Maybe he’s not really crying, doesn’t matter, I’m already walking up the stairs.  I leave the door to my son’s room slightly ajar to allow a small beam of light through.  Once Nathan, sitting on his bed, sees me, he lies back down; he’s ready for sleep.  I think: Why can’t you just fall asleep yourself?  I don’t say anything the entire time, just re-cover him in blankets and gently play with his hair.  Head massages are so nice. sometimes while watching television, Janine will play with my hair and it puts me right to sleep.

It’s three in the morning and I don’t sleep very well most days.  That is, I am awake late into the night.  Sometimes it’s fun but sometimes it sucks monkey chum.  Before I heard Nate crying I was contemplating bottling some beer I have sitting in a carboy downstairs.  I thought: well, I might be done by 5am, should I?  Ugh, that would make it so late.  I think I’d almost decided to just go to bed.

Nathan’s lying in his bed while I sit beside it, rubbing his hair.  I’ve recently changed his bedtime routine to actually take place in bed instead of sitting in the rocking chair to have his milk, story and song.  (The chair had to move to the room being prepared for our new baby.  I didn’t want the baby’s arrival and the disappearance of his chair to happen at the same time).  So instead of Nathan nestled into my arms as we sit in the rocking chair, his head now lays in my lap and I give him a head rub and play with his hair while singing a bedtime song.  Routines help kids (and adults) know what to do.  Repeating the head rub part of the routine sends Nathan’s elastic kid brain the “go to sleep” message.  We swaddled him as a baby and I’ve been singing “The Rainbow Connection” to him since we brought him home from the hospital.  That kid’s going to fall asleep if he ever watches the Muppet Movie.  Ha!  That would be funny.

Janine’s mother gave her back-scratches as a baby and to this day she likes it if I scratch her back a little before bedtime.  As I coax Nathan back to sleep I wonder if my mother played with my hair as a baby.  I wonder if that’s why I always end up asleep on the couch when Janine plays with my hair.  Which can be annoying (“oh, it’s 9pm and I’m asleep.  Well shit, I’d expected to get a few more things done!”).  Then I wonder if I’m normally up until 3am because my mom addicted me to hair rubs and that’s the only way I can fall asleep now.  And I’m doing the same thing to Nathan!

Oh my god, I’m a horrible parent!  Nathan is going to have the same bad sleeping habits because of me.  I quickly stop playing with his hair and rub his back.  Well that won’t work, now he’ll just need someone to rub his back.  I rub his cheek.  No!  Hair rub.  Shit, have I woken him up with my confused parenting? 

I resolve that, starting tomorrow, I’ll change his nap routine to a different one.  I begin running through scenarios like rubbing his hands with my hands, because he could learn to do that himself.  But how annoying would that be to a future spouse “Nathan, would you stop fidgeting I’m trying to sleep!” Maybe I could teach him to rub his feet together to fall asleep.  No wait, that doesn’t even make any sense.  I suppose he could just play with his own hair to fall asleep.  But a boy playing with his hair is a little effeminate, maybe I shouldn’t think that way but is that really the kind of man I want to raise. One that plays with his hair?

Well clearly the only good routine is one where I don’t touch him at all, then he’ll learn to sleep all by himself.  Except wait, that won’t be very fun.  Cuddling with your children is one of the perks of being a parent.  To forgo that?  Nope, doesn’t matter, I have to be strong willed, for the good of my child’s sleeping habits.  If I never get to cuddle with him at bed time, it will be a small price to pay. 

Then I realize giving him a bottle of milk, reading a story and singing to him are also going to have to disappear, or else he will have to find a very accommodating spouse.  Then I realize I’m an idiot, because of course routines do change over time, we used to swaddle him and now we don’t.  All the babies of all the other parents all had bed time routines that changed over time.  Yet at some point, one’s bedtime routines become fixed, or less flexible.  Janine loves backscratches and they drive me up the wall.  But Nathan’s only two.  I breathe a deep sign of relief as I realize it’s not too late, I haven’t permanently damaged Nathan.  I can still fix my mistake! 

I begin mapping out an imaginary timeline in my head and imagine dots sliding back and forth along it.  Each dot representing a different transition in bedtime routine.  The ending of head rubs, the removal of the milk bottle (perhaps with an intermediary stage the bottle being replaced with warm milk drunk downstairs in the kitchen, once he can handle non-sippy cups), maybe even the removal of songs.  I slide each dot back and forth on this imaginary scale.  Is head rubs at four years acceptable?  It seems a bit close to five and I worry I may need to terminate the behaviour sooner.  Better too soon than ruining Nathan’s future sleep.  My gut tells me stories naturally last a lot longer, plus, reading is good, but when do I stop reading to him?  I’ll think about that one later I guess, it’s a long way off.  Songs probably need to end sooner, because after a while, it’s kinda gay, isn’t it?  I mean I wouldn’t sing to a ten year old, would I?  The worrisome one is definitely the head rub as that imaginary dot is closest to his current age. 

I pause.  Then again, I may just be overthinking this a little.  I look down at Nathan.  That dude is asleep.  I wonder how much time has elapsed.

I rise from kneeling on the floor beside his bed, tip toeing out of his room back into the brightly lit hallway.  The dog is staring at me with eyes that expound how appreciative more ear scratches would make him.  The mental fog of analytical overdrive begins to fade away and I think: Yup, overthought that just a bit.

Only: I’m going to think more about it.  And the best way to set good hygiene habits, and the pros and cons of ad-hoc versus scheduled baths, and the best way to brush his teeth, and the best kind of child toilet seat to get, and how I can change this, and that.  The mind keeps churning and churning and churning. 

I must insist that you click on the video above. That video is exactly how I feel about my new job.  It makes me laugh but also, hell yay! I’M A STAY AT HOME DAD!

Spoon practice with chocolate pudding

Fennel tastes good

The Day of The Fish Bracelet: One morning Nathan made a bracelet out of foam fish and proceed to run around like a crazy thing.  When did he get so tall?

In January my wife and I switched roles.  Her year of maternity leave ended and she went back to work.  I’d arranged for my contract to end in December and I stayed home.  I’d never spent an entire day alone with my son until then.  I remember dreading coming home from my office job because infants are terrible conversationalists, they just cry.  Binary communication: 0: Okay; 1: Scream and Cry

That first month or two is a complete haze of memories.  It was pure survival mode as I acclimatized to my new life.  Discovering when it was okay to ignore his cries and when I needed to stop whatever I was doing and pay attention.  I remember staring at the clock thinking when is Janine coming home? and regretting all the times I didn’t immediately rush home from work.  Sometimes you need backup.

I’ve gone on record saying the stay-at-home parent’s job is the hardest but it’s also the easiest.  Some days all I do is play with Nathan, we laugh, we giggle and I’m nothing more than a tour guide as he explores the world around him.  Shopping at Wal-Mart becomes a fun adventure and Ikea roxors because I let him out of the shopping cart and he runs around playing with all the display toys.  I play too.  Every dad should force their baby’s mama out of the house on a regular basis and just spend some one on one time with their kid(s).  It can be frightening and scary and the complete opposite of fun, for many many days in a row even.  But it’s worth it.  There’s no other way to get that parenting confidence then having absolutely no backup.

Parent’s complain, a lot.  If you listen to them it’s like they are constantly bitching about their child(ren) or how difficult their life is.  The other way parents behave is a polite nod and say “everything's good” with a smile; that just means you don’t know them well enough or they can’t complain just now because if they did they would have a complete melt down. Something’s always bad.  When you get into a good bitch session about parenthood the conversation can go on for hours.  Some of the stories about the stupid thing your child did take minutes of conversation just to set up, they require background information, geographic details and in-depth descriptions of your state of mind with caveats like how they’d been keeping you awake all nights for many days in a row.  It also keeps us sane, letting vent on these problems, knowing that we are not, in fact, alone.

