Friends don't waste wine when there's words to sell
It’s been roughly four months since I last took the time to share any thoughts - meaningful or otherwise. But today I spoke of this blog to a few people and thought that, hey, it might not hurt to get back in the saddle.
After all, with the majority of my diatribes on hold until the first semester picks up, I might as well utilize any means in which I’m presented to keep the writing skills slightly north of dull.
I’ll warn you now, don’t trick yourself into thinking that the words that follow will be Hemingwayesqe, but rather a broken flow of my own meandering thoughts.
The last few months have been a struggle, writing wise that is. I look back at the year that was and realize that I wasn’t overly thrilled with any of the work I had produced. As Hank Moody would say, I’ve had year in which a crisis of faith has engulfed every keyboard I’ve attempted to seduce into writing something that holds even the faintest ounce of substance.
There were times when I’d sit for hours; ready to fill that blank screen with poetic lines that conjured up images so real you’d have to pinch yourself to ensure they weren’t. However, the problem I encountered as much as Seattle rain was a blank mind to match the snow white screen.
It’s discouraging at times, but I hold onto the hope that it is nothing more than a simple sign allowing me to believe that when something does finally show up on those pages, it will be everything I had ever wanted to write.
I’m not sure who it is exactly that I am trying so desperately to impress, but I assume they must be out there, otherwise this self-depricating model that I’m entranced by would prove to be laughable at best.
As I sit here, re-reading the words that I’ve just written, the temptation to delete them all and pack it in is weighing heavily on my things to do right now list. Again, I don’t know why, as I’m sure I’ve concoted a few decent sentences.
Maybe it’s a sign telling me to wrap things up, as I’m not sure I’m in the right headspace to be rattling on and on about, well, nothing really.
So, until then …
Looking back now it makes me laugh
Ok, look below this post before you continue reading it.
That’s me. Well not really me but you get the idea.
I’ve decided to take all of my frustrations and insecurities out on this wonderful blank canvas that doubles as my blog - or more accurately the place I write something every once in a blue moon (sorry ‘bout that).
Today, however, I have never neeeded an outlet more in my entire life than I do right now, this very instant.
Dramatic? Yeah, it kind of sounds that way, and yet, it’s not at all. I’m just having one of those days where everything kind of gets turned upside down on you and everything you thought you knew, well, you simply don’t anymore.
Perhaps some of it, or at least just the general mood I’m in, is due to the angst of all the things that lay ahead but aren’t quite here yet. I’m moving out (finally) and buying a car … two things that will present me the freedoms I have lacked in my life up to this point.
Naturally, these two things alone will not solve today’s mood, and how could they, both are still a little ways away in terms of actually becoming a reality.
Right now I’m seriously questioning why I worked so hard to stay in a place (St. Catharines) for one more year, when it’s the absolute last place I want to be. Sure, it’ll act as a stepping stone to where I want to go in life, but in a week I’ll be 25 and it’d be nice to get that life started.
The smart thing is to stay, work another year, pad the resume and move on, especially when you take into consideration the economic state of the country - hell, the world.
The frustrating part is that it’s more than that, only I don’t know what it is. I thought some type of blogotherapy would do the trick, but I can now assure you that it’s not. My mind is wandering in every direction, resembling an imagination with ADD.
I guess for now I’ll just sit and continue to scream at the computer, a la the picture below.
Until then …
Say hello, wave goodbye
Day three in Saskatoon has greeted me with a tired anticiaption to start the day. Granted, it’s after lunch now, but none the less, sleep is in extreme deprivation, for the obvious reason and in addition to the chaos that has engulfed this conference.
We’ve spent nearly every waking free minute at Winston’s - a pub that mimics what I can only imagine would be the most serene speak easy’s of the mid 1900s.
Most people are complaining about the weather. It’s pushing -30 with wind and snow - I love it. However, my biggest complaing lies within the people that I’m sharing this hotel with - my fellow student journalists.
It blows my mind that at such a young age individulas can muster up the ego to be so pretentious and overbearing. It’s a sour combination of sad and pathetic. I’ve moved past it with several shakes of my head and internal thoughts of compassion for them.
When they reach the world outside their student newspapers they’re going to get such a gigantic kick in the ass it’ll leave them spinning - finally aware that they are in fact not as cool or smart as they think they are.
