me, but not to me directly.  The universe is determined to screw with my life with its pernacious sense of humour.

Sexless Inkeeper my ass.

Time to stop feeling pathetic and alone.  Time to man up and head out there, stop being sad,and be awesome instead.  If life isn't going to give me what I want, then it's time to go out and take it!

I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass.  Determined to make a change....

(To Be Continued....)

Virus of the Mind

At what point did we start defining ourselves by what we do and what we've got?

Among the big selling points of membership in my college Fraternity is that the skills you acquire and the network you're able to access will help you obtain the high profile, high income, high prestige career that you're looking for. 

This is true, in many respects, in which case I have to ask myself: just what the hell have I, in the last ten years since joining Phi Delta Theta, done with my life?

Four days into 30 years old, and I can tell you, it feels pretty much the same in my personal experience. 

And yet socially, it feels like I'm the slow kid in the class. 

Suddenly, I'm in a new bracket when I take Internet surveys (30-39 years).  I'm the same age that my parents were when they had two kids, a house, two jobs, and two cars, a comfortable life.

I watch TV and see favourite actors who are my age or younger; see ads for lawyers and doctors who graduated the year after I did; read books and magazines written by people five years younger than me and now enjoying the type of material success I still aspire to.

You get the idea.  Personally, it's no different.  Just another hash mark on the wall.  Socially, the culture expects me to have made more of my life than I have.  The culture would have me feel like the first few lyrics of a Nickelback song ("Feels like the bottom of the ninth and I'm never gonna win/This life hasn't turned out quite the way I want it to be").

But then, I ask myself, would I trade the self-awareness I've gained from having gone through difficult career adventures? Of trying and failing to fit my life into the prescribed mail slots that society and the economy have set up for me?

Would I trade self-knowledge for being a successful corporate executive?  Military officer?  Doctor? Lawyer?  Banker? 

And the answer is.....maybe.

Ignorance is bliss, right?  Haven't we all wondered what it would be like to be that asshole driving the convertible Mercedes down the road with the bleach blonde golddigger riding shotgun?  The one with personalized licence plates that read "$MyRide$" and shiny new rims that get replaced with every quarterly bonus?  Don't we all, on occasion, feel society's subtle criticism eating away at our sense of self-confidence and certainty?  Singer Heather Nova calls it "a virus of the mind".  It's definitely contagious, and resistant to most antibiotics.

It would certainly help me with online dating.  My OkCupid profile, frankly, is not that impressive, unless you're measuring from rock bottom (that is, that I bathe, I'm employed, I don't live in my parents' basement, etc..).  I have a job that's unsexy to the point of causing reproductive organs to actually retract.  I drive a dented Sunfire.  I rent.

Again, you get the picture.  I know my value as a person, but on paper, I'm not terribly marketable to the opposite sex (though admittedly, I'm not looking for the type of girl who likes only cars and money, either).

Would I trade this awareness?  Somedays, I would, if only so that I wouldn't be so aware of the lacklustre results of my life versus the ambitious goals I'd set when I was an undergrad. Surely, the unhappiest neanderthal in Plato's Parable of the Cave was the one who knew the shadows on the wall weren't reality: they were just shadows.  Imagine trying to live with the other chained troglodytes afterwards.  Man, they'd give you shit!

Then again, maybe we just need a more authentic definition of identity.

My dad is a trained mechanic and fitter, and that was his work when I was growing up.  Early memories of him involve not the work he was doing, but coming home with food and toys and movies for us kids to enjoy. That's who he was and is today.  He's a great man. 

And yet, I wonder how many people's impressions of him were based solely on what he did for a living? Would they have thought him a failure at life that he was a mechanic at 30 years old?  If so, they weren't seeing the whole picture.

Outsiders don't see inner qualities. The worst thing we can do is make ourselves the outsiders of our own lives. 

Notice that when you have family or friends that you really care about, boyfriends and girlfriends whom you love dearly, in most cases it stops mattering what they do for a living.  What matters more is who they really are outside of work, and how you feel when you're in their presence.  

