I went to an incredible wedding recently. The couple is amazing, their love and relationship is wholly inspiring to me.
But.
Something goofy ALWAYS ends up happening to me at weddings.
Years ago, in Fredericton, I ended up roped into a poetry slam. IT WAS THE 90S, ALRIGHT? I WAS ALSO WEARING CORDUROY OVERALLS. Anyway, my coworkers signed me up, poured vodka down my gullet, locked me in a toilet stall, and then I wrote a poem according to the slam guidelines. About losing my virginity.
When it was my turn to read, I stepped up to the mic, announced my name, and began:
It was almost Winter when I lost my virginity. He was going to Paris
I said "Put it into me".
I was young and naive and I had a bad haircut, and because he was cool, he was cold.
It was almost Winter when I lost my virginity, but for sure at an age
That it was still quite a sin to me.
He wasn't too short, but the hem of my skort* was much shorter or maybe he was just proportionally smaller because he WAS so goddamn short.
It was almost Winter when I lost my virginity, and the heat of his splinter is forgotten and eclipsed by me.
I THINK that's all of it. I was incredibly drunk by the end, and this took place well over a decade ago, my apologies. You get the point.**
Stepping off the stage, the first person I ran into was the sister of the virginity dude in question. She was upset. I scurried home. The next morning, I had a doctor's appointment. The nurse, the mother of a friend, asked me, with pursed lips, if I was there for a pap smear or STD test. She gave me a disgusted look, and clucked her tongue. I had no idea what she was talking about, shuffled over to the waiting room and read Woman’s World.
When I got home, the phone calls started. Apparently, the CBC had been at the poetry slam, and had recorded it without informing the participants. And THEN they played it on the driving to work show the morning after, with a strong parental advisory warning before my piece. Thousands and thousands of people heard me drunkenly recite an incredibly vulgar poem, AFTER announcing my name. Ugh.
I'd forgotten about this until a wedding a few years ago. I'd been quite nervous about being a bridesmaid, and was a bit of a jittery mess. After the ceremony, I went to a storage closet to compose myself for a minute, and when I emerged, the Nurse was standing outside the door with 5 friends. They were formed in a semi-circle around the door. Waiting for me. "Tell us the story of the last time I saw you," the Nurse said slowly, and with a pinchy smile. "What?" I asked. And then it all came flooding back. Oof. There is an infamous photo of me with my back to the camera, facing 6 middle-aged women wearing THE most disgusted and judgmental looks on their faces. It was uncomfortable to say the least.
Anyway, this most recent wedding was more of the same. I mean, I ran into the dude I made out with by a dumpster last year. I’d forgotten that he was close with the groom. Heck, I’d forgotten he actually existed. I was so confused when I saw him, that instead of behaving like a human being, I actually thrust out my hand to shake his, through a large circle of people, and said, “Hi.” He clearly didn’t recognize me, and looked confused. I said, “We made out by a dumpster? Summer 2009?” Recognition dawned on his face, but he still didn’t shake my hand. So I shot finger guns at him and walked away. And then every time he was within a few feet of me, I made sure to wave, say hi, and then say, “Oh, that guy? We made out by a dumpster! Summer ‘09”. And then I’d try to fist bump him. That poor, sweet man. Sorry, dude.
What I’m saying is, think carefully before inviting me to your wedding. Because I might just come.
*quite pleased for having used 'skort' in a "poem"
**the guy in question is amazing, and still a good friend. i miiiight have still been carrying a torch for him all those years ago. it's the only explanation for the nasty (untrue) things i said in the poem. 22 year olds are monsters.
p.s.(incredible wedding. blew my mind.)
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Get Some Shit For Snacktime
She returned from her vacation, jet-lagged and exhausted, to an office in chaos. The photocopier was down. The scanner was broken. The shredder made low, groaning noises, and smelled of smoke whenever forced to shred more than 5 pieces of paper at a time. The sewage hadn't been pumped out in two days, which didn't matter because they hadn't had water in the tanks in three days, which didn't matter because they'd run out of coffee the week before.