One day Nathan decided to line up his ducks in a row.  I’d never seen him do that before.

We brush our teeth together.  Not wearing a shirt is a nice perk of my job

This is the razor I made for Nathan using a food clip

So now we can shave together too.  I got self conscious and put on a shirt for the photo.

I theorize we, as parents, complain because the good things about parenthood are so minor in their details.  Because, actually, something’s always good.  Every single moment is what makes it worth it.  Tiny little moments like watching him spill less yoghurt all over himself as he gets better with a spoon.  Watching him play with a dinosaur instead of just chew on it.  When he learned to give us kisses.  Practicing high-fives with him and the moment where he got it.  Listening to him say “bye” to everyone we pass in the store.  Handing me a rock he just found on the ground like it’s the most awesome thing he’s ever seen and he just needs me to hold onto it for a moment so he can investigate the hundreds of other rocks nearby.  Being so proud of his sippy cup because he can carry it around and drink water whenever he wants (I mean, that’s technology).  Playing with the remote control for the fan.  Watching him in his sleep grabbing for his soother. No details, no setup, see… not really great conversation. 

But they are really great moments.  Those are some of the moments that warm my heart.  I mean where do you go from “Nathan tried to put on my shoes today”  maybe you can add “it was sooo cuuute.”  Sometimes with fellow parents you get a knowing smile as you share a mutual bond.  They say “she’s been pulling herself up on the couch lately” and you smile because you remember that moment, or you know that moment will happen someday for your child, and they smile because they are so proud of their child’s brilliance.  We parents smile at each other, as we both think of our own child.  It is a deep warm smile that I cannot really describe.  Sometimes you nod a little bit as you look at the other parent because, well, yeah, exactly.  It’s those small little things.  They’re like crack cocaine for parents.  We will endure so much just to make it to the next little hit.  Watching Nathan grab handfuls of rice and shove it into his mouth because, clearly, that is more efficient than a spoon (he’s right, y’know, it works much better).  Pointing at a stuffed animal he’d never seen before and saying “duck” (and it was a duck! How did he know?!).  Time spent with children is the potential to experience those moments. 

I get to experience more of them now.  It is a wonderful privilege.

Before and during the switch people always asked me if I was going to do computer programming from home, in the evenings.  But no.  Not even tempted.  I can barely keep up with life as it is.  I don’t have to fill out time sheets, attend meetings, or work on something I know will be completely useless to the client but is the pet project of a manager or business analyst.

I’m a stay at home dad and the core of what I do is directly relevant to raising my child.  In ten years the software I wrote will be a crumbling legacy system.  In ten years my child will still be developing into a fully fledged human being.  At some point I’ll have to go back to the office world and chances are high that I’ll never again get to spend months in a row just reading books and taking baths and going to the library and wrestling and dancing and singing.  I’m so blessed.  You’ll hear me complaining a lot, I’m sure.  It makes better stories and sometimes this is the hardest job in the world (and I’ve only got one child).

But sometimes it’s the easiest.  It’s the most rewarding work ever.  I know what Nathan’s favourite book is and I know his favourite page in a book and they’re different books. I’m going to say something now that I’ll don’t think I’ll ever be able to say again for the rest of my life, not with the same conviction:

I love my job.

My father-in-law, Ken Melnichuk, passed away this last weekend; he was sixty four.

Ken, we will all miss you so so much.  You were taken far too soon.  I was so looking forward to spending more time with you.  To go hunting with you and Curtis again.  To hearing more of your dirty and racist jokes while we shared a drink out in the garage.  To listening to you go on and on and on about crazy good deals you once got, or about that guy who tried to screw you over, but you got him first, or the correct way to fix a television set or how to invest money, or anything really.  I wish you were still here with us today, but you’re not.  You’ve left this earth, and I wish you peace on your journey to whatever happens next.

I’m glad I had the chance to know you.  We shared some drinks, and I’ve stole some of your old cigarettes and smoked them, so now I can say we’ve shared a smoke too.  We had some good conversations.  You raised my wife and my brother from another mother.  Without you, my life would be less rich.  Thank you.  I’ll miss you Ken.

Ken is survived by his wife Thelma, his children Janine (married to James) Keller and Curtis (married to Jen) Melnichuk.  He is also survived by his sister, Marcia Melnichuk.  Ken was predeceased by his parents James and Katherine of Myrnam, Alberta.  There will be a service for him on Thursday Dec 17 at 1:30 pm at Memories Funeral Home, 13403 St. Albert Trail

Normally the railing of the bridge looks like this:

After I hit the side of the bridge, it looked like this:

                               Some pictures of the truck

Three weeks ago I could not walk without a cane and was motoring around Walmart in a courtesy scooter. The same day that I skewered my hand with furniture I rolled my left ankle, badly, walking down the steps of Ryan Turner’s new house. Like most sprains it hurt but could be ignored. A day or two later I could not walk, sit, stand, anything, I was a useless lump of human flesh that spent a lot of time reading The Unincorporated Man, an excellent novel. An X-ray assured me there was no break, it was just a sprain. My hand was tender but the wound had yet to fester. The hand was surely aggravated by having to grip the cane so tightly. My foot is better now although I believe it will be a long time before I can run anywhere. I’ll be feeling it for another month at least.

I sometimes feel like a bullet speeding out of a gun. My life is the span of time from leaving the barrel to hitting the target. 32 years?150 years? How long will I live? I don’t know; it’s as brief a time as a bullet’s journey. Is my destination obvious from an external perspective? When I feel like the bullet all I sense is the rush of air and time around me. Moving irrevocably forward through the fourth dimension I feel life itself pulsate with the same rhythm that burns in my arm. Toss another log on the fire, burning ’til the fuels exhausted, blazing with light until it fades.

I was helping Ryan and his girlfriend Carolyn move from an apartment into their new house, inside an elevator cramped with boxes, plants, furniture & random stuff, unloading a large desk that we’d placed on its side (in order to get the doors closed). We shimmied the bottom of the desk into the lobby, tilting the desk back towards me. I gripped the leg with my hand and let the weight slide towards me. I hadn’t noticed the wood had separated, a bit further up the desk leg. The thick icicle of wood slid deeply into the palm of my hand before snapping off. I kept things steady with the other hand and eased the desk to the ground You’ve got to be manly about getting a sliver: shit happens, eh? Still, I’d never had a sliver that drew blood and a lot of it. I removed the Deadly Spike of Wooden Death as cleanly as possible. I was sure I’d left a piece behind but picking at it with a pin didn’t reveal anything. I covered it with a band-aid so I wouldn’t drip blood on any of the furniture.

I was overjoyed, a day after spraining my foot, to remember I had a tensor bandage from the last time. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a serious foot injury. I thought perhaps I should just buy a good cane, so I’ll have one around the next time I injure my foot It’s going to happen. _{You don’t think that way at sixteen.} I’m twice that age and now apparently do. Age and experience have naturally changed me; I’m more serious, I joke less, I cry less, I love more easily, I know myself much much much better, but thankfully still not very well and sometimes I still feel like life itself is a towering inferno inside of me, burning so very bright like the ember tossed into the campfire air. I forget how to be one way in my pursuit of being something else. I can live one way or another but never ever can I go back in time.

^{There’s so much to do here.} I’m speeding forward, breaking apart as I pass through time. I used to like thinking about what it all meant. These days I’ve found a comfortable place to be. From my current vantage the questions seem fundamentally unknowable in a way that is exciting beyond my understanding. I’m going to die, but until then I’m going to live. Apparently  infected arms and swollen ankles are how I’m living which, all things considered, is really just fine. Sitting on the scooter in Walmart I felt such empowerment. I have no conception of what being handicapped would be like, but I know how much I loved that scooter. I had mobility after by body denied me that. I have never loved Walmart more than I did that day. _{What else will I get to experience in this life?}

^{I am burning brightly.} Hurtling forward with a speed I can’t comprehend. I look around and sometimes see others on nearby trajectories. They hit their target and suddenly that person isn’t alive any more and the rest of us bullets keep moving forward with no way to go back. I’ve been fired from a gun and I will continue moving until I stop. And what an amazing ride it all is.
     I love the wind on my cheeks, the burning fire inside,
            the roar of a life well lived.