Dating-wise, I'd be damned lucky to find an available girl my age or younger who sees who I am, without having to lead off with my lacklustre material achievements.  Friend and family-wise, I'm confident most people see my value outside of what I actually do to make money. 

And who am I, authentically, outside of society's prescribed definitions and expectations? 

I'm Jody Aberdeen.  And I can decide for myself what that means.

And I can also post a picture of Homer Simpson at the end of this entry for no reason whatsoever.  Enjoy!

Twentysomething

   So, typically my pre-birthday blogs tend towards the longer side.  One is in the works, make no mistake, but I'm going to save that for now, since it's unlikely to be done before midnight tonight.

   I'm turning 30 in three hours. Technically, I guess, I turn 30 at 12:45pm tomorrow, but I've usually marked my birthday at midnight. 

   I wrote in my first book, QLO: The Quarter Life Opportunity, that our twenties are our testing ground for adulthood, for the rest of our lives, in a way that later years are not.  Later years are supposed to be for the fulfillment of dreams, for "success", however you define it, and for truly "growing up". 

   Certainly, Twentysomething has been a proving ground for me, and I've learned much.

   Here are the highlights.  Young Padawans, take heed.

  What I Learned During My Twenties

  All plans fail.  No plans fail.  However you think your life is going to unfold, it's simply not going to go that way.  Period.  There will always be something unexpected that pops up and derails you.  Do not become addicted to your lifeplan.  Set a destination, yes.  Set goals, yes.  But never lose your spontaneity, your ability to adapt to change, because change will happen.  If you could predict it, it wouldn't be change. And would you really want to, anyway?

   And if something you pinned your hopes on doesn't work out, look for the benefit in what happened.   That's why no plan truly "fails": it's simply leads you to unexpected conclusions. Sometimes the victory isn't obvious until later.

   You can re-create yourself as many times as you want.  My identity has lived, died, and been reborn several times during my twenties, and it will continue to do so.  Never get too wrapped up in who you think you are, or attach too much importance to what others think of you.  You can re-invent yourself; in fact, whether you're aware of it or not, you're always reinventing itself, every minute.  Being conscious of this lets you do it with greater power and intention.  It keeps you feeling young while giving you the wisdom of age and experience.

   Authenticity matters, unless you're authentically an asshole.  "Be yourself" can be the worst advice to give to some people.  It enables stubbornness and close-mindedness in the worst of us, because you start to feel that you're entitled to be an asshat.  Wayne Dyer writes that "the only common factor in all of your past failed relationships to date is you.".  If you're not willing to compromise even a little, you get to keep what you defend, and so you won't grow.  I've learned this the hard way, trust me.

   Then again, if you're aspiring to better yourself, authenticity is key.  By that, I mean being aware of what you truly feel, what you really can and can't do, what you need to learn, and to be ready and willing to learn it.  "Fake it 'til you make it" can work, but it's far easier and smoother to authentically become the person you want to be.  How you do that, and the circumstances in which you do that, vary from person to person.  Just be aware of yourself.

   Why is this a twentysomething lesson?  Because it's preferable to internalize this and put it into practice before you become an old fart before your time.  Seriously, guys, I marvel at the bravado and sheer certainty of some of my younger friends, many of whom think they've got it all figured out at 22. Most of the time, they're just bullshitting, or puffing themselves up to impress.  Fuck that.  You're always most impressive when you're authentically walking your talk, not just talking about it.  Start now, guys and gals.  You'll be happy you did.

   Now is all that matters.  Readers will have noticed a theme in the last few entries. And it's so true.  You only get one chance at this moment.  Will you gloss it over?  Spend it agonizing that you're not where you're "supposed" to be in life?  Waste it by "thinking" about it?  No, being in the "now" means experiencing the moment.  It means feeling the moment, outside of thought.  Life then becomes a form of walking meditation.

   This has been one of the hardest lessons I've had to learn, but it's been persistent.  Everytime I've thought I'd shaken it, I turn a corner and there it is again, staring me in the face.  Make plans, yes.  Have ambitions, yes.  But while those plans are simmering, when it's just you and whatever it is you're doing, be present.  Two great books to help you: Eckhart Tolle's "The Power of Now", and Whitley Strieber's "The Path". 