I’ve grown quite fond of this city already, as I knew I would. There are no real specifities as to why at the moment, other than the glaring fact it’s NOT St. Catharines.
My desire to expand my horizons and experience new places grows stronger each day, and being in a new space has certainly magnified that position.
This conference, much like all the rest, have provided unique opportunities to meet new people, gain contacts and expand my opinions and thought process on a number of issues. It’s comforting to know that even though I’m done school I’m still capable of learning valuable lessons.
A former Brock Press EIC talked to us last night, and i’ll get to that in the next post. As for now, it’s back to the hectic schedule that exists here and the coming and going is as frequent as taking breaths.
Until then …
The sidewalk holds diamonds like a jewlery store case
As I sat in the local watering hole today, I was (un)fortunate enough to end up beside a man who loved to talk.
There`s nothing wrong with casual conversation, but at some point people need to take the hint that the other party just might not be interested.
I was told stories about his life as a cop, of which he spent 35 years doing, how he just recently found out that his grandfather was murdered in 1922, not from the original natural cause of death, the carpenter who renovated the pub and the happenings going on in the blue collar society of this diminishable city.
He owns a store in town. Which one, I couldn`t tell you. I didn`t ask.
At this point, this is where the most obvious of hints was dropped. Had I been interested in becoming engaged in a conversation about marginal and arbitrary topics, I would have faked the interest and asked which store he owned. Truth be told, even if I had asked, I wouldn`t have cared, just as I didn`t care enough to not ask.
I`ve realized that this is perhaps one of my greatest downfalls - my inability to cut strangers off mid sentence and basically tell them that they`re wasting their breath trying to strike a conversation.
Either way, it was interesting to try and disect that man`s live in my head as he rambled on, unaware his words were falling upon deaf ears. I couldn`t help but wonder where he`s been, what he`s done and how he go to be sitting there beside me.
It caused an instant flash forward for my own life, wondering not only where I would be when I was his age, but also what life would be like at that point. How much would really truly change in this world when that time comes. All of those answers are left to be determined, and all I can do is script the path in which I will take my steps through life.
As I sipped my beer, he just kept going, bound and determined to get me to exult more than just a “yep“ or and “uh huh“. It wasn`t happening, but I found it amusing, and I applaud his effort.
As my drink began to disappear, so too did his interest in continuing his failed attempts at getting me to talk. As I paid my tab I said goodbye and Happy New Year, despite that it`s three days old already.
As I began to walk away, he smiled and returned the sentiment.
Looking back at it now I think he was lonely and just wanted someone to talk to. While I don`t terribly regret my decision to feign interest in what he had to say, I do wish I had at least pretended to care a little more.
It`s funny how the most seemingly insignificant moments in life can cause you to come home and script it out on a page for reflection.
Here`s to hoping that life is filled with many more of them.
Until then …
Just My thoughts to keep me company
As I sit here listening to the randomized songs that my iTunes has produced I can’t help but wonder where I’ll be come May 1.
I know it’s a long ways away, but still, entertaining the thoughts of the next chapter of my life is both calming and hectic. While I greatly anticipate taking that next step there are a tremendous amount of uncertainties that accompany it.
Part of me, though, is the most excited about the prospect of the unknown. I’ve played the “what if” game a multitde of times in my head, and while it’s useful to help pass the time, it’s getting a little stale.
In a few short days I’ll be off to Saskatoon and I already know that when it’s time to leave, I won’t want to come home. It happened two years ago in Vancouver and last year in Ottawa.
I think part of it is my desire to actually choose where I’ll spend my days. It’s the desire that drives me to produce some of the best writing I’m capable of from January until April.
There is, of course, the chance that I’ll have a whole other year to produce said writing, but I’ve decided to take a page out of Jordan McDeer’s book (Studio 60 to properly reference her) and live this year and my job, as it’s my last year to live.
If you think about it, the premise is actually quite genious.
Could you imagine if everyone lived 2009 as if it were there last year. Of course making it your last year of life is a little dramatic, but hey, nop lan is ever perfect.
I much like McDeer (who I would marry if she actually existed) both run a company, and I can’t think of a better way to mark your legace than to perform your job as if you only had one year to do it.