He’s snuggled right next to me and swaddled in a blanket that says “I ♥ Cats!”  Suddenly I find myself staring at him and thinking “does he?”  I mean, does he truly love cats.  And for that matter, where did this blanket even come from?  Was it a gift from someone who liked cats? Did Janine think “Nathan likes cats” and pick one up for him.  If so, how did she know?  It must happen enough times (someone desiring to mark their child with cat-friendly apparel) that someone went and made up a cloth pattern.  So this child-that-like-cats-thing has been going on for a while, I suppose.  I’m just a little surprised by it all.

Battery has only 2% charge. Must click on Publish!

A bootstrap is a tiny program that a computer executes. Its entire purpose is to prepare the computer to run a much larger program.  One of the most well known examples is the BIOS program, the first thing your computer runs; its the text screen you see counting down your memory during a computer’s boot-up. It does its thing and handles stuff most people don’t really understand, finally yielding way to whatever happens next in the boot-up process (taking its name from bootstrap), typically loading an operating system.

Another bootstrap program in action.  The purple bruise on his head is from facing the wrong way ‘round during labour.
 

 
I iz all up in yer heartstrings, playing ’em like bitches.
 

Because I know you’re wondering: Yes!You can click the pictures for higher resolution.  Some are printable quality, some aren’t; one camera is good, one aren’t.

It turns out that breastfeeding has its own bootstrap program called colostrum.  It’s a special high-sugar milk produced by the mother’s breast during the first three days of a baby’s life.  It’s been fascinating and exhausting to watch my beautiful little boy go through nature’s own little bootstrap program.  Each feeding giving just enough energy to propel him to the next.  I was scared and amazed to realize eating a single meal was so exhausting that in the process he’d use up most of the energy he’d gotten from the last meal.  But as each feeding went by he grew more awake.  Our Nathan slowly grew more and more into focus.

Things have gone comparatively well for us.  Of all the things that could possibly go wrong, really, life has been pretty uneventful.  But our particular troubles have been a very slow running and slightly buggy bootstrap program.  It turns out only 50% of babies take to breastfeeding without trouble. 

After a long and difficult labour (details below), Nathan Kenneth Keller was born to the world at 6 lb 9 oz on Dec 19, 11.22pm.  The doctors like to see a baby’s first pee within 24 hours and his first poop with 48.  But during the first day he mainly just slept.  And when the second day was almost over, with no diapers that needed changing, we were growing concerned.  The biggest problem was Nathan just wouldn’t eat.

A nipple shield. Bad idea?

Once near his mom’s warmth and heartbeat, he’d fall asleep rather than breastfeed.  When presented with a bottle, he’d kinda suck, but without taking in much nutrients.  On a nurse’s advice, Janine used what’s called a nipple shield, a small plastic appliance that fits on the breast, making it pointier and more bottle-like.  It seemed to work, as Nathan would suck on the nipple shield for a while before becoming exhausted by the effort.  Then we’d top him up with formula or breast milk.  Once he’d finished feeding Janine would use a breast pump to providing milk for his next feeding.  That usually took 1½ hours. Within another 1½ we’d have to coax Nathan awake to repeat the process. At times I was rubbing ice cubes on his feet to try and keep him awake enough to feed.  It left little time for anyone to sleep. Especially Janine; that woman is a miracle.

At 47 hours, with the threat of a catheter looming large in Nathan’s future, he let go his first pee.  He soaked the diaper, the blanket and the other blanket.  Shortly afterwards he had his first poop too.  Except he was slowly turning more and more yellow, a condition called jaundice.  Because he wasn’t peeing frequently enough, the toxins were building up in his system, instead of being deposited in messy diapers.  Maybe he’d feed better if he had more sleep, but we couldn’t allow it because of the threat of jaundice.  So we kept at it, nurse shift after nurse shift, the conflicting advice kept mounting, frustrating us.  We wanted someone to just make it all work, except apparently that was our job.  And we didn’t know shit.

At three or four days Janine noticed that the nipple shield was consistently empty of breast milk after Nathan’s “feeding” sessions.  While he would suck, he just wasn’t strong enough to get any milk.  It’s so devastating to watch your child fail at eating.  I always understood we’d be teaching our child many things: language, walking or the difference between Klingons and Jem’Hadars.  But eating?  How to eat?  Don’t babies, like, start knowing something??  I’m ashamed to admit staring at my own flesh and blood and thinking “Dear god, my child is too stupid to eat.” Of course that’s false, he’s incredibly brave and smart.  Perhaps I secretly thought a magic spell would kick in and turn me instantly into super-compassionate-parent-man.  But it was still just little fragile me, only now I had this little guy that totally depended on Janine and I for help.  So what else is there to do? We kept trying.

We gave up on breastfeeding, temporarily.  There didn’t seem a point once learning he was getting zero calories from the experience.  Bottle-fed breast milk was the order of the day.  Nathan’s intake slowly went from 5mL to 10mL to 15, 20, 30!  With all that liquid going in, it was starting to come out the other end.  The jaundice mostly cleared up and it was time to go, five days since we’d entered the hospital.  Once home he increased to 50mL, then 80mL of breast milk. We started following his rhythms and – sweet merciful lord – he’d sleep for four hours or more.  Luxury!  It’s scary to think that 100 years ago, Nathan might have been one of the ones that didn’t make it.  But he did.  Now his problems are almost routine; banal.

Two days after discharge, Cindy-the-public-health-nurse seemed to cast a magic spell with the tips she gave us.  We discarded the nipple shield and kept trying with the breast.  I’d stick a little syringe in the corner of his mouth and squirt small amounts of milk in his mouth, giving him a hint as to why we were torturing him (because dear God, would he scream).  Six days after birth, late Christmas night, Nathan actually latched onto the breast and sucked for five whole minutes.  The two of us were so overjoyed, we called it our Christmas miracle.  Was it getting rid of the nipple shield?  Had it just taken Nathan time to figure it out?  Did he just not have the energy until now?  Over the next two days he got progressively better to the point where I’m now mostly irrelevant to feeding process.  And Janine, God bless her, has kept trying throughout, never giving up and showing more patience and resolve than I ever could have imagined.

Now that he’s breast feeding, instead of bottle, he’s awake every two or three hours during the night for feedings (of course, during the day it’s every four or five hours).  Random steps forward, random steps backwards.  The colostrum has long since disappeared in favour of rich nourishing mother’s milk. The next cycle in the bootstrapping process has commenced and we’re just being carried along with it, Janine and I.

I wonder where he will take us next.

Happy grandparents.


And apparently, we are now parents.
(remember click if you want higher res)

P.S. Don't miss the video I embedded up there. Lots of fun clips of us and Nathan.

I’d like to introduce the newest addition to my family.  Born Dec 19 2008 at around 11.25pm.  He weighed 6 lb 9 oz.

I think we’ve decided on the name, but we’re still getting to know our new child; give us time.  It’s less than 24 hours since he entered this world, and our lives.  Check back here, when we have a name we’ll let everyone know.

Janine had a very long and stressful labor, but is recovering nicely.  I’m on a brief leave from the hospital to collect supplies and I’ve already been away too long. 

I first drank Tamdhu in September 2006.  It wasn't the first scotch I drank but it was the first in Scotland.  It's become tied to strong memories, times of occasion and celebration. Here's how I spent my first bottle.

