Ordinary Stories

   More entries coming soon, but I've been mulling some things, and that I'd like to mull about out loud to the Internets.

   Inspired by a recent entry on Julius' blog, I've been doing a lot of thinking about this blog's many autobiographical qualities.  As a rather direct chronicle of the past year, Dispatches and its previous incarnation, Jody's Quarter Life Adventure, tells the story of my renaissance, my new start in life after my divorce, and the new experiences I've had since.  Really, though, even the past year, the past decade, is but a part of my life overall. And I've had some interesting episodes to say the least.

   Like Julius, I'm fascinated and baffled by the motivation that inspires ordinary people to want to share their life stories with those who would listen, even those who could care less. Then again, some of the most interesting people I've learned about in the past year include Allie Brosh, who I've only learned about through her blog and who has really made me feel more all right with my own eccentricities (she has them too, and so do most of her 30,000 readers).  Though I only have 13 "official" followers, I know many people read my entries, and take something away from them that helps them.  That's my hope, anyway.

   Every person's story has to have some value outside of that person's own life.  You can't break everything down into objective, quantitative terms: do we all have to be John Nash to deserve to have our stories told? Howard Hughes? Temple Grandin? Out of six billion lives on the planet, does no one else have value? 

   If life has no inherent meaning - which I believe it doesn't - and if it's thus contingent upon us to assign meaning to it, then ultimately there are no ordinary stories. Very few boring stories: just maybe boring storytellers.


  Poignancy exists, and joy, in the words of obscure writers, of which I'm still one, though I hope it changes.  In the meantime, interesting, ordinary stories are everywhere.  And though they're each unique, they are also shared human experiences.

  A 21 year old woman in Britain is diagnosed with terminal cancer, so she moves up her wedding to her fiance in the hope of creating "the best day of her life".  But it's such a common tale - touching, heartbreaking, deeply rich in human experience - that when I google "terminally-ill bride" to get the link for the story, I find numerous other entries for different people touched by this same kind of transformative experience.  I first see the story on Yahoo! News one day, and I remember it.

   A few days later, I hear this song on the radio, and the vision of one such dying bride falling into the arms of her new husband and choosing this song for their first dance plays out in a cinematic high definition in my mind's eye.  And it's so poignant it hurts.  Imagine a moment of such...honesty, to be among those teary-eyed guests in the presence of two people, savouring each instant of time with each other before an end that could come anytime. 

   I just made that moment up, true.  But these real-life human experiences happen all the time.  And many of us never hear about it, save for those who are witnesses, and those who choose to share.

  How many of us have failed to be transformed by stories worth hearing because we never heard them?

  My experiences aren't, for the most part, all that dramatic, but they are notable, and over the next few weeks, you'll start seeing more accounts of my 29th year.  This has been so transformative for me, someone has to benefit from my story, even if it's just me telling it, and knowing someone else is reading it.

  That's the hope, anyway

Shadowy Seasonal Spin Cycles

Underlying the commercial side of Halloween is its origin. Samhain is the reason for this particular season, and I won't re-explain the significance of this (neo)pagan observance here. Its origins, however, remind us of the cycle of life and death. The harvest is as much a symbol for death as it is a literal reaping of the crops, where we reflect on what we've done and what's happened. 

Halloween was low key for me this year, with one party and a Sunday spent at home on a ghost walk through the beautiful Church St. Cemetery in Brampton with Mom and Dad.  During that visit, my mother and I watched a DVD from motivational speaker Debbie Ford called The Shadow Effect. Shadow work is a conscious acknowledgement and introspective study of all the qualities of your being that you hide from others. The parts of yourself that you're ashamed of - your fears, your past transgressions against others, your guilt, your regrets, etc..

According to Ford and other experts, whenever you react unusually strongly to a slight provocation; whenever you indulge in something that you rail against publicly (see NY Gov. Spitzer, or Rush Limbaugh, or the Catholic Church), or sabotage yourself, that's your Shadow getting tired of being suppressed and ignored.  Those are dramatic examples.  The rest of the time, the Shadow acts in millions of small ways that compromise you, leading to boredom, routine, the inability to escape from vicious cycles of behaviour, finances, health. 

That which we bury in the earth will grow back. Always. Don't believe me? Watch Dawn of the Dead.

I'm familiar with shadow work. Much of my twenties has been about looking at myself critically and as objectively as possible. This work is never done. It's not intended to "cure" all your ills or eliminate the darkness: those who war against their own darkness really war against themselves, and will never feel whole. Rather, it's to embrace the totality of your being, light and dark. It means understanding that for you to live in a nice house, every now and then you've got to take out the trash and sweep the floor. It's the way of things.

Monday being the start of a new month, I figured that some shadow work on myself was a great way to mark a new beginning. Everyone could use some honest-to-Zeus introspection.

Among the other creatures hiding in the dark, I discovered Stuckness. I was stuck. Existentially bored. And the goal wasn't to slay Stuckness, for he's a part of me, but to cure him.

Arriving at the Goodlife Fitness after work that Monday, I sauntered into the mall, up the stairs past the usual regulars, and into the locker room. I changed in the same spot near the same locker, and headed out to the floor to do the same cardio-resistance routine I've been doing for months.  All I could see was drab routine: my work, my exercise, my weekly calendar.  Blah, blah.....blah.  Was this really life? 

Then I saw that the spin class was starting in ten minutes.

I see it every time that I'm in there - seemingly crazy people, dripping with sweat, killing themselves on the bikes to pretty catchy techno music and rock and roll - and I'd always promised I'd try it once.  Still, the tricky part about a routine is that you're at once sick of the normal, and very comfortable with it.  I'd fought the impulse to go for weeks, despite having reached plateaued in my weight loss around 215 pounds. 

But Monday night, the thought of another boring 45 minute elliptical session kicked me in the ass, and I took the leap.  I walked in, met the instructor, set myself up, and joined in.

As I said on Facebook, Megadeth would be happy to know that I've found a 100th way to die....

And yet, it was worth it, not so much for the exercise - which was amazing, and which wore me out enough that I went to bed at 9:30pm - but for the sake of the New.  Suddenly, even though I'd changed absolutely nothing else in my routine, my life felt more interesting, and that's what ultimately counts: how you feel about your life.

I've talked about the Power of Now, but sometimes the solution to existential angst is simply to try something new, even if it's something small.  Spin classes, of course, are somewhat dramatic if you're not into exercise that much, but I realized that I am thoroughly missing new stimuli.  Time to embrace the Power of New.

A slide from the creepy DHARMA Initiative brainwashing film from LOST quotes the Buddha:

"Plant a good seed and you will joyfully gather fruit". 

As Samhain ends, according to the Pagan calendar, those in the Northern Hemisphere lie directly opposite of Ostara, the spring holiday when we plant next year's harvest, when we sow new seeds, and start the cycle over again.

Naturally, we don't have to wait to re-create ourselves. Everyone has a stuckness monster living in their shadow.

And for people like me who, more than most, have to do regular inner work to prevent the monster from manifesting in yet another life crisis, sometimes all it takes is to do one new thing - plant one good seed no matter how small - to cure the hapless creature, shine a light for him to see, and set him free.

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.