The course of writing

When looking at writing today -- which is to say writing, which cannot be broken down to senseless drivel, where does it stand? It’s a question that many mull over -- but they are usually pontificating-scholarly-types at ends with the MTV generation. We live in an age that is over-saturated with everything from iPods to Britney Spears’ genitalia to vacuous television (I.e. Girlicious). But also with thoughtless writing. 

It follows us from newspapers to flyers to chalkboards (nay, scratch that -- I’m pretty sure those are now obsolete) to vacuous YouTube comments. But not to mention blogs and everyones opinion a.k.a. Web 2.0. It’s blogs -- and Facebook -- that many get their daily dose of gossip, news or whatever euphemism applies for subjective hearsay. We ostensibly pseudo-communicate through this giant web of spin-doctored news, canards, and inconsequential bullshit. 

So will it come back to bite us in the proverbial ass? That is, will all of the nonsensical ramblings of neo-Neanderthals actually gain enough substance to lead to mass ill-effect? No clue. But, it’s interesting to bear witness to endless technological advances while we intellectually regress. We take to a false being on the Internet to virtually carry on our day-to-day lives.

But this is not a philosophical avenue, which I want to take on nor answer. It’s just something to think about. Because in the end, before you write that next e-mail, poem, love letter, conspiracy theory, ransom note... think. Dear reader, I implore you to think in this world or virtual-world (whatever is more applicable) which is rife with  absent-minded rubbish.

Just think and question religion, society, culture, poverty, or a friend... because really, what do you have to lose?

"The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium."  --Norbet Platt

A Plug for TRAVIS Magazine

Dear all two people that read my "creative outlet" if you will. I think the sun should shine on you daily, but not during the sad times -- that's just rude on the sun's part. 

However, I recently had some work in TRAVIS magazine, Sheridan's really well-done campus magazine, which you should all check out. Especially because there's a lot of shit in there that trumps sunny days, not to mention my measly work.

http://www.sheridansu.net/files/docs/Travis/apr08.pdf

But peruse at your own accord and enjoy! (Seriously, it's worth your while).

Dear Kanye,

Please, for the sake of your own self-aggrandizement, stop it! We get it, you think you could destroy Jesus in a thumb wrestling competition -- hands down (or doest that expression apply?). Does anyone make any real shit anymore, well, in accordance with you, I'm not that sure. Let's deconstruct shall we? That song that helped you destroy Fitty's career, "Stronger," (as everyone knows) is a sample from Daft Punk. So you making fun of people not making real shit in a song that isn't really yours is okay? Right, I forgot you trump Jesus. And on that point, you have completely bit the shit out of electronic/house/Justice/MIA (they're all synonyms), but with avail. 

How do you get away with it? 

Maybe it's the fact that you symbolize our hedonistic culture. Over-confident, self-absorbed asshole with a world-view which doesn't exceed your gaudy eye-wear. And what the fuck is this about you studying English literature so that you can rhyme in iambic pentameter, and thus be remembered for your poetic license? Last time I checked with my love, J. Donne, (pronounced J-dot) he was confused with the lines: "Heard they'd do anything for a Klondike/ Well I'd do anything for a blonde dyke." Actually, hold the phone, there are five feet per line there. Looks like your name is going to be leather-bound, collecting dust between Voltaire and Wilde in the not-so-distant future. Great news, bespectacled neophyte scholars will be studying your metaphysical conceits with nothing short of genuine awe.

Signed,

 

50 Cent.

 

Dear 30-something wankers,

It's is with heavy heart that I understand your predicament. You're currently in limbo between "young and cool" and old-with-family-on-the-horizons-and-no-more-game-nights. I feel your pain, nay, I have no idea, nor do I care to sympathize with you. But here is maybe a clue to find just a shred of "cool" in your blurred haze as a hasbeen jock in high school. It's quite simple. Get the fuck off your ridiculous Bluetooth phones everywhere you go, you insolent pricks.

Seriously, don't walk around the supermarket talking away to your mistress or joe blow about your lame white-collar job as a fuckoid accountant. I'm sorry, you're already fucked and uncool, but a bloody earpiece phone isn't going to make it any better. No one cares about your pathetic "oh man, you see that hot babe" excuse of a life. You're not fooling anyone.

You're just as cool as those washed-up athletes that you rag about to dickweed Timmy while walking to your wretched job.