We put out our first paper on Monday, and from this point on, I’ll definitely be looking to put the finishing touches on my legace at the newspaper. It’s a miniscule legace, a campus newspaper and all, but I’ve put a lot into it in the past few years and feel as though I need to go out in style.
I’ve gained a renewed love affair with Bruce Springsteen’s album, The Rising and am listening to it now. I wasn’t a huge fan of the Boss’ old stuff, but this album is perfect in every way.
I’ve often thought of writing songs, although my sever lack of music knowledge has prevented me from creating anything more than mere poems that rhyme with what I think is a chorus.
I love how random thoughts just seem to take over my fingers when I’m sitting at a computer. I feel as though I can’t help but just throw them down and see where it goes.
It’s a sense of spontanaieity that we all need, and I, for one, should embrace it more. Easier said than done of course, but none the less, at least it has become more recognizable.
I just remembered I have one more thing to write for the newspaper, and if I don’t do it now, I won’t meet deadline, so I’m off.
Until then …
This behaviour so unexplainable
Well for those of you who actually enjoy reading what I have to write, I’m likely going to inundate you with a ridiculous amount of posts in the coming days/weeks/months.
Why? You ask - because I’ve got a new laptop.
Yes, this little pearl will rarely ever leave my side. Much like lint in a pocket there aren’t a lot of places it will go without me. I’m not entirely sure that analogy makes sense, but here’s to hoping you get what I meant.
I made a New Year’s resolution this year. Yes, they have a tendancy to be a little too cliche and often result in next to immediate failure only a few days in, but I’m really going to work at keeping this one.
While I am choosing (at least at the curreny moment) to not tell you what it is, we’ll just say that it should do wonders for the otherwise mundane and monotanous life I am currently leading.
Also, I resolve to write more on this blog that has otherwise received about as much attention as the kid no one likes in grade school.
For now, however, that’s it. I have to write a sports article, and at the moment that takes priority. But as soon as it’s done, I’ll be back, hopefully with something to say.
Until then …
I was just thinking
I took Oakley for a walk tonight. For those of yo who don’t know, Oakley is my dog - a three-year old golden retriever, and, if I do say so myself, pretty much the greatest dog ever. But I digress.
I felt like I absolutely had to get out of the house for a while tonight. Despite my yearning for the three weeks of holidays that awaits me come Monday, I’ve already grown stir crazy - not good.
Either way, the brisk, cold air filled my lungs and became the remedy no doctor could prescribe. As we walked I couldn’t help but notice two things; the lack of snow and the abundance of lights.
Winter in St. Catharines is, well, awful. The weather is still relatively warm (still wearing flipflops over here) and the snow is a tough commodity to obtain. On Monday it’s supped to be 10 degrees with rain - awesome.
I miss Alberta winters, and subsequently, Alberta Christmases. Walking the streets and taking in what seemed like each and every single bulb on every strand, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander back to a time that held no consequences.
I’ve learned, especially as of late, that letting my mind wander is not always in my best interest. But I keep telling myself that an active, vivid imagination is a good thing; especially in the field of work I wish to pursue.
I remember snowbanks taller than me, frigid air biting at any skin you may have left exposed to the cold, harsh winter day and “bundling” up for every trip outside. That is winter.
I came to the realization that I hated St. Kitts a long time ago, that was never a point of contention. Beyond that, I’ve desperately seeked ways and reasons to flee as soon as humanly possible. The problem is that things keep popping up, seemingly at the most inopportune time, to keep me here.
In January I’ll be heading to Saskatoon for a national writing conference. I already know that I won’t want to come back, despite the location being somewhere as barren as Saskatoon. It won’t be because it’s a great city, although it very well could be, but it will be because it’s not St. Catharines.
Yes, the grass is always greener, and usually you find out that you were wrong once you jump the fence, but I am fairly certain I am not wrong in this particular instance.
I now realize that my posts should go through the rigorous brainstorming process that we were taught in school. Something, anything to keep a sense of direction and continuity. Because, as you can see, I’ve strayed from the original thoughts of christmas lights as I walked Oakley.
I suppose though, that is the beauty of this medium; spontanaeity. Part of my was hoping to be able to sit down and pump out some brilliant piece of literary genius that would rival even the greatest of bloggers. Alas, I’ve got nothing but a jumble of words that fail to resemble much of a point in the grand scheme of things.
