Modern Day Castle has acted as an outlet of creativity for my perpetually surging brain. Every post performs a ritual purging of my soul, and ultimately, drains me for several proceeding days. Now I won't say that I've encountered writer's block, because saying so would climatically conclude irony. How can one write about writer's block? It doesn't make sense. No, it's not writer's block, it's only a lack of something worthy to write about. So, for your reading pleasure, I will write. Write writing.
My ultimate goal in life is to be taken seriously as a writer: for both the screen, and the novel. Now I know this is a tiresome ambition, one that demands countless hours of thought and re-thought, but you know what, so does every other profession. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a chronological list of all the works I've written, or the witty banter I've composed, and if I could, it would be a painfully short list. At this point in my life, only 19 years running, I have yet to really sit down, and take my dream to the next level; to actually achieve it. Like I said, I'm quite youthful, and even so, I'm not worried about it. I'm not taking anything too seriously at this point; I'm taking it all in stride. And ta-da, this is what this website is used for. An extension of the writer I'd like to become: it helps me find a voice.
Not only at UBC, but in Vancouver's entirety, I am surrounded by people who have set out to do the exact same thing as me. I come from a place where culture is prominent, and at the base of that is a very strong literary and film following. I'd be lying if I said that I was ahead of the pact, that I had a better feel for the use of words and ideas than my peers; because I don't. I am beset on all sides by overly zealous author's-to-be, and wannabe film geniuses; people who are half way through their third novel, or their seventh screen play. The only clear attribute that distinguishes me from the vast majority, is that I'm not pretending to be someone who I'm not. I don't have my head stuck up my ass: appreciating my own inner cavity; I'm not stuck in some artsy hipster dream world where my ideas are completely superior to everyone else. My name can't be cast into the thesaurus reference for braggart, nor am I prone to snob appeal.
This being said, there are definitely legitimate young authors around me, ones who do not fall into my negative categorization. People who appreciate the written word for what it is, not for what social group it enters you into. Yet, as I write, I understand that I sound like the very people I am against. All I can tell you is that I'm different. My actions, my open minded philosophy: these are the reasons I am distinct. I do not assort myself by the clothes I buy exclusively at American Apparel, or that vintage store down the street. I am a aspiring bohemian, looking to start the right way. The right way being the destruction of current Hollywood practices. (Is he joking?)
Everyone's an artist now-a-days, everyone owns an expensive camera and everyone enjoys taking pictures with high and low exposure. I'll tell you one thing: I don't have an expensive camera.
But FUCK, do I want one.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I Don't Do Shit, I Just Work Here
Growing up: I was always told that a hard days work would be rewarded by not only money, but the fortification of one's character. Back then I merely accepted this, believing most of what my parent's said as truth. Obviously, now older, I understand that a lot of what my mother and father told me was parental propaganda that they themselves created. Yet, as I began my first day of work, at the first job I ever underwent: a long day amongst Safeway's finest cut meats, I began to understand that maybe they were right: that work really did fill you with something. Whether that thing was character, accomplishment, or both, I could definitely feel it. Now I'm not really sure what character building feels like, but as I worked longer and longer at Safeway, I began to finally understand: It feels like shit. Mopping up the blood in the back room, picking away at the chunks of raw meat, and sorting the sharp pieces of bone, I could only feel a growing anger that was becoming harder and harder to control. That original moment of fulfillment had vanished; I was no longer a virgin of the work force, but a rape victim. What my parents never told me was that what a "hard days work" filled you with, was nothing more than the long dick of the motherfucker who told you what to do. So much for character building; thanks Mom and Dad.