Betty the Gas-Whore | Money & Other Friends | The Shit Dancer

Money

A tasty brew for manly men

Nobody needs to feel bad for my finances.  I've loved computers and programming from an early age, by a quirk of fate it pays well.  I wasn't much in debt, but the shiny smooth seductive plastic drew me into its orbit yet again.  I bought the first bottle of Tamdhu as an incentive for when I paid them off.

My credit-card balance finally returned to zero after a year long hiatus.  I'd accepted a new job and had good feelings about it. I paused for a moment and enjoyed where my career had taken me.  The horizons looked as beautiful as some peaks I'd just climbed.  Endless questions I'd faced about what to do next faded into blissful oblivion. Some questions would one day return, I enjoy change.  But for the moment I was back in that enjoyable mind-set: they're going to pay me to write code!  hotdamn!  I sipped Tamdhu in the newly painted purple room of the first house I owned and life was good.

My next memories of Tamdhu revolve around my friends Cliff and Vlad. Around the time Cliff and I had some long late night conversations, and around the time Vlad moved back to Edmonton.

Cliff

 
Dear Lord, Thank you for this beer I am about to receive. 

Cliff's tasteless brand of humor and quick wit is legendary.  Thanks to his comments on this site, I've had people ask "So... [long pause] who's Cliff?"  He's the guy who can string together a joke about the holocaust, Warren Moon, yo' mamma, why raping babies is a good thing and, should he choose, somehow involve a relevant and topical dissertation on the Iraq situation and the problems with no-fault insurance laws [go on Cliff, that's a challenge]. In a rant about ranting, Shaun once posited that "maybe we rant for the sake of amusing Cliff".  It's true. There is something inherently fun in this past time.  Cliff and I have finished many coffees in all-night diners cracking each other up and mightily offending other tables in the process. I once caused the premature end of coffee by accidentally yelling (not to Cliff) "why don't you come over here and suck my dick!" Out-offending Cliff was an unsought but highly prestigious accolade.  Also one time me, Chad and Kelly made slurpee shoot out of Cliff's nose and he nearly drove us off the highway.

Befriending Cliff, I learned a bit more about what being a real man was. Not a sensitive 90s guy pussy except when strictly necessary to get laid.  Returning from Scotland I announced I now liked Scotch and Jack Daniels:

"About fucking time!" Cliff grunted in disgust.

It took years until Cliff and I had conversations other than just laughing.  I'm not a sports guy and he's not a computer guy.  Over time we found topics other than “Christopher Reeve – stuntman extraordinaire/paperweight for hire.” Is Cliff an onion? Of course not, he's a human being.  And he's my friend.  And I'm glad to be counted as one of Cliff's friends too.

Vlad

Wanted by authorities for serial awesomeness.

Vlad once made his ears ring for a week and embedded plastic shrapnel in his leg because he poured cold water over dry ice in a pop bottle and he was kicking it trying to make it explode.  It did.

Years later we made day trips to ski in Jasper, saw Radiohead in Vancouver, house-boated in Shuswap. We were coworkers for years and then our branch closed. I stayed home and he moved away.

I missed him.

After a few years he was suddenly back, hanging around my house, eating my potato chips and helping himself to my liquor; the sort of things I'd do at his place.  Oh, and smiling.  Everybody smiled a little bit more. 

Vlad's the one who explained money to me.  Growing up in his village: sometimes you had money and sometimes you didn't.  When you had money, drinks were on you and whatnot.  When you didn't, one of your friends would look after things. Everyone was happy and sometimes no one had money, but you still had friends.  And I have Vlad, and that was much better than not being in debt, but this year, I had that too.

Curtis and I help kill the Moose

My father-in-law, Ken, reminds me in some ways of my early friendship with Cliff, only without the holocaust jokes, or rather, any conversation at all.  But we are likewise two different men.  Instead of humor we are bound by a deep love of the same woman; his daughter, my wife.  So, I try.  He chats about hunting a lot and has hunted since he was a young boy. He has long relationships with many surrounding farmers. I came along for my first hunting trip, when he and brother-in-law, Curtis, went looking for moose.

I expected walking through bushes, wearing camouflage, waiting silently for animals to tread nearby.  Instead we drove around all day in a truck and spent our nights in a small cabin with electricity.  And with my new father and new brother that night I drank Tamdhu. 

...the universe flows through me...

The next day, certain a moose was hiding within a densely forested bit of land, Ken dropped Curtis and I off along the outer part of the woods.  Curtis can be a big and intimidating guy, especially when you're dating his sister.  Except then you get to know him and realize he's just the kindest man ever, even when you're dating his sister, or perhaps despite it.  And we're both computer guys, and we always have lots to talk about. 

Curtis and I waited for Dad to drive 'round to the clearing opposite before moving forward. Now parked, Ken waiting for signs. Suddenly -- a commotion!

First one moose burst into the field, then another.  Normally moose stick to tree lines, but these bolted past him, headed for parts unknown.  Steadying his rifle, he shot the moving animal. It slowed, taking a few final steps, then another, then two more before finally stopping.

It stood there.

Standing in an open clearing. Suddenly contemplating how lovely the sky looked today. Waiiiiting.....

Ken had indeed scored a hit, dead center. The moose, however, remained. Upright.  Ken put another bullet through its neck and it toppled to the ground.  Silly Moose, standing is for things that aren’t dead. 

I've heard that story many times. Four or five times that night.  It's wonderful. Now I've got something to talk to new Dad about. And also because I got to wield a bloody axe chopping Moose's head off before we pulled its guts out and hauled the carcass onto the truck. 

Janine, my wife, says I've been spoiled: getting a moose my first try. 

I take another helping of moose meatloaf and tell her that I won't be disappointed. I plan on bagging another one, next year.

I first drank Tamdhu in September 2006.  It wasn't the first scotch I drank but it was the first in Scotland.  It's become tied to strong memories, times of occasion and celebration. Here's how I spent my first bottle.

Betty the Gas-Whore | Money & Other Friends | The Shit Dancer

A tasty brew for manly men

Meet Betty (the Gas-Whore)

I unscrewed the bottle and took my first swig of the night. Betty the Gas-Whore, my brown camperized Van, was being towed away. I loved that Van. It was my faithful, completely unreliable 1978 Chevy power-to-the-max off-roading adventurous little go-machine. With fold-out bed, gas stove, electric cooler, sink, table, storage friendly it was wired for sound, beer and good times: Betty was leaving tonight for good. I’d promised to give it to Laura the Sailor, a Canadian I met on walkabout. She never returned my email though, so I didn't give it to her.

Taking a swig beside me is my gorgeous love bunny wife Janine. Straight from the bottle, just like me, she apparently doesn’t fuck around with the hard liquor. Her and I took Betty to Drumheller in freezing -20°C cold and visited Pony Canyon. The land sung to us a song of incredible beauty and fun. On our wedding my cousin presented us with a picture of Drumheller, unaware of the significance. The Universe conspired to send us a memento. Shortly we took it to wine country B.C., on our honeymoon. My wife shudders in the cold of our garage and passes the Tamdhu back to me. She hurries her hot ass back inside.

In the cab of the tow truck, hauling Betty away, is a fellow I met on freecycle. I originally bought the Van for $3000 (no tax if I paid cash) from a shifty used car salesman who wouldn’t let me take the old clunker off the lot to have it inspected. Karma connected me to a traveling inspector instead. The fellow hauling her away, meanwhile, had just recovered from a years long bout of cancer. Now in remission, the mechanically inclined fellow planned to take his wife and kids camping. I swore to Betty she’d be given free to her next owner; someone who could take care of her. I would tell them straight about what worked and what didn’t. No slimy salesmen. Within days of my driving away, Betty developed fatal electrical problems. It leaked gas if parked on a slope. All four tires exploded on the first trip out to the Grand Canyon; thankfully not all at once.

