A handsome piece of deformity.

Poking from a variety of people but, more importantly, an insistent prodding from my own pudding-like consciousness has prompted me to rejuvenate this page. People to blame for damages forthcoming are my lovely wife, my darling sister, and a variety of friends (you know who you are). Alternately, there’s my puddled–or is that muddled?–mind to keep accountable. Afterall, I mean, really, who am I to refuse the internal ramblings I’m prone to? Ye gods, I’ve a multi-month backlog of shit to spew…!

Thus, without further ado…

The hell is it with people wearing t-shirts, not having the faintest clue as to the significance of the sign they sport? Do you have any idea, dear reader, how many times I’ve seen an adolescent wearing this emblazened on their chest? Far. Too. Fucking. Often.

Fortunately, I’m in a position to do something about it.

Try this one out for yourself, should you ever have the chance–begin discussing Sartre’s assertion that Che Guevara is “the most complete human being of our age”. Prompt them as to their beliefs regarding Marxist theory and whether or not Che’s attitudes were, truly, in line with Ol’ Karl’s beliefs. Ooh! Ask them to roleplay! “Hey, I’ll be Lenin, he’ll be Stalin, and you? You get to be the guy on your shirt. Let’s talk communism!” Or, ask them directly: do you know whose image it is that you are displaying for the world to see? Do you know what he stood for?

Seriously, watch ‘em squirm.

Of course, by this point, you probably all think I’m a dick–and I won’t dispute that. But let me tell you, hassling some poor sod about his shirt has, for me, paid off. I’ve had a few of the five boogers I’ve bugged come back to me within weeks, able to engage me in semi-knowledgeable conversation, saying, “I had no idea… wow.”

Hey, my pleasure… it’s what I’m here for. Now, about your taste in music…

.. again.

No, don’t get your hopes up. He’s still not writing.

However, this is for anyone trying to follow the comments on this blog — I’ve fixed the spam problem using the same solution that I use on my own site, and now there should be much less of it.

I now return you to your regularly-scheduled silence.

And no, I’m not referring to the city I’m living in, even though it’s snowing like a motherfucker and sweet summer — or, at the least, the sweet summer-like weather — has been chased away. I’m referring to the fact that I’m updating this page after a several week absence.

That means that something significant has happened.

Drum roll, please?

Thank you.

I learned that, as of this very afternoon, I will still be working the same job next year as I have been this year.

Unfortunately, every rose has its thorn. Others, who I’ve had the pleasure of working with over the past year or two, who are considered either temporary or probationary, have been sent — euphemistically speaking, of course — packing.

At present, I’ve mixed feelings about the whole matter.

“It’s dead, Jim.”

In the event that the cobwebs weren’t a tip-off, please, consider this page on hiatus until further notice.

So, I’ve managed to pull myself out of my pit of despair, reclaimed my will as my own after a brief paralysis, and generally accepted the fact that, should I be unemployed come September of this year, I’m still very employable and joblessness shall be but temporary and is not worthy of listlessness when there’s so much good in life.

Good in life… I’ve spent the past week surrounding myself by the things that make me happiest: fiction, music, sleep, and Amy.

I wanted so badly to come on here tonight and talk about this masters program at the university that I’m angling at, thinking to myself that hey, I can do this, I can hold down my career, nail this degree…

And then reality came crashing in on my little world. Now it looks like I might not able to do either. A lot of who I am is tied up in what I do, and to lose that?

There are no words.

XXXXXXXXXX PUBLIC SCHOOLS SUMMARY OF BUDGET ISSUES

3. Average province wide salary increases are outstripping increases in provincial grants (2004-05: 2.8% vs 2%; 2005-06: 2.5% vs 2%).

Translation? I’m screwed. And if not me, than someone very much like me, and no matter how badly I may want to, I can’t — I won’t — wish this on anyone.

“I’m a complicated man, Dan,
and it’s a complicated world.
Got twin six-shooters in my hands,
and a tender lovin’ girl.”

It’s funny or sad or a combination of the two that I’ve been updating this site as infrequently as what I have over the past few months. Reflection on why I haven’t posted of late led me down a few mental avenues — after I navigated the treacherous apathy alleys while being pursued by cranial cops and fore-brain gang-bangers, of course — but there’s one in particular that I’d like to express here: unless it’s summer and I’m out having a grand ol’ time, the amount that I post is in direct correlation with the amount of stress I’m under.