The picture at the beginning has no real significance other than the fact that I like it. It offers a sense of serenity to me, a sense of the wonder and awe that nature often presents when you least expect it, even though you know it’s capable of producing such an image anytime it sees fit.
I’m actually a little disappointed with how this has all turned out thus far, and am still contemplating deleting it - as I’ve done with many other potential posts.
Hopefully next time my post will contain some coherence and imaginative thought. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Haven't you ever loved anything that much?
A field of dreams.
Just reading the words almost forces the solicitation of the most imaginative and creative thoughts your mind could produce.
We’ve all had our very own version of this “field of dreams”. Mine, literally was just as it sounds - a field filled with all of my childhood dreams and aspirations.
When I was young - we’re talking 3 years old - I would fall asleep in my bed with a baseball cap on my head and a glove on my hand - I was born to play baseball. I was born to hold a ball in my hand. I was born to stand on a picther’s mound and be in total control of each and every pitch. I was born to stand under the bright lights of Yankee Stadium, in front of the Green Monster in Boston, on the soft green grass of Turner Field.
The sunshine was supposed to dance on my shoulders on a mid-July day. The breeze was supposed to tickle my face as I walked out of the dugout and onto the most lush and perfectily trimmed grass on the planet. The warm summer air was supposed to induce sweat to trickle off the brim of my hat as I stared in from the mound to get a sign from the catcher.
These images, these dreams, were all I thought about growing up, even when I was three falling asleep dressed ready to play a game I knew nothing about. A game that would soon become more than just a game, but a passion, a love, the very thing I would live and die for.
Even as I sit here now, typing up the words that produce the very imagery I so desperately yearned for (and still do), my eyes have began to well up with tears that have been shed many times before over the very same thing. I always knew that a woman would break my heart, but not this. Not baseball.
It’s been six years since my second, and subsequently last surgery on my right shoulder; on my ticket to a bigger and better life; my ability to be truly happy in life.
Since the first weekend in October I’ve had an excruciating pain reside in my left shoulder. I know what it’s from, it’s the only thing it could possibly be; baseball. Long gone are the days when scouts watched my pitch, American universities talked to me about being a part of their program, all-star game selections and playing on the biggest available stages. But even playing beer-league softball I can’t just play for fun.
Diving around the day before was surely the cause of the physical and mental torture I’m going through right now.
I have seen three different doctors in the past 2 weeks, had an ultra sound, x-rays and likely on my way for an MRI when I see an orthopedic surgeon on Friday. With every subtle movement of my left arm, pain takes over. Beyond that, the flashes of my past come roaring back full throttle.
For three years I did physiotherapy four times a week at a clinic that was 40 minutes away from my house. The majority of my last two years of high school consisted of a severe dedication to get back onto the very field I was born to stand on.
My dream of playing college baseball at an American university vanished with my first shoulder surgery, as no school was willing to take a chance on a kid with a torn labrum in his throwing arm; especially a pitcher.
When I set goals, I set them in increments. The first goal on the list to making it to the “show” was playing at a division I school in the US. From there it was to play in the under-romanticized minor leagues, eventually getting the call that I’ve made it.
Pouring blood, sweat and tears into something has never been as true as with my battle with recovering to get back to the place I was put on this earth to be.
My senior year of high school was supposed to be the stage in which all those incremental dreams began. Instead, it was just the opposite.
I’ll never forget the day I told my coach that I couldn’t play baseball anymore. After leaving his office I sat in the locker room and cried. I couldn’t control it. It was, without a doubt, the single worst day in my entire life.
To most, this might seem like an arbitrary thing to be so upset over. You’re entitled to that opinion. But to put into perspective for you, there is nothing in my life I wouldn’t sacrifice in order to get it back; friends, family, money you name it. I would give ANYTHING to be able to play baseball again
I miss the smell of the grass. I miss the feel of the dirt underneath my cleats. The feel of a rosin bag. The sounds of the crowd and the infield chatter. I miss it more than anything else that has passed on in my life.
All of this has come rushing back to me in the last couple of weeks, and I hate it. It has taken over every waking thought and the memories relived are more painful than the lightning bolts coursing through my arm when I move it.
In general, I’m just sad these days. I know the dream of playing baseball is over, I get it. But deep down, there’s a part of me that will never fully allow myself to truly give it up.