Anorexic me in Zion, days later I'd declare myself a willing instrument of the Universe.

That first trip Vlad, Kyle and Erron led Betty and I to Las Vegas. Kyle got food poisoning and was delirious for three days. Erron christened the van “Betty” after winning the “Name The Van Contest” requiring her to find Dixie cups of a correct size. We boys quickly appended the honorific “Gas-Whore.” We camped in Zion, one of the most majestic, radiant places God has blessed this planet with. After Vegas and an overnight hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, we bid a hasty return so I could attend the funeral of my beloved Heather. The first girl my soul was truly connected with had now passed away from this world and I was truly and forever saddened by the loss. Heather: My heart still aches and I thank you for spending some of your brief time here on this world with me.

I smoked Crystal Meth on the first day of my trip to Chicago. I was on a solo journey and indulging in an addiction I’ve long since given up. I got all sketchy tweaking out learning to tie knots. During a subsequent night driving, nothing but Red Bull in my system: I thought back to first deciding I wanted a camper van. Back to an evening driving my first car, on the way to a party to meet my friend Michelle. She and I spent years as best friends and confidants. Time I treasure. She helped me deal with some of my crippling depression and was someone I could turn to when sick of facing the question: What should I do with my life?

Answers finally came to me, on that long drive to meet her, all those years ago. A thought: I should get a van, drive around America, live by the river and never pay for more than gas. Years later, on my way to Chicago, I realized I’d done it. I’d changed my ways. No longer depressed, I had Betty and was driving free, living on roadsides (though not every day as I’d once imagined). My past self heard more from the future: I’d meet people, our lives intertwining. Oh yes, I’d thought: great way to get laid! My future self now corrected: well, not nearly as much as we hoped, and The Van was never quite the aphrodisiac I’d hoped. Yes! Getting laid all. the. time. Future me just sighed, I’d figure it out the hard way. My past self was told: If you do these things, you will follow the one thing you know you love: other people. You will be less lonely because you will be less alone. My future self now knew this to be true. My past self made it to the party and felt suddenly lighter. From that day forward things took a permanent turn for the better. The conversation over, I drove even further into the black night, Manson blaring over the speakers, ready to take the world by storm, trusty betty the Gas-Whore at my side, conquering anything in our path.

YEAH!      I traveled in time, _baby.

I am a mystical motherfucking wizard of insanely varied powers when I have the Spirit of St. Betty welled up inside. I will camp in the Scottish highland and fly to the Moon. I will burn with radiant energy and

              I kick ass.

Honest to God.  I am completely sincere as I write this.

When I was young, I begged my parents to let my stay up late so I could watch old old re-runs of Star Trek.  They went to bed and I stuck to my word and did nothing more than watch Star Trek, on RDTV (Red Deer TV), which had problems with the color red.  (ie, if the color red appeared on scren, it would appear very fuzzy and the audio would fuck up.)  Then I'd go to bed.  Watching Star Trek was honestly why I wanted to stay up.  I have no memory of how I even knew what Star Trek was. (full disclosure: fav episode: the one where they play fizbin)

Years later, I remember getting to stay up late, because Star Trek The Voyage Home  had just come out in theaters.  I believe I was pretty excited.  I don't really know.  I do remember that we missed the early show, but we as a family got to hang out downtown Edmonton so we could watch the late show.  The whole family.  I got to stay up late! and way past my bedtime  (this was an entirely cool thing for me, and I think most kids, growing up.  Because you were totally getting away with something, but with your parents permission.  Thinking about this now... this incident may have actually occured prior to watching old RTDV re-runs.  But who gives a shit.  STTVH is still my favorite movie (discolsure: 2nd fave movie: ST:Undscovered Country)

Years later, I heard about how they were going to make a new star trek.  I already knew this tv show would suck ass (although I would never use such language then).  I was in grade 5 or 6, and there was no way this could recapture the kirk/mccoy/spock, or basically, anything.  It was destined to suck (this was my actual thoughts at the time, I was so cool, eh?)  And I was completely right, it didn't compare.  It was different.  And I was so hooked.  From Encounter at Farpoint, ST:TNG roxored.  I was hooked. I drank the coolaid and it was tasty.  Only this many years after the fact can I be so detached or vaugly witty. Because at the time, my life changed, and my parents were so kind, and so awesome, that they didn't say anything or make fun of me.  All they did was say "oh cool, what's this new show that James likes?  We'll watch it too."  One day, I hope to be 0.00000000000001% as awesome as they were.  Because I'm crying as I write this.  They could have so easily discouraged me by just vaugly pointing out one of a billion flaws in the show.  But they didn't, they watched the show with me.  They loved me, and they loved the show.  i still love TNG.  It's a good show.

Then life changed for me.  things changed.  I remember being very exited when Deep Space Nine was announced.  But I watched like the first year or two, or three.  But I didn't care.  I'd made my way, painfully, akwardly, into puberty.  I got girlfriends.  I got my education.  Jobs.  Then Different Jobs.  I was computer geek and I programmed and it was fun, and star trek was a distant memory.  I remember hearing that Deep Space Nine was coming to an end and thinking "oh hey I remember that show, it kinda sucked".  So many years had passed, and I wasn't quite the geeky guy that I was, so whatever, eh?  I watched the final few episodes and thought "wow, this show got good!"  because it had some decent special effects, but it really didn't affect me that much. Not then.

But something else had happend to me, in those interviening years.  Life started to suck ass.  seriously suck ass.  I was depressed.  Then I was suicidal.  My favorite memory is waking up one morning and thinking "ahh... what a nice lovely day, wow, things are so lovely, things are beautiful in fact!"  Feeling average felt like a million buckes, and it lasted about 10-15 seconds. Then I remembered that I was James.  And I remembered what my life was like.  The only joy I had in that whole entire time was that one single day where, when I woke up, I didn't know who I was, so I got to be normal.  When I remembered: life returned to what it was every day.  I can't adequately describe it, but it was hell.  I wished I was dead every minute of every day, and every day I wasn't dead I made myself feel bad for not kiling myself, for not having the guts, for being such a pussy.  The way only  you can make yourself feel horrible, shittty, worse than shit.  Because you know all the right things to say to yourself.  I was so mean to myself.  I did it for a long. long. long. long time.  When I think about it now, I still wish I'd killed myself instead of living through it.  And most people I know now (5-10 years later) would describe me as someone happy.  I am so happy right now.  life is so good.  I'm still the only one who can possibly know how bad I was.  I am crying again.  A lot.  but suicide is a different topic, I've barely touched on how I felt.

There's no way to do ever do it justice.   And I don't really want to try.

Because I got over it.  Things got better.  All that stuff I just said was in the past.  I got laid one or two more times, which really didn't help, because I just felt bad about all the times I wasn't getting liad.  But honestly, things got good for a number of years.  All that crap was in the past, right?  Things had been good for quite a while.  Then things got bad again.  really bad.  then worse.  Only this time, I was familiar with the path, so I could travel it much, much quicker.  I got suicidal again.  I got depressed.  But this time, I had experience.

I know how to do it better.  I was much better at my job.  The job of being depressed. I wish I could travel back in time and appolgize to myself.  To hold my own hand.  To hug myself and say "it'll be okay"  But I can't.  Because I was alone.  Alone.  And So very very low

and this is right around the time that Deep Space Nine was ending.   It wasn't that popular a show.  Everyone liked Voyager, which was a bad judgement, as DS9 was better.  But as a wise friend once said "sometimes, you just want more star trek".  I didn't quite understand that logic until I found myself watching Enterprise, only because I'd watched every episode of DS9 at least 3 times.  But... I'm jumping ahead.  That's the last time, I promise.