Having traveled for 12 hours--the last 4 of which were spent in a filthy truck with no shocks, driving across the dusty tundra--her only intention was to quickly grab a few things from the office, then get as much sleep as possible, but The Receptionist hovered over her. The Receptionist rocked on his feet, shifting his weight back and forth. The Receptionist cleared his throat. Sometimes, it was clear that he wanted something from her, but the words he chose were too vague for her to quickly grasp his meaning. Other times, his words simply made no sense. Although he spoke English more clearly and articulately than most of the other locals, language often failed him. Occasionally, he would resort to acting out what he was trying to say, and this time, he was attempting to describe the dimensions of a man. He stretched, arched an arm in front like a belly, swirled a flat palm on his head to indicate a combover, gestured that the man was short. Then he stuck his index fingers in both ears, and made a cringing face.
It was in that moment that the short, fat, balding man walked, loudly, into her office. The receptionist scrambled away. The short, fat, balding man was sweating, even though it was winter in the Arctic. He was sweating, red in the face, and he was swearing. A lot. She quickly remembered that Jerome was in the building, and rose to shut her door behind the cursing man. Jerome was incredibly religious, and particularly sensitive to coarse language. She couldn't afford another complaint about the office environment from Jerome. He was a terrible employee, frequently absent without explanation, but it was imperative that the local employees be kept happy.
The door closed, she returned to her desk, working her way around the man, who was still sweating and swearing. She interrupted him to introduce herself. He quickly spat out that his name was Bill before returning to his tirade, which continued to make no sense. He had a thick Newfoundland accent, his vowels bouncing as though elasticized. Bill suddenly fell silent. He took off his coat, but not his work gloves, and stood on the other side of her desk. He was still breathing heavily, and his coveralls rustled every time he took in air. After about a minute, he took a slow, deep breath, removed his gloves, and moved to shake her hand. He smelled like diesel. Without thinking, and before she could stop herself, she put her hand to her nose and sniffed. There was a pause, and he locked eyes with her. Somewhat calmly, Bill explained that he'd arrived just after she'd gone on vacation. In the three weeks he'd been there, he said, he had not had one decent meal. This was, unfortunately, not an uncommon complaint. The food situation had been deteriorating since Christmas, and moving two rotating cooks into the guesthouse hadn't appeased people in the way that had been expected. Instead, it just gave people more to complain about. They developed preferences, allegiances. One cook's brown sauce was superior to the other's, they insisted, despite the fact that all the brown sauce was made from the same dusty powder. One cook's meat sauce was superior to that of the other, despite the fact that it had been sent to town from the mine site, prepared by neither of of the cooks in question. The white sauce was delicious. The white sauce was wallpaper paste. So much cheap frozen meat, so much sauce, so much disagreement.
"I ain't fuckin' around," he said. "We need snacks for morning breaktime. I don't want no bullshit pudding cups for snacks. Pudding isn't for morning break. My men need cookies. And Red Rose tea. Not that fuckin' Tetley bullshit. Nothing is worth this bullshit in this fuckin' cold! But I'M diabetic! So I can't haves cookies. I need bananas. I will pull my men, and we will walk. Like I said, I ain't fuckin' around. We gotsta to have the shit we asked for, or we will walk." He turned on his heel and left. She needed to appease Bill. Barge season was close at hand, and he and his crew were repairing an ancient, rusty, dilapidated crane that was to be used to offload materials. Without the crane, the entire mining project was sunk. So she went out and bought the cookies and the tea and the bananas, and several hundred dollars more in snacktime-appropriate groceries.
The next morning at ten, she heard the back door slam. She heard him swearing his way down the hall to her office. She rose and stood by the door for his arrival, which she quickly shut behind him as he entered the room. Again, he was swearing and sweaty and red. "Macaroni is bullshit," he muttered, seemingly to nobody in particular. "I comes up here, and I work some fuckin' hard in this God-foresaken shithole of a town, and they can't even serve me real fuckin' juice? It don't have to be freshly squeezed or nothing', but not even from concentrate?" He drew a deep breath. His face grew redder still. "And then this?! Macaroni is bullshit. My wife knows better than to put bullshit macaroni on my fuckin' table. She would never serve me fuckin' macaroni." A long-distant customer service job had taught her to ask probing questions in the face of perplexing complaints. No, he did not have a gluten allergy. Yes, he liked spaghetti just fine. But no, he would not eat macaroni, and he would pull his crew and leave town if macaroni appeared on the table again, without a moment's hesitation. She suggested that perhaps the matter could be resolved by simply not eating the macaroni on the days that it was served, but this was not satisfactory to Bill. So at 2 pm, when she knew the cook would be taking her mid-day nap, she snuck up to the house and threw out all the macaroni in the pantry.