Signed,

Your replacement in never-land.

post script. Fuck off and go punch some more numbers.

post post script. Oh, and stop getting your hair cut like that for Chirst  sakes, you look risible.

Who am I?

When walking by, it seems lonely, quiet, maybe even tired. A recluse of sorts. Sitting and waiting for some activity. A picture, set of stats, a new story to muse. Contemplating its role in society and its use to students that seem too busy to care about its existence. But when it counts, it kicks into play. Buzzing, humming, turning its nodes and cogs to meet its users' high demands. It stutters, goes quiet, and settles back for another period of languidness.

Otherwise than that, if you care about our brethren in Africa, please see the following article I just had published in The Dominion... http://www.dominionpaper.ca/articles/1778

If you want to make a difference yourself, please see the following petition, and make your mark: "Buduburam 2008"

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/LiberianRefugees?e

Parental Guidance is Advised Pt. 4

The downtown street was vacant otherwise than the swarms of people walking by like ants on an ant hill circling the queen. But Frank was isolated. The world moved at its usual hyper-speed rate without noticing any of its inhabitants. Like a blinding snowstorm of people, but you're the one huddled under a snowdrift losing touch in your finger tips. Their faces were blurred and rearranged and resembled pseudo-Picasso pieces. His head felt raw and was home to only a few thoughts firing around amongst a blackened ether of cocaine and malt whiskey.           

"Hey! Watch where you're going, fuckin' crackhead," a voice rings out accompanied with some spittle into Frank's face. The blurred representation of a yuppie stands in front of Frank holding the cliched requirements -- attache case, Armani suit, and a stupid fucking haircut. Frank turns around, looks directly into the yuppie's beady eyes and breathes the equivalent of rat poison into the prick's face.

"Of course young sir. How dare I interrupt your daily waltz accompanied with your own theme song, written personally by, Bach, I believe. But the real Bach, not one of his amateurish sons riding on a surname. Is there anything that I could do to make your day any better, my dear fuckhead," Frank lets out in a semi-couth manner. The yuppie scoffs, slides his diamond-clad hand through his perfect hair, and keeps walking.

"Glad I could be of some assistance," Frank calls back, lighting a fresh cigarette and taking the day's first pull of refined poison and settling in for an oncoming bout of listlessness.

Parental Guidance is Advised Pt.3

        Waking up to an unsettling mixture of the sun, a bad dream, the smell of sex combined with stale beer, and his dog, Possum, licking his face, Frank opened his eyes and pushed his stain-covered duvet over his knees. His room was strewn with empty beer bottles (but they were the clear ones, not the green nor the shit-coloured brown ones), painted art, and novels -- a fucking plethora of novels covering essentially every nook and cranny that wasn't swallowed in either beer or art. Oh, and he had a small wooden closet which held his semi-respectable collection of quasi-vintage t-shirts and worn black jeans. Frank lifted his head, grabbed a partly-burnt cigarette he found on the floor alongside a matchbook and pondered his circumstances with a long and slow drag of assorted toxins.

"How'd ya sleep big fella?" A woman's voice rang as Frank jumped and turned his head to the bedroom door where a young women, say mid-20s, stood. Frank's blurred haze of a mind cleared enough to allow him to recall this woman. But he also recalled doing blow off of this woman's breastbone. A pseudo-epiphany if you will.

"Oh hey, well, if you look past my pounding head which feels like the fall of the Berlin Wall, then I'm all right." She came forward and jumped into bed next to him and took a puff of his cigarette.

"Do you want mama to kiss it better?"

"I was never one for the whole oedipal complex thing, sorry," Frank replied as he reclaimed his cigarette and hopped out of bed and began to put Yesterday's booze-stained clothes back on. And as he began to put his pants back on, he noticed some blood on his hands. It was at this moment that Frank remembered more of last night. The gun, the blood, the whole botched operation. Jesus, he thought to himself. His mind started to run, like it always does, and he ambled out of the room to mix himself a stiff snort.

"Darling, is everything all right? What's the matter?" the woman questioned.

"Well, if you see the four horsemen of the apocalypse as okay, then yes, everything is dandy."

"Oh don't be melodramatic Frank, you know that turns me off."

"Right, how could I forget your precious little ideals that need to be satisfied 24-fucking-hours of the day you coquette of a whore.”