So.  There I am.  Kinda depressed again, and I happen to be watching DS9 because, hey, what the hell, it was kindof okay, and I used to like star trek.  And Voyager sucked ass.  It was on late late at night, so what I'd do is stay up really late, because sleeping was no fun.  Then I'd smoke weed, and watch DS9, then fall asleep half way thorugh the episode because it was about 2 or 3am at that point.  Then I'd pull myself out of bed to got to a job, and a life, that I hated.  I didn't really give a shit about DS9.  I was so fucking tired, and so fucking stoned, that I would only see the first 15-30 minutes of an episode anyways.  It was just some stupid show and I liked the weed way way way more than the show.  And it was the only thing I looked forward too. 

The only thing.

Like, the only thing in my entire life.  

If you've never been suicidal, that's perfectly fine.  But imagine some mediocre show that you only vaugly care about.  Then imagine that it's the highlight of your day.   Yet you don't even care about that.  It's just an excuse to look forward too.  Something to look forward too.  (hell, that's always a good thing).  Something to smoke up too.  But it wasn't medicore, I began to realize it was good, so it made me want to keep watching.  Thank god it wasn't mediocre.

Deep Space Nine saved my life. 

I mean, honestly, I saved my own life.  DS9 was a convienient excuse.  But that's getting too introspective for my tastes. 

I spent a long time in that head-space.  watching DS9 late at night.  Months and months and months.  I wrote poems about it.

I hated my job (a computer programmer) and ended up quitting to do something else (a big-rig truck driver).  I thought I was going insane.  So did some of my friends.  So did some of my family.  But I remember being friends with this one guy who (prior to my knowing him) and went bat-shit insane (like "talking to walls insane") and I figured "Well, at least I'm not that crazy"  But (in hindsight) it's always easy to find someone who wen t a little further than you did.  People have died trying to be the one who went the furthest.  I almost did.  A couple times.

Remembering those times are some of my favorite memories

DS9 finished and started from the beginning, and I figured "Well, you know it might as well fun so see the whole plot developed'  and then "how Bashir & O'Brien got to be friends (two characters who, in Season 1, hated each other and, by Season 7, were BFF".  Then they cancelled DS9 and replaced it with Season 1 of "Big Brother" (dumbasses). 

But by then enough time had passed, and things, I dunno, nothing had changed, but things weren't seeming how they were.  I didn't have any big revilations.  [Okay, I had lots, and I've gotten lots of insights on suicidal thoughts.   But so do a bazillion other people.  But most of them are on a personal level, nothing that's going to turn me into a motivational speaker.]  But watch DS9 kept me sane.  It gave me something to do.  It gave me a reason to smoke weed.  It gave me well defined characters.  It gave me good scripts and good special effects.  It gave me a reason to stay up late.  It gave me something to look forward too.  It gave me a passion.  It gave me a reason to live.

It gave me reaason to live.

It gave me a reason to live when I couldn't think of any other reason to do so.  And yah.. I'm crying all over again. I just don't know how else to communicate that Yes, I am indeed feeling a lot of emotion on this.  So fuck you.  just fu8ck you.  You almost kill yourself and see how you deal with this shit.  fuck you.

DS9 is thr eason I'm alive.  And this shit all happened years ago.   years and years and years ago.

Nowadays, I've watched most DS9 episodes multiple times and ithink think the writing & acting is very good.  It's a good show.  But this page isn't titled "reasons why DS9 is a good show", is it?  But it is also a really good show.  Although, for many of the reason's I've just described, I will never ever claim to be any sort of objective crictic. 

But, for what it's worth

DS9 is a really good show (watch later season before you watch earlier seasons)

and DS9 saved my life

Thank you, DS9 writers, actors & staff

Your friend,

~james

This is verbatim unedited as written a few years ago. It felt wrong to edit, or even correct typos, for something so raw. It wasn't like I was sober the night this came poring out of me. It took a long time to be able to even write this down, likewise it took time to be brave enough to publish.

So, I've got a new job. The codebase is very badly designed, no one there seems to care much about the code other than "just make my chunk work", there are scheduling and project management problems, the programmers seem to get shafted whenever deadlines are important, the managers seem disconnected from the day to day running of the ship, the deploy process appears quite messed, there are two different sets of processes in place, correlating exactly to the two different teams that exist, we need to finish a bunch of unrealistic things promised before I ever had a say in the deadlines. Sound familiar?

But I'm actually liking my new job. So what makes this job so much better than the last job? If you've been in the industry as long as me, and have had more than a few jobs, you begin to take certain kinds of crap as a given. So (in my limited personal experience) if all jobs are going to suck, hard, in one way or another, how do you know what's good and what's bad?

In my recent job search, there were a few insights that were worth sharing. They were significant to me, your mileage may vary:

• A few jobs back, this one day, I just kinda.. didn't make it into work. Instead I spent the day cycling around town, at first running errands, then just doing anything that didn't involve work. I called my boss (Hi Dean!) around 2.30p and said "um... yah... so, I'm not going to be making it into work after all" My boss apparently intuitively knew this was not the time to harass me about my obvious disregard for work ethics. "(pause) Oooookaaay.. are you going to be in tomorrow?" My mistake was saying "yes." I did indeed show up the next day, and for the next year or two after that. Sometimes, you know when it's time to quit. Listen to that voice.
   
• I really wasn't certain what I wanted to do. Perhaps I could be a Business Analyst, perhaps a Project Manager, perhaps I was underpaid and needed more money, perhaps I was done with programming and I should pursue being a manager type, perhaps I should give up on the management and go back to being a programmer. Perhaps I should just throw in the towel and go be a truck driver. Then my friend Cliff told me it's helpful to decide what you don't want to do. And i realized I didn't want to work at my current company. I didn't want to be miserable day after day after day like I had been before. I didn't care about money, about careers, about any of that shite. I just really really really didn't want to work at a place that made me miserable. That was a good realization.
   
• Really, just the first point over and over and over again. I, myself, and many others I've friends with, will go to great lengths to convince themselves the job is the inherent challenge in the situation. Just get the fuck out of the job that makes you miserable. Sometimes clever people spend their cleverness creating clever reasons why they should remain miserable. But sometimes the right thing to do is to give up. Let go of things that cause you pain. Programmers are problem-solvers, and we don't like to give up on problems. But sometimes the right thing to do is to throw in the towel and decide "this code/job/etc is fucked, the only thing to do is throw it away and start from scratch" Most programmers are over-eager to throw away their own code, but will spend aeons justifying why they can't give up on a company.

I'm so glad I left. I've got a new job, a better job, it's shiney and sparkles and puts out on the first or second date. And I can't quantify why it's better than the last job, because, dear God in Heaven, it's got "issues". Yet, I'm happier.

Go. Be. Happier.

This is so me. I'll wager most who know me well could recognize the similarities.

What a conversation crutch my favorite TV Shows are. But.. I don't follow sports, lately religion isn't the endless fascination it once was, I hate celebrity gossip, feel personal gossip is best kept personal, and, well... I don't know what to talk about lately.

Not to say I don't still run off at the mouth much too frequently. So, what did everyone thing of the latest Battlestar Galactica finale? Wicked, eh? Has anyone seen Heroes? What do you think of Lost these days? Ever watched Avatar? D'yknow when Big Love starts up?

A thinner skin

Of late, I have been more open; inviting. I’d like to add honest and kind, but perhaps not.

I’ve always been a bit on the isolationist side. There have been times of many friends and times with few. Of close involvement and cavernous distance. The two parameters operate independently.

Two years ago I was hurt badly as a close friendship ended. I no longer believe in absolutes or permanence. Everything fades. Everyone will drift away. Love those you can while you can. New people might arrive, but nothing lasts forever.

Perhaps one day I’ll look back on this as sad; that I had to accept this in order to survive. But for me, now, it’s an incentive: not to take my life for granted. To truly know people for who they are; and not be bitter – or hold on too tightly – when life finally leads us apart.