Two days later, he again presented himself in her office. It was breaktime, and he was loudly insistent that the groceries had been stolen, throwing accusations at the local housekeepers who worked days at the guesthouse. She defended the housekeepers, and in a patronizing tone, explained how quickly groceries get eaten in a house of 15 people. She reminded Bill of her long-standing experience in matters relating to the crew house, and ushered him out the door, promising to buy more food. She went out and bought two kinds of cookies and tea, a dozen very green bananas (at $6/lb), a wide assortment of non-macaroni foodstuffs, brought them to the house, then went back to work.
The next day, Bill returned. Again. He was clutching a black plastic garbage bag that appeared to be mostly empty. His hands quickly fell limply to his sides, dropping the bag. It hit the floor with a muffled thud, and the bag rustled in the draft that blew under the door. He took two steps towards her. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. She could only imagine what the problem was this time. "They were the only bananas I could get, Bill. It's the Arctic. I am doing my best. But you need to meet me halfway." He opened his eyes. He took another deep breath. He nudged the bag towards her with his steel-toed boot. He looked her in the eyes.
"Some fuckin' eskimo got into the fuckin' kitchen. She corrected him, reprimanded him for using the offensive term. "Shit, man. In the kitchen." Again, he nudged the bag with his boot, pushing it even closer to her. "Someone got into the house. Someone got into the kitchen." "We went for break. We went for cookies and tea." "And bananas", she interjected, sarcastically. He looked her in the eye. He was not amused. "My men," he continued, "sat down for tea. In the kitchen." In the kitchen, he said, on top of the garbage can, they found a pair of men's briefs. The briefs had been "unloaded in", he said. Deliberately removed, then extensively, enormously, and attentively shat in. "You asked for shit for the kitchen?" she joked. He did not laugh, and she had to buy two $11 cartons of orange juice a day for a month so he wouldn't tell her supervisor.
Just another day at work.
Having traveled for 12 hours--the last 4 of which were spent in a filthy truck with no shocks, driving across the dusty tundra--her only intention was to quickly grab a few things from the office, then get as much sleep as possible, but The Receptionist hovered over her. The Receptionist rocked on his feet, shifting his weight back and forth. The Receptionist cleared his throat. Sometimes, it was clear that he wanted something from her, but the words he chose were too vague for her to quickly grasp his meaning. Other times, his words simply made no sense. Although he spoke English more clearly and articulately than most of the other locals, language often failed him. Occasionally, he would resort to acting out what he was trying to say, and this time, he was attempting to describe the dimensions of a man. He stretched, arched an arm in front like a belly, swirled a flat palm on his head to indicate a combover, gestured that the man was short. Then he stuck his index fingers in both ears, and made a cringing face.
It was in that moment that the short, fat, balding man walked, loudly, into her office. The receptionist scrambled away. The short, fat, balding man was sweating, even though it was winter in the Arctic. He was sweating, red in the face, and he was swearing. A lot. She quickly remembered that Jerome was in the building, and rose to shut her door behind the cursing man. Jerome was incredibly religious, and particularly sensitive to coarse language. She couldn't afford another complaint about the office environment from Jerome. He was a terrible employee, frequently absent without explanation, but it was imperative that the local employees be kept happy.
The door closed, she returned to her desk, working her way around the man, who was still sweating and swearing. She interrupted him to introduce herself. He quickly spat out that his name was Bill before returning to his tirade, which continued to make no sense. He had a thick Newfoundland accent, his vowels bouncing as though elasticized. Bill suddenly fell silent. He took off his coat, but not his work gloves, and stood on the other side of her desk. He was still breathing heavily, and his coveralls rustled every time he took in air. After about a minute, he took a slow, deep breath, removed his gloves, and moved to shake her hand. He smelled like diesel. Without thinking, and before she could stop herself, she put her hand to her nose and sniffed. There was a pause, and he locked eyes with her. Somewhat calmly, Bill explained that he'd arrived just after she'd gone on vacation. In the three weeks he'd been there, he said, he had not had one decent meal. This was, unfortunately, not an uncommon complaint. The food situation had been deteriorating since Christmas, and moving two rotating cooks into the guesthouse hadn't appeased people in the way that had been expected. Instead, it just gave people more to complain about. They developed preferences, allegiances. One cook's brown sauce was superior to the other's, they insisted, despite the fact that all the brown sauce was made from the same dusty powder. One cook's meat sauce was superior to that of the other, despite the fact that it had been sent to town from the mine site, prepared by neither of of the cooks in question. The white sauce was delicious. The white sauce was wallpaper paste. So much cheap frozen meat, so much sauce, so much disagreement.