You see, the more I find myself facing in life, the more shit I find heaped on my plate, the less time I have to talk around it, my mouth full and frothing. Trust me, dear reader, you don’t want to see my shit-eating grin — it’s a sickening sight — though I confess that I thrill at seeing people blanch. Ironically, the times I find myself most in need of venting here is when I’m most stressed, which is — of course — when I find myself with the least amount of time to indulge in such a self-satisfied and frivolous activity. Such is life, however.

Thus, rest assured: this site is alive and kicking, being no deader than I. It simply has a weak pulse… one that, given the present circumstances and strain I find myself under, you must feel for to find.

Pondering the meaning of it all, and listening to some good music. Spend the better part — technically, the best part — of the day doing work-related, well… work. Nothing quite like pulling an eight-hour shift on what’s supposed to be a day to unwind, eh? I’d complain, but really, I can’t; I’m drawing a wage, and life is good in the sense that, with great music being in no short supply, I’ve ample ability and time to enjoy and entertain myself.

Don’t be fooled into thinking I really enjoy days like this, though. I don’t. Case in point? I just finished a long haul at the computer, the aforementioned eight hours. Thrilled and hyper and happy and buzzed to be free, free from the shackles of paperwork and all its foul associates, free to enjoy a quiet evening in the company of my wonderful wife, I learn that it’s nearly midnight… and she’s going to bed.

Thus, here I sit, buzzed on a couple cups of caffeine, alone save for the cat.

Amy and I are just recently returned from Jasper, where we wined and dined, and were married in a small, very private ceremony. Despite all the hectic scheduling and planning, great fun was had and great joy was found by the two of us, and, ye gods, I actually remembered what it meant to relax — if only for a seventy-two hour stretch. Thus, we left our homes engaged and returned, three days and nights later, a happily married couple, each sporting the applicable jewelry involved on our left hands.

For those with any doubt as to my feelings on this, they need only peruse the archives on this page or, failing that, re-read the subject of this post. Amy, I know you’re reading this and, though I say it every day, I’m happy to say it here, too: I’m lucky to have met you and to know you and to love you… and I am very much in love with you.

That said, I hope that the holidays have found everyone in good health and as happy as I’ve been over the past two-and-a-half years. Lots of love, folks, and happy new year!

Off to Jasper. Back soon.

Hush, you.

“No pitter-pattering, no scratching; nothing. The rats had abandoned ship, and in the absence of their familiar pestilence, I knew I was alone. The silence hit like a jalopy driven by a late businessmen after a three-martini lunch, careening like a mad motherfucker through Manhattan’s icy streets, unable to halt until it slammed right into me.

“My ribs went first, followed by the thick, wet slop as my lungs punctured and burst. My body broken, life’s blood expelled through pulped and mangled lips through force of impact, I figured I’d join the rats: it’s a lost cause. Time to burn my bridges and get the hell outta Dodge.”

Why? It felt right. Stream of consciousness kind of thing. Cut myself off at the knees, though, before it went too far.

Not too much to say on this end. Actually, that’s a blatant lie, but there’s little I feel like saying here, though that’s obvious given the gap between this post and the one prior. Life’s been a quagmire since December began, and it seems unlikely that I’ll be able to extricate myself prior to the resumption of work in the new year. Hell, who knows; maybe going back to work will be my life boat? Disturbing thought, that…

All said and told, however, life’s been good. Busy, hectic, and what-have-you, but good. Couple of things have happened over the past few weeks — the details of which are insignificant when compared to the effect they’ve had — that have shifted my perspective on life, giving me cause to be even more grateful for who and what I am and who and what I have in my life.

Now, if you’d excuse me, I’ve a lot of living left to do in the little that remains in this year of 2004. Take care, everyone… I’ll be back, soon.

Things I’ve learned playing Half-Life 2: Deathmatch:

• not being able to run full-speed full-time adds an interesting element to The Game^TM that’s been absent since Return to Castle Wolfenstein;
• though it’s been many moons since I’ve played Counter-Strike, I still excel at any range with the Desert Eagle Magnum .357;
• though it’s been years since I last played the original DOOM, I am still death on two legs when armed with a shotgun;
• there is always a place for stealth; and
• gravity’s never been this enjoyable.

Wow. Fun, fun, fun!

UPDATE: Though, in the humble estimation of this gamer, the damage of the Magnum .357 needs to be reduced, and the damage of the shotgun needs to be increased.

Starting a new sheet of writing is perhaps the most difficult thing I can think of. The black ink strikes a bold contrast with the white shine of my canvas, so alone and exposed at the height of the page. One by one the words tumble down from my mind through my body to my pen to the paper. Something is lost in the translation; my words take the colour of the various filters they’ve traversed to reach this point, and the message is lost.