As I began to learn that first lesson, I learned another: I had stopped being a good person. There was a time when I reached out to the world. Asking for reasons. Searching for people who understood. I was so lost. I was such a good person – because I understood what it was to feel damaged.

Eventually I found some answers. I found some people who understood. I healed myself. I was still a decent enough human being, but a careless one. I forgot what it was like, when you’re not so far along in your journey.

I met someone. With such a shell around them; a barricade around the person they truly were. When I saw past the defenses to the innocent person behind, I realized I didn’t know how to behave anymore. I had forgotten how to care. I wasn’t callous so much as clueless.

I learned a lot from that. Or perhaps: I realized how much I’d forgotten. It was hard to learn that. To realize, then accept.

I needed to be a better me.

I tried to do all the things you’re supposed to do: listen, support, understand, care, the usual. I learned from others. I became more in tune with myself. (It always sounds so easy, but it never is) I liked myself better and, perversely, found I needed other people less. My own barricades came down a little; my thick skin thinned. Of late, what you see is closer to what you get.

I’ve also been remembering why my skin thickened in the first place. For a writer who spends his time recording what has been, I live in the now a little too much. I forget a lot.

People are assholes. (How’s that for an absolute) Trying to be an open person leaves you vulnerable. Is it any wonder that the more sensitive among us are the ones hurt most easily? Those two parameters are also unrelated.

People are forever taking advantage of a kind and forgiving nature. And some people are just dumb. Too clueless to realize how bad they’re hurting others.

I suppose my challenge is to try to remain passionate and sincere despite the barbs tossed at me. It doesn’t make daily life any easier, yet I tell myself it’s worth it – that I don’t want to slip back into a careless dismissal of things; of people. When I look back on this, will I think it naïve? Will I even understand anymore?

I will love those I can, while I can. I will love myself. I will try to remember my lessons learned. I will try to deal with all the cruel humans. And I will try to be my own person, despite the consequences.

FUCK!

...

FUCK!!!

.......

fuck... I'm even running out of steam just trying to bitch about this.

......

FUCK!!!!

(last minute bad news)
DOUBLE FUCKING FUCKITTY FUCK!

....

*sigh*
anyone hiring?

"On average, workers spent 45 minutes less with their family during workdays in 2005 than they did two decades earlier Add it up and the lost time amounts to 195 hours less with family"

"specifically the fact workers tend increasingly to watch television alone, eat alone and spend less time on meals"

- Edmonton Journal, Feb 14 2007, Page A5

Ha Ha Ha. This makes me laugh.

Happy Heart & Fucking Flower Day.

The very first bitter-single-guy('s) day I participated in was held at my house and attended by the founder (for our group of friends) who was so bitter he was allowed to (a) ditch his girlfriend and (b) come to a singles-only party at my pad (we were forced to tell non-single people, specifically, that they were not invitied). Though all we did was watch movies and generally bitch about those fuckwads that had significant others. Still. Any guy who can ditch his girlfriend/wife/wench/etc on valentine's day to hang out with bitter single guys people has gotta be a good mate.

I say people because there were also bitter women there. Actually, even my future wife was in attendance as we watched He-Man and Starship Troopers (the best movie ever). But we had yet to look longingly at each other and think "jeez, I'd love to fuck your brains out". Which is basically the only requirement. "go forth young man, and fuck lots and lots of chicks. And if they say they 'just wanna be friends', fuck their friend, their mother, their sister and their sister's friends, look them square in the eye and say 'what? I thought we were friends? True friends hook each other up...'"

Good God I hate valentine's day. What a made-up piece of shite.

This rant is, I suppose, the attempt to re-prove my bitterness, and my singlehood. And don't let the fact that I'm married fool you. Eventually my wife and everyone I know will leave me (either by choice or they'll die). If I'm lucky I die before it happens, if not I deal with it.

I'm still single. Forever. Maybe it didn't have to be this way, but I got scarred. I was single for a little too long. Long enough that it'll never, ever, go away. One day I realized "I'm the only one who'll be around for the rest of my life. I'm the only one I can rely on."

And I'm certainly bitter. People nowadays think I'm all jovial and kind. It's mainly true. It's also got a hell of a lot to do with realizing that, fundamentally, life is a choice. Which isn't nearly as cute'n'cuddly as it sounds. (let's try "If I wasn't this happy I'd be dead. ") But if you've known me long enough you know I was bitter. I'm still bitter, just a helluva lot more indifferent. I laugh at all those failed miserable fucks that aren't me. Because I am one too.

Nothing takes the piss better than becoming what you used to hate. Dear God I hate people like me.

This isn't a complaint about being busy.. I did my share of chatting and slacking here and there. But, like many manager types, I spent a lot of my day talking to other people about the work that they are doing, or problems, or plans, or resourcing decisions, or roadmaps. And, apparently, about 10 minutes engaged enough in my own task to do some work.

But the unexpected part is I'm quite enjoying it. Weird. Me from 10 years ago would kick my ass. But I would kick his ass for a few things too, so I'll call it even.

Curator's Note [May 25 2008]: prior to Feelings of White existing, this was sent as an email to everyone in my contact list, whilst I was on walkabout in Scotland.  The replies have been included.

please, everyone mock the attached picture

I mean, c'mon, what a shite waterfall

-james

ps, greetings from scotland

show them our water fall at Niagra. We have a bigger one hehehehehe

take care
Salman

That’s a relief! I was scared that when I opened the picture you would have your pants around your ankles.

Smith, Peter

It might be the crappiest waterfall but it is a pretty damn good picture- pissed off scottish guy!

Lisa Grotkowski

Why, we’ve got toilets that can overflow better than that! <grin>
You’ve got a great Scottish look (and expression) going on there - I trust you’re getting used to kilts? Hope you’re enjoying your travels,

Niels

And what an ugly, staff stealing bastard in the foreground!!!

Take Care
Tony

That's a what?
C'mon, I piss a bigger stream than that!!!!

Dustin

...the only thing deserving mocking is the look on your face. The waterfall (albeit it is somewhat of a stretch) looks just fine to me ;) And way to give Scotland the finger! Go James!

Dudas, Vlad

You are funny!  It is a small, small waterfall – it looks like something from miniature land!!  

Happy holidays to you both!,
Carolle

Ha! Well, after the living in the shadow of the rockies, really… what were you expecting, ye of high expectations? I hope that wasn’t at the end of a long, painful hike.

To that waterfall, I say “BAH!!!”

And I’m lovin’ the trucker-stache!

Willsey, Shelly

Wow, that's an amazingly crappy waterfall!  That's like... as awesome as waterfall programming. :P  Please don't tell me that's a tourist attraction!  How's Scotland anyway?

Matt

ya, your right.  the least scotland could do is get a back-hoe in there and open that puppy up.  at least then it would be worth taking a picture of yourself in front of.  you should demand a refund from earth for that waterfall.

Villebrun, Steve

haud yer wheesht!
Is that the Falls of Bruar? Perhaps an Iron Bru and haggis on whole wheat would change your perspective a wee bit?

Cheers!
Liam

wish i could have seen the crappiest waterfall too. :(

Lo, Michael

OMG, where's the picture of you leaping off of it ala 'The Beach' style?

Haxby, Mr.

that's the sweetest little shite waterfall in the world - it is just perfect for my backyard - bring it home.

love
auntie elva,
et al

Are you really there right now??

Wendy

Haha!  I mock the waterfall with thee!

Montpetit, Monique

Hey man!!! Did you get a chance to see any of my castles?  I got some links for them here...

Guthrie

Thanks, world traveller! Love the waterfall - looked quite pathetic!

Enjoy your time ;)

We miss you!!!!
Mandi

The waterfall wasn't SOOOO bad... 