"I ain't fuckin' around," he said. "We need snacks for morning breaktime. I don't want no bullshit pudding cups for snacks. Pudding isn't for morning break. My men need cookies. And Red Rose tea. Not that fuckin' Tetley bullshit. Nothing is worth this bullshit in this fuckin' cold! But I'M diabetic! So I can't haves cookies. I need bananas. I will pull my men, and we will walk. Like I said, I ain't fuckin' around. We gotsta to have the shit we asked for, or we will walk." He turned on his heel and left. She needed to appease Bill. Barge season was close at hand, and he and his crew were repairing an ancient, rusty, dilapidated crane that was to be used to offload materials. Without the crane, the entire mining project was sunk. So she went out and bought the cookies and the tea and the bananas, and several hundred dollars more in snacktime-appropriate groceries.
The next morning at ten, she heard the back door slam. She heard him swearing his way down the hall to her office. She rose and stood by the door for his arrival, which she quickly shut behind him as he entered the room. Again, he was swearing and sweaty and red. "Macaroni is bullshit," he muttered, seemingly to nobody in particular. "I comes up here, and I work some fuckin' hard in this God-foresaken shithole of a town, and they can't even serve me real fuckin' juice? It don't have to be freshly squeezed or nothing', but not even from concentrate?" He drew a deep breath. His face grew redder still. "And then this?! Macaroni is bullshit. My wife knows better than to put bullshit macaroni on my fuckin' table. She would never serve me fuckin' macaroni." A long-distant customer service job had taught her to ask probing questions in the face of perplexing complaints. No, he did not have a gluten allergy. Yes, he liked spaghetti just fine. But no, he would not eat macaroni, and he would pull his crew and leave town if macaroni appeared on the table again, without a moment's hesitation. She suggested that perhaps the matter could be resolved by simply not eating the macaroni on the days that it was served, but this was not satisfactory to Bill. So at 2 pm, when she knew the cook would be taking her mid-day nap, she snuck up to the house and threw out all the macaroni in the pantry.
Two days later, he again presented himself in her office. It was breaktime, and he was loudly insistent that the groceries had been stolen, throwing accusations at the local housekeepers who worked days at the guesthouse. She defended the housekeepers, and in a patronizing tone, explained how quickly groceries get eaten in a house of 15 people. She reminded Bill of her long-standing experience in matters relating to the crew house, and ushered him out the door, promising to buy more food. She went out and bought two kinds of cookies and tea, a dozen very green bananas (at $6/lb), a wide assortment of non-macaroni foodstuffs, brought them to the house, then went back to work.
The next day, Bill returned. Again. He was clutching a black plastic garbage bag that appeared to be mostly empty. His hands quickly fell limply to his sides, dropping the bag. It hit the floor with a muffled thud, and the bag rustled in the draft that blew under the door. He took two steps towards her. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. She could only imagine what the problem was this time. "They were the only bananas I could get, Bill. It's the Arctic. I am doing my best. But you need to meet me halfway." He opened his eyes. He took another deep breath. He nudged the bag towards her with his steel-toed boot. He looked her in the eyes.
"Some fuckin' eskimo got into the fuckin' kitchen. She corrected him, reprimanded him for using the offensive term. "Shit, man. In the kitchen." Again, he nudged the bag with his boot, pushing it even closer to her. "Someone got into the house. Someone got into the kitchen." "We went for break. We went for cookies and tea." "And bananas", she interjected, sarcastically. He looked her in the eye. He was not amused. "My men," he continued, "sat down for tea. In the kitchen." In the kitchen, he said, on top of the garbage can, they found a pair of men's briefs. The briefs had been "unloaded in", he said. Deliberately removed, then extensively, enormously, and attentively shat in. "You asked for shit for the kitchen?" she joked. He did not laugh, and she had to buy two $11 cartons of orange juice a day for a month so he wouldn't tell her supervisor.
Just another day at work.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
See-Kow-Me-Took
Everything, it seems, is on the barge. The ice came in early this year--a full month earlier than last--trapping the barges in towns which were not their final destinations. Wedding dresses, snowmobiles, building supplies, furniture, and case upon case of pop.