Lost in park, see in Canada, the Dragon of my own personal mythos… simple abstract representations of thought put to the closing plateau of mortal confines, of notes lost and washed with the laundry, of sheets intercepted by observant teachers, of letters never ever read by loved ones but written for them. This is the struggle of writing, the danger of it… and its ultimate appeal. Finding the ability within yourself to brave the blank slate and embark on a destructive-cum-creative journey, observing your feelings being beaten into the shape of established language and the pattern of existing convention, consonant and its brethren. Writing is but thought described, and who may lay the claim that thought — which first began as feeling — is understood, or sufficently rational to be explained?

I tire of this conflict, of will versus language, yet am comforted by the sight I see before me: a page approaching equality in terms of black and white, and yet am discouraged… how many words must be wasted in my pursuit of the description of an idea, a feeling, that in my mind that makes such sense? And yet I take comfort in knowing that I am not alone… these words contain me, like so many others, and I surrender myself to lack of meaningful expression and flail about blindly in the white void, seeking definition. I am lost and losing.

Interesting couple of days. Killed time — and critters and about eighteen hours — playing Half-Life 2 over the past week. The engine suffers from major tearing without vsync, despite my upping the game refresh rate, though it runs smooth as silk while graphically maxed out on my system (minus the aforementioned vsync, though). Sound was decent, though I found myself more wowed by the way the engine presented the sounds (brief deafness, panning stereo effects, etc) than by the sounds themselves.

Difficulty was lacking and intermittent. Though I was playing on the game-professed Hard level, it was anything but for the majority of my time spent. Gameplay was set up in a frustratingly predictable obstacle-obstacle-obstacle-climax format, meaning I could play for fifty minutes without breaking a sweat, only to have to spend ten minutes of loading and re-loading to beat a two-minute ultra-hard scenario. A more balanced and consistent approach to the gameplay would have been preferred, as would having some options, such as being able to avoid a confrontation altogether through the use of stealth.

The plot was a rollercoaster, though this metaphor comes laden with both positive and negative connotations. While thrilling and exciting and (insert descriptive adjective here), the plot moved on rails. Once you’ve started the game, you are bound to a single course of action, something which is increasing obvious (and thus frustrating) as the game progresses. Deviation from the set course was impossible and reduced what was otherwise a solid game to a painfully linear experience, a carefully choreographed exercise in “here, look at this!” and “come this way!” As mentioned in the previous paragraph, some options would have been nice, serving to lengthen the game and promising more satisfactory replayability through variation and permutation based on player input.

Ironically, the lack of control and free-will experienced by the player plays into the plot itself by the end. Concluding the game is a monologue presented by a mysterious character, who serves as a convenient deus ex machina-cum-denouement. In his cryptic mutterings — which, for a denouement, leaves the player with more questions than answers about the plot of the game and thus his actions in it — this character says something very applicable to — and quite telling about — Valve’s philosophy in game-design: “Rather than offer you the illusion of free choice, I will take the liberty of choosing for you.”

Overall, even though the bulk of what’s written above seems to be negative, I enjoyed Half-Life 2. The problem is that it’s so good that the bad aspects of it strike a hideously jarring contrast with the wonders that Valve’s managed to convey. They manage to weave an intricate plot, create a hauntingly dark and disturbing future, and leave the player wondering by the end of it, doing so in style. The landscapes carved out and presented to the player are top-notch and opportunities for fun abound; I just wish that I had had more choice in my approach to the problems presented over the course of the game.

It’s been six days since I came down to the clearing. My meager supplies have dwindled to a mere nothing, though really, I’ve hardly eaten a thing. A bare handful of food was all that could be spared — let alone carried — and, for my pains, for my self-inflicted isolation on this bank, I’ve but a cramped stomach.

God, forgive me my arrogance. Spare Anna, I beg you — she in this matter is an innocent and I, I… I am a fool who overstepped his bounds.

It lacks context, but I would think that the imaginative among you will still get something out of it.

ADDENDUM, DAYS LATER: Think of it as a scribbled entry in a diary, found near a desiccated corpse in the far reaches of the northern wilderness. Several hundred meters away and halfway up a nearby mountain is the wreckage of a plane, a two-person single-engine flyer, nearly impossible to see from a distance due to the thick woods surrounding it. The serial number etched on the fuselage of the plane matches that of a flight reported missing over eight years ago. Near the wreckage is the remains of a camp, and those of a young woman. Investigators surmise that the two bodies are those of twenty-one year old Anna Kush and missing (and unlicensed) pilot Clayton Engh, 34, who took off without permission from Whitehorse’s control tower into a heavy snow storm, southbound for Fort St. John.