   Why?  My twenties are not a collection of ten years, but of thousands of moments. Moments add up to a lifetime in our experience, because that's the biggest sample we can take in.  That's life, no matter how old you are, but learning it while young enhances the rest of your days. Better to be present in each moment than suddenly having awareness every few weeks and wondering where all the time has gone.  "Wow, September just flew by...."

   Allow, and let go.  My ex recently returned me to this awareness.  "Everything that's happened to me since I started over have happened when I just stopped stressing, let go, and moved on," she said.  Reconnecting recently, I discovered that, like me, she's had a stroke of good fortune that's helped her grow since our split. And it's true: sometimes you have to just let things happen.  Set your intention, do the work, and let 'er go.  Bill Murray sums this up brilliantly in What About Bob.  Despite never having been on a boat, he found sailing to be easy: "I just let the boat do the work, that was my secret." 

   Speaking of my ex....

   What's good is never lost.  I lost my grandfather, my childhood pet Benton, and split from my first and only love to date, in my twenties. Of those, my split from my ex was the most devastating.  And yet, I regret nothing.  She and I have built a new friendship, one based on distance, one far more grown up and mature than before, and one which is rare.  It's helped me avoid bitterness about "wasted time", and helped me realize that none of it was wasted at all.  My twenties, and hers, will always be the time of us, and I'm grateful for this. I know she is, too.  

   Experiences lived to their fullest remain with you, no matter the outcome. Grandpa's wisdom and love remain with me.  I'm two minds on whether Benny's actually reincarnated into my sister's new cat or if he's still hanging around - I still get visitations - but either way, a childhood pet stays with you for the rest of your life in some form.  And my ex and I have grown together, even if we've split apart romantically, and I feel safe in saying that we're both grateful for what we've had together as a couple, and what we'll yet experience as friends reborn.  All remains with me and more.  Gain this awareness in your twenties, and your thirties will be richer for it, for you'll have internalized the wisdom of elders while still young. 

   Which leads me to my last point of this shorter entry.

  Everything you do is worth it.  I mean everything.  Simple as that.

  30 is just a number.  30 is the new 20.  I've heard it all.  All ages are just a number.  It's how you feel on the inside that counts.  And yeah, I admit, every now and then, I still feel the desperation of Tolstoy's Pahom, rushing up that hill to catch the last rays of sunlight.  On occasion, I still feel lonely, nostalgic for the old days, regretful of past actions, guilty for not having made as much of material success as I could have had I been more "conventional".  The secret to conscious living isn't to always be happy 24/7, but to go with the ups and downs of all normal human emotions in full awareness of them. 

  But as these last few hours of 29 tick away, I realize that they're just hours. Tomorrow is another day for the rest of the world, so why not for me as well?  It's taken ten years of life experience, traumas, joys, pleasures, fears, suffering, and assertion, to realize that at every moment, at every place, I was exactly where I needed to be. 

  Each moment has the potential for surprise. And as I begin my thirties, I am ever open to the moments. 

  Because, in the end, all age is is just a number.

  Because, in the end, I am who I am and I am grateful for that. 

  Because, no matter what, I am where I need to be, right now.

  And because tomorrow is just another day.

  Happy Thanksgiving!

"Some Radical Notions..."

   Less than a week to 30 years old.  Something tells me the air's not gonna feel that much different when I wake up on Friday.  Intellectually, I know it doesn't matter.  Emotionally, I'm much better with 30 than two years ago.  Still, it's a milestone, and we like to celebrate milestones: new years, anniversaries, new decades, centuries, high school reunions (now in danger in this post-Facebook age).  So, yes, there is that subtle pressure to mark the passing in some way. 

   I suppose that anxiety, almost desperation, that I've felt in years past as similar milestones approached was to ensure I didn't just let the moment slip, to do what Henry David Thoreau wrote about (made famous in Dead Poets Society):

 "I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived."