He has a girlfriend and two young children, and his truck is on a barge. It's not his truck, rather it belongs to the company for which he works. He knows it's there, has photographs, like many others do of the things on the barges. Photographs of objects rendered intangible by distance, nature, and impossible Arctic logistics.
His family isn't on the barge, but they might as well be. Not terribly far when referring to a map, but inaccessible, removed enough to nearly not exist. She doesn't care about the things on the barges. They are just things, and she doesn't feel their absence, only the inconveniences that their absence cause for her. Initially, she feels the same way about his children.
It has become a bit of a joke or at least a stock answer of sorts to every question asked. Where is the office furniture? Where are the tools? Where are the toilets? Where is the photocopier? Has anyone seen my sister? Why can't you get wholewheat bread in this shithole town? The answer is simple, and always the same: "See kow me took". It's on the barge.
At first, it is frustrating. The barges nearly make it to town before getting turned around, and there is hope for a few days that a thaw might occur. It does not. Eventually, it becomes apparent that the items are trapped, not to be received until the summer, a full year after being ordered. Once this sinks in, it becomes a joke. The waiting is over, and people move on, able to survive without the things they thought they needed. They move on, planning to sell the snow machines still on the barge in favor of next year's model. No-one seems to notice how funny it all is--a culture seemingly averse to planning for anything in advance, planning obsessively, only to have it consistently derailed by predictably unpredictable weather. Sometimes, it makes her laugh to herself. Then again, it isn't her wedding dress stuck on a barge, just out of reach.
At first, it's innocent. In fact, it's innocent for the better part of a year. But one day, something changes. His truck is still on the barge, he still comes into town every once in a while, but something changes. She wonders if perhaps he'd been eyeing her all along, because she's never met anyone who falls in love as quickly as she does. But he does, and has. Suddenly, his children are real. Their absence is problematic, but not like a missing toilet or ATV. It is problematic because they are real, and they matter, suddenly. Suddenly, and somehow, she might love them. Not like a missing wedding dress.
He is as far away as the barge, but in the opposite direction. He is barely less abstract than the truck, but he is absolutely real. He has a girlfriend and 2 young boys and his truck is still on the barge, but he is not.
He has a girlfriend and two young children, and his truck is on a barge. It's not his truck, rather it belongs to the company for which he works. He knows it's there, has photographs, like many others do of the things on the barges. Photographs of objects rendered intangible by distance, nature, and impossible Arctic logistics.
His family isn't on the barge, but they might as well be. Not terribly far when referring to a map, but inaccessible, removed enough to nearly not exist. She doesn't care about the things on the barges. They are just things, and she doesn't feel their absence, only the inconveniences that their absence cause for her. Initially, she feels the same way about his children.
It has become a bit of a joke or at least a stock answer of sorts to every question asked. Where is the office furniture? Where are the tools? Where are the toilets? Where is the photocopier? Has anyone seen my sister? Why can't you get wholewheat bread in this shithole town? The answer is simple, and always the same: "See kow me took". It's on the barge.
At first, it is frustrating. The barges nearly make it to town before getting turned around, and there is hope for a few days that a thaw might occur. It does not. Eventually, it becomes apparent that the items are trapped, not to be received until the summer, a full year after being ordered. Once this sinks in, it becomes a joke. The waiting is over, and people move on, able to survive without the things they thought they needed. They move on, planning to sell the snow machines still on the barge in favor of next year's model. No-one seems to notice how funny it all is--a culture seemingly averse to planning for anything in advance, planning obsessively, only to have it consistently derailed by predictably unpredictable weather. Sometimes, it makes her laugh to herself. Then again, it isn't her wedding dress stuck on a barge, just out of reach.
At first, it's innocent. In fact, it's innocent for the better part of a year. But one day, something changes. His truck is still on the barge, he still comes into town every once in a while, but something changes. She wonders if perhaps he'd been eyeing her all along, because she's never met anyone who falls in love as quickly as she does. But he does, and has. Suddenly, his children are real. Their absence is problematic, but not like a missing toilet or ATV. It is problematic because they are real, and they matter, suddenly. Suddenly, and somehow, she might love them. Not like a missing wedding dress.