XO Michelle XO

I'm glad your having fun.  I nearly died laughing at your last email of the waterfall ;)
Hope your making lots of friends, watch the scotch!

Stephanie

Curator's Note [May 1 2008]: This was the about page from a previous website, Projects [ran Dec 1999 to June 2001].  A quaint memento of who I was, and how I described myself to the visitors of that site.  As an original introductory page, it references many highlights of Projects, and remains a unique axis to approach these older archives

My name is James Keller. If you're interested in why I create this site, you should probably read about my site, instead of about me. But I suppose someone, somewhere, is interested in the dry facts.

Born Originally born in Banff, AB, but moved to Edmonton, AB when I was one year old. So I don't have too many memories of it. I still live in Edmonton, in a small apartment downtown. I'm twenty-four.

Job I'm a computer programmer, although I've worked at lots of places. For a brief period in 2000 I decided I couldn't hack being a programmer anymore so I became a big-rig truck driver. I had some fun and some hardships and after about eight months decided that programming wasn't so bad after all. I went back into the office world and now work at a company called MediSolution. I've worked at a toy store, a one hour photo both, I've written school administration software, medical software and even worked for the government.

Interests Well, obviously I'm a writer. I've got a crap-load of music, most of which I bought while in post-secondary with my student loan money. I wish I could list some brilliantly original things I do. But I can't. Hangin' with friends, often long into the night at our local restaurant-hang-out (the illustrious Denny's chain). Movies, the odd karaoke session. I like skiing when I get the chance, although I'm not any good. I wish I went cycling as much as I used to and I wish I could find time to take a martial arts class. Watching more television than I consider healthy. Every once and a while I geek out and use my powers of programming for my own nefarious ends. Being forced to utilize public transportation, as I am, gives me plenty of time for reading. I worry about my student loans and other debts, and don't clean my apartment as much as I should.

Friends I like people. Well, not everyone. I supposed I'm often a solitary person. I like knowing interesting people. People worth knowing. I often find myself understanding people, sometimes better than they understand themselves. Turning that talent inward, I guess I know myself pretty well too, which simply means that I'll always be trying to figure myself out. But the best thing is when you find a friend that helps you with that search. Love those you can, while you can. On the topic of "relationships," the idea of a significant other is a little laughable to me at times, because they don't seem to come by very often and things don't tend to work out when they do. But truthfully, I don't spend much time looking these days, which probably has something to do with it.

Admire Perhaps you can tell something about a person by who they admire. Neil Gaimen, an author, blows my mind. I think he's incredible; creating worlds just a little skewed from our own, immersive and fascinating. Marilyn Manson, an odd choice surely. The way he provokes people and tries, not always successfully, to make them think. Challenging people, making them think, is always a good thing. I try to do the same. Joss Whedon and J. Micheal Strazinski, creators of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Babylon 5, respectively. Two kick ass tv shows, yes. But I admire them for the way they have created compelling stories in a medium encouraging mediocrity. JMS, for having, and carrying out, such an over-reaching vision. And Joss, for artfully using, avoiding and spoofing so many clichés. Ginger Spice, for leaving something so successful, choosing instead to do something for herself. Trent Reznor, for proving how astonishingly good you can be at something by focusing on it. There are probably others and a list like this goes stale the moment I write it; not even sure if I should have bothered. I suppose insights are not in the list of names, but what I wrote after them.

I can't think of what more to say, so that's it for now.

I’ve always been a bit on the isolationist side. There have been times of many friends and times with few. Of close involvement and cavernous distance. The two parameters operate independently.

Two years ago I was hurt badly as a close friendship ended. I no longer believe in absolutes or permanence. Everything fades. Everyone will drift away. Love those you can while you can. New people might arrive, but nothing lasts forever.

Perhaps one day I’ll look back on this as sad; that I had to accept this in order to survive. But for me, now, it’s an incentive: not to take my life for granted. To truly know people for who they are; and not be bitter – or hold on too tightly – when life finally leads us apart.

As I began to learn that first lesson, I learned another: I had stopped being a good person. There was a time when I reached out to the world. Asking for reasons. Searching for people who understood. I was so lost. I was such a good person – because I understood what it was to feel damaged.

Eventually I found some answers. I found some people who understood. I healed myself. I was still a decent enough human being, but a careless one. I forgot what it was like, when you’re not so far along in your journey.

I met someone. With such a shell around them; a barricade around the person they truly were. When I saw past the defenses to the innocent person behind, I realized I didn’t know how to behave anymore. I had forgotten how to care. I wasn’t callous so much as clueless.

I learned a lot from that. Or perhaps: I realized how much I’d forgotten. It was hard to learn that. To realize, then accept.

I needed to be a better me.

I tried to do all the things you’re supposed to do: listen, support, understand, care, the usual. I learned from others. I became more in tune with myself. (It always sounds so easy, but it never is) I liked myself better and, perversely, found I needed other people less. My own barricades came down a little; my thick skin thinned. Of late, what you see is closer to what you get.

I’ve also been remembering why my skin thickened in the first place. For a writer who spends his time recording what has been, I live in the now a little too much. I forget a lot.

People are assholes. (How’s that for an absolute) Trying to be an open person leaves you vulnerable. Is it any wonder that the more sensitive among us are the ones hurt most easily? Those two parameters are also unrelated.

People are forever taking advantage of a kind and forgiving nature. And some people are just dumb. Too clueless to realize how bad they’re hurting others.

I suppose my challenge is to try to remain passionate and sincere despite the barbs tossed at me. It doesn’t make daily life any easier, yet I tell myself it’s worth it – that I don’t want to slip back into a careless dismissal of things; of people. When I look back on this, will I think it naïve? Will I even understand anymore?

I will love those I can, while I can. I will love myself. I will try to remember my lessons learned. I will try to deal with all the cruel humans. And I will try to be my own person, despite the consequences.

That the person your talking to would rather that you fuck off and die?

I think everyone's experience that feeling.

I hate that feeling.

I got my Class 1 license [the Canadian qualification allowing you to operate the 18-wheel behemoths] and landed my first job doing long-haul between Canada and the United States.

I had gotten a pager that allowed me to send email and used it to keep up with friends back home. What follows is the highlights of those communiqués [although much more polished than the originals].

Contents

• The Thong Song
• Water Valley
• Montana
• Las Vegas
• Just Say No
• Signs
• Lucky Bastard (feat. Nine Inch Nails)
• M.O.A. vs W.E.M.
• Epilogue

Desperation makes for bad choices; I've proved this, others have proved this. "Here's her number." Going on a blind date was easier than talking to my mom about it. What makes this girl different from the ones I've found myself really attracted to? My inner self responds: "Well, the one's you've been attracted to were special. Different." Everyone's special, everyone's different, the psychologists tell us so. After a six hour drive to Saskatchewan, why is the first thing my grandmother said "No girlfriend this time?" I don't have a biological clock, there's no excuse for desperation. At some point the line between desperation and desire blurs and I'm afraid of both sides. Really really afraid.

I don't understand the difference between friends and girlfriends; besides sex, is there one? Everyone's waiting for a good story: we clicked, we're dating, we split up, we're happy, we're sad. Both sad, because I'm sure we both wished maybe something would happen, but honesty kills. I didn't go because my friends wanted me to, I went because I did, and that is even more sad. Nothing happened; also sad. Just think, afterwards, we can all have a big laugh. What are we laughing at?

I guess I should do something. I need to do things, need to live. I want to create. Take that urge and horribly beat it to the ground. Do anything to quiet that voice. I can't tell where the edge is, I'm too blind. Too stupid. Too happy. I am so happy.

Do something. Shut up. Do something. Shut up. Repeat. I am so sick of those two. There's an answer so simple: Just do something. Shut up. Please shut up. Dear God; make them stop.

The volume's low, the lights are dim. I have nothing more to say.