   The bright side about living for the Now is never having to worry not living.  The next five days don't necessarily have to be the last five days of 29.  They can just be the next five days.  That being said, I have a deadline to meet, and this is my warm-up for today's work.

****

 Dreams have been preoccupying my idle time lately.  I'm not only talking metaphorically, but of actual dreaming, REM sleep, id, ego, and superego type of dreaming.  Lucid dreaming, and so on.

   Dream incubation is a process whereby you try to trigger specific dreams in response to a specific question or problem.  We all do it without meaning to whenever we're facing a deep crisis in waking life.  How often has the solution, or at least an important puzzle piece on the way to the solution, presented itself while asleep?  It hasn't worked completely, but it has enhanced the potency of dreaming, such that I'm remembering more details now.  The subconscious is like any muscle in your body: give it attention after a period of neglect, and it will grow stronger.  While I'm not directly dreaming about the biggest challenge in my waking life - finishing up my novel in less than a week - it's helping me laterally: I'm finding writing easier now, more of a flow.  I did 3,000 words yesterday alone, and it didn't feel like work. 

   But I digress.  Dreams exist beyond practical, waking life applications.  As utilitarian as we are, sometimes we'd be better off just enjoying the experiences for what they are, not what uses we can put them towards. 

   To say that I liked the film Inception is an understatement.  It's the type of story I wish I'd written.  Damon Lindelhof feels the same way, having tweeted much the same when it first hit theatres.  I'll tell you, if Mr. Lindelhof, the guy who thought up LOST, one of my all time favourite TV shows, feels that way, you can imagine my sense of writer's envy at this concept.

    Late author Michael Talbot wrote about "a participatory reality", that life may in fact be holographic in nature. A true sheet of holographic film - not necessarily the kind you see on credit cards or cheap store bought products, but the ones in art displays that require lasers to illuminate them - has the whole image embedded into each part of the film.  Cut the film in several pieces, and each piece reflects the entire image, rather than a piece of it. This model of existence as a "holographic universe", as Talbot put it in the book of the same name, means that every part of reality necessarily contains all the other parts. This means that the traditional, common sensical experience of the 9 to 5 life for most of us is connected to the dreamworlds that we explore before the alarm clock goes off, and we "wake up".

  One of Inception's subplots involves a character who loses the distinction between the dream world and the real world.  Sadly, it leads to her death in real life, which of course, when you take a step back, is not real life at all, but a film creation.  We lose ourselves in movie theatres, and for that time before the suspension of disbelief kicks*, the film world becomes reality.  To paraphrase Leonardo di Caprio's character Dom in Inception, it's only when we've left the theatre that we've noticed something weird: namely, that it wasn't real.  But for the time you were engrossed in it, it was real, and that makes me wonder: what makes the movie reality less real than real life? 

   It's a classic Matrix style question, repeated so often over the past twenty years of speculative fiction and TV talk show spirituality that it's bordering on cliché.  Are the things that we create real? 

   The mediocre, analytical mind says, "Oh, of course not.  It's just a story. Quit your daydreaming, melonhead!"  Yes, we get that.  In our day-to-day reality, where we just accept what we're given and do our best to work with it, where we become uncomfortable with concepts that shake our view of the world, that's the obvious answer.  In waking life, yes, they're just inkblots on a piece of paper or chemical reactions on celluloid.

  Then again, when we've lost ourselves in someone else's dream world, whether it's captured on film or on paper, how can we deny the reality of our experience?  Is it truly vicarious living in those moments, or does it become vicarious only after the experience is over?  Now being all we have, that tells me that what I'm doing, what all creative people are doing, is creating a real world, a true story.  There may be no such thing as "fiction".

   Because if even one human being can lose himself or herself in another's narrative, then the experience is real, meaning there is a world on the page and on film that is just as real as the days spent filling out TPS reports, serving people coffee, running corporations, or even wandering the streets, unemployed and destitute. Media is simply our point of access.

   This is the essence of my novel.  I set a personal deadline to finish it by my 30th birthday. I have five days, yes, but I also have right now.  And now is all we ever have that's real.

***

(* yes, that was an Inception term)