He is as far away as the barge, but in the opposite direction. He is barely less abstract than the truck, but he is absolutely real. He has a girlfriend and 2 young boys and his truck is still on the barge, but he is not.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Blazers Not Optional / Shinan Govani's Nipple
I have a friend. No, wait. Read on. It gets better.
I have a friend, and she's a babe. Every time she and I go out, ridiculous things happen. On my birthday, we wound up at a frat party (red solo cups and tray after tray of jello shots). Another time, I got punched by a homeless woman. Last night, she took me as her +1 to some TIFF (Toronto International Film Festival)-related party, sponsored by a vodka company. The whole thing was on a parkade roof. Getting to and from the party involved a high-speed, terrifying golf cart ride. And by terrifying, I mean shrieking, holding on for dear life, and coming VERY close to wetting myself on the way up. I was anxious about the "fancy party", I had a full bladder, and sitting backwards on a racing golf cart nearly pushed me over the edge. As we took our first turn, my friend yelled, "WE DIDN'T SIGN A WAIIIIIIVER!", and all I could think of was, 'I need to fall off this thing rightfriggingnow. I need new teeth and to have my nose straightened (it got broken by a truck door in 110km/hr winds in the Arctic) and I need a reason not to work for another few months.' We screamed and yelled and a little bit of pee maybe came out, but I failed to fall off. The universe provides me a bounty of potential riches, and still, I cannot succeed. I take lemons and...promptly find an open wound to squeeze the juice into.
Anyway, we made it, and I have never seen so many blazers in my life. We caught Shad's set (more on that sometime soon), had some cocktails, and saw our respective favourite Canadian gossip journalists. This is where I admit to loving Shinan Govani. I got pretty excited about meeting him and I made him laugh and he was wearing a really great shirt and I asked if I could touch it and he said yes and then I touched it and then I realized that I'd totally just stroked his nipple. I am a total liability. I stroked Shinan Govani's nipple. Through his shirt, but still.
You can't take me anywhere.
I have a friend, and she's a babe. Every time she and I go out, ridiculous things happen. On my birthday, we wound up at a frat party (red solo cups and tray after tray of jello shots). Another time, I got punched by a homeless woman. Last night, she took me as her +1 to some TIFF (Toronto International Film Festival)-related party, sponsored by a vodka company. The whole thing was on a parkade roof. Getting to and from the party involved a high-speed, terrifying golf cart ride. And by terrifying, I mean shrieking, holding on for dear life, and coming VERY close to wetting myself on the way up. I was anxious about the "fancy party", I had a full bladder, and sitting backwards on a racing golf cart nearly pushed me over the edge. As we took our first turn, my friend yelled, "WE DIDN'T SIGN A WAIIIIIIVER!", and all I could think of was, 'I need to fall off this thing rightfriggingnow. I need new teeth and to have my nose straightened (it got broken by a truck door in 110km/hr winds in the Arctic) and I need a reason not to work for another few months.' We screamed and yelled and a little bit of pee maybe came out, but I failed to fall off. The universe provides me a bounty of potential riches, and still, I cannot succeed. I take lemons and...promptly find an open wound to squeeze the juice into.
Anyway, we made it, and I have never seen so many blazers in my life. We caught Shad's set (more on that sometime soon), had some cocktails, and saw our respective favourite Canadian gossip journalists. This is where I admit to loving Shinan Govani. I got pretty excited about meeting him and I made him laugh and he was wearing a really great shirt and I asked if I could touch it and he said yes and then I touched it and then I realized that I'd totally just stroked his nipple. I am a total liability. I stroked Shinan Govani's nipple. Through his shirt, but still.
You can't take me anywhere.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Stuff I was interested in as a kid
and this is why i'm like this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhi2xtJZ2PQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhi2xtJZ2PQ
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Ricocheting Rhetoric
I have a friend who tries to be practical and unemotional when it comes to matters of the heart. He tries hard to weigh the facts, consider the reality, find the truth. I absolutely understand and respect his motivation, but there are a few problems with this, unfortunately. Truth, logic, and reality are all subjective. When you make subjectives your absolutes, you make your opinion the only one that matters. You become incapable of actual compromise, of seeing other people's perspectives. While it's true that perspective IS reality, when you cling to YOUR reality SO tenaciously, you sometimes end up alone in your righteousness.
I worry that this is the situation he might find himself in. I worry, because he's basically my favourite.
I worry that this is the situation he might find himself in. I worry, because he's basically my favourite.
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