It’s 3:39 a.m. and I’m wide awake. I don’t get much sleep anymore when I try, as I wake up constantly through the night with my shoulder being unable to stay quiet for very long. But tonight was a bad night.
With the current state I’m in, I’ve began to lose enjoyment in the things I should enjoy most. I lack excitement and enthusiasm in the things that should be fun, but subsequently are not. The feeling sucks and I don’t know when it will go away.
I know that until my shoulder is fixed (which by the way no doctor can figure out what’s wrong with it) I will continue on the current path I’m on. It’s a dialy battle and most days I lose.
It’s strange to feel the way that I do. The first time, it took me nearly five years to fully get past all the anguish that tagged along with the initial loss. I know it won’t last forever and I know it won’t take another five years. I also know that a part of me will never forget, and I’m ok with that.
I’ve never loved anything as much as I do baseball. It’s been a growing affection for the last 24 years of my life. It’s brought me the happiest and the saddest moments of my life. And now, I seem to be stuck in the rut filled with the sad ones once again.
I have six scars on my right shoulder that serve as a daily reminder of where I’ve been and what I’ve been through. Having to relive it all over again is not something that I particularly enjoy.
Lie awake wondering if things could have been much different
I’m sore. I don’t know why I feel like telling you that other than I want your sympathy - in which I will greatly accept, so thanks.
I can’t quite turn my neck to the right side, and my left shoulder is in what I can best describe as unbearable pain. But hey, what can you do?
I can’t say that I have a whole lot to say tonight, but I figured I’d sit down and start typing, going with the whole “see what happens” mantra.
So far, as you can tell, nothing TERRIbly is happening.
I’m pretty much in love with the month of October. That’s something you should know. Not only is it the 10th month, which just happens to be my favourite number, 10, but also because the weather takes a turn for what most people call the worse. However, I deem it as a turn for the absolutely prime.
Walking out of the house in the morning, the briskness of the cool air hitting you in the face, almost begging you to take a deep breath and consume it, is one of my favourite feelings - especially after a long, hot summer.
The leaves are also starting to turn, and despite the fact that I will undoubtedly be categorized into a certain lifestyle of which I’m not, I love it. There’s a route I like to take every fall to just get away from everything and take in nature’s simplicity. It’s not a long drive, but it’s enough to satisfy the craving of the uncomplicated.
The actual road that presents the scene out of an artists’ rendition of serenity is about a 10 minute drive, worth every minute. The road narrows considerably once the journey begins and the twists and turns along the way require as much attention as the trees that surround you and the easy-flowing stream that appears off to the side. There’s something about a river running that I enjoy. It has direction, albeit overcoming the obstacles that lay ahead of it in the form of broken birch tree brances and methodically placed rocks. I’ve often thought of going to spend time beside it, reflecting on whatever it is that consumes my mind at the time, but have yet to do it. Maybe this year.
Either way, the trees are painted in the most exuberant red;s, yellow’s and orange’s you could possibly imagine. Most of the time, the float ever so gracefully from the branches they once called home, tumbling to the ground and across the windshield with every soft breath of the autumn wind.
While navigating the roads, I play but one CD from start to finish. It’s a CD that seems to fit the mood and the scene perfectly. Part of it, I’m sure, is because it was the Fall when I first heard it, and subsequently associate the season with the songs. I won’t tell you what it is, because afterall, I need to with hold some secrets.
I’m eagerly awaiting the leaves to full make their transformation from the lush green emblems that have stood firm all year, to their most beautiful, yet vulnerable state. The timing has to be right. Wait to long and they’ll all have falled to the earth. Go to soon, and you’re stuck looking at the greenery that has been in our sights all summer.
It’s funny. I have no idea what brought the thought of this drive to the forefront of my mind and eventually to my fingertips to type it, but none the less, I just described what I feel to be the most beautiful of scenes and one that I depend upon to bring a sense of both refreshment and calmness to my life.
While I know not everyone shares this passion of leaves changing colours, and I’d be worried if they did, but I hope that everyone has that place. You know, that place that you can go to look back or ahead in your life and just feel at ease with everything that surrounds you - both mentally and physically.
If you don’t, well ask me for directions or hitch a ride when I go. It’s a pretty cool sight. Plus you pass by a huge pumpkin patch. And pumpkins are cool.