Since my glory days at Someplace Special, or what should probably be referred to as the "glory hole" of my young life, I have worked a myriad of other jobs...three. Although never as bad as the employment of my local grocery store, I still continue to understand more and more things about the character building my parental oppressors told me about. Working for the man can be a bitch. Being told what to do can be a bitch. Being shouted at and told your a shit head, by a manager who's two years older than you can be a bitch. Overall, work sucks, and your the one that does the sucking. During my four month stint at the movie theatre, practically my dream job, I started to ask myself what my motivation was to come in each day, work three to midnight, get paid $8.50 a fucking hour, and not kill everyone inside a certain theatre where paying customers were watching Eddie Murphy's Imagine That. After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to three reasons:
1. I don't waste bullets on empty heads.
2. Never in my life will I walk into a movie staring Eddie Murphy alongside Yara Shahidi (Fuck that bitch)
3. Fortification of character.
I couldn't help but think back to the very first words my parents ever said to me: "Little baby, I know you couldn't give a fuck right now about the future, and I know your a little busy being born and all, but we would seriously like you to think about the person you're going to become. You need to have a strong moral backing, an ocean of character, and a drop dead smile to get anywhere in this world. A job will help you, it will point you in the right direction."
Then the doctor dropped me; but, oh well. I finally feel as if I'm on the same level as the people that raised me. Well maybe not the same level, but I'm on the fast track to that point. My parents and I can sit around, shoot the breeze, have a laugh. At long last I understand why they're so bitter, and ironically, I relish in that shit.
What I never expected was a job of the opposite properties. All this time I had been breaking my back, stuck in the pits of the shittiest job, building "character." Now, I work as the delivery line for an upscale pizza restaurant, hidden away on the east side of Gastown.
(Before I go any further, I would just like to say that this is not one of those blogs where my employers read it an I get fired for...I don't even know...negligence? I'm looking at you Delta Air Lines)
I'd like to give you a mental image of a day at the job for me:
Firstly, I stroll in around 4:45pm, say my whatsup's: "Whatsup, man. Whatsup, dude. Miss." I sign in, and then head to the back to sit in my small little office connected to the kitchen. There I will sit until 6:30 doing a whole slew of things: nothing, the internet, homework, talk to employees, leave, nothing. You get the image. But then comes the first phone call: Large pizza, check, pasta, check, 30-45 minutes, check. This cycle will continue until works done at 9:45pm. The most phone calls I've gotten in one shift is around 15, the least amount is 2. Normally the calls hover around 7. This job is great, I get payed to do nothing. Sometimes, I even laugh at the hilarity of it. Seriously, I'll come into work, sit in front of the computer, phone in hand, and just do numerous spins in my wheelie chair bursting with hysterical yelps. This job borders on a sick joke. I never expected the possibility of job that lowered me, that made me a worse person for doing it. A job that would leave me so bored, yet, so happy, at simultaneous times.
If the leader of the Union were Jesus, I would definitely be Judas.
I'm seriously going to hell for this shit.
Since my glory days at Someplace Special, or what should probably be referred to as the "glory hole" of my young life, I have worked a myriad of other jobs...three. Although never as bad as the employment of my local grocery store, I still continue to understand more and more things about the character building my parental oppressors told me about. Working for the man can be a bitch. Being told what to do can be a bitch. Being shouted at and told your a shit head, by a manager who's two years older than you can be a bitch. Overall, work sucks, and your the one that does the sucking. During my four month stint at the movie theatre, practically my dream job, I started to ask myself what my motivation was to come in each day, work three to midnight, get paid $8.50 a fucking hour, and not kill everyone inside a certain theatre where paying customers were watching Eddie Murphy's Imagine That. After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to three reasons:
1. I don't waste bullets on empty heads.
2. Never in my life will I walk into a movie staring Eddie Murphy alongside Yara Shahidi (Fuck that bitch)
3. Fortification of character.
I couldn't help but think back to the very first words my parents ever said to me: "Little baby, I know you couldn't give a fuck right now about the future, and I know your a little busy being born and all, but we would seriously like you to think about the person you're going to become. You need to have a strong moral backing, an ocean of character, and a drop dead smile to get anywhere in this world. A job will help you, it will point you in the right direction."
Then the doctor dropped me; but, oh well. I finally feel as if I'm on the same level as the people that raised me. Well maybe not the same level, but I'm on the fast track to that point. My parents and I can sit around, shoot the breeze, have a laugh. At long last I understand why they're so bitter, and ironically, I relish in that shit.
What I never expected was a job of the opposite properties. All this time I had been breaking my back, stuck in the pits of the shittiest job, building "character." Now, I work as the delivery line for an upscale pizza restaurant, hidden away on the east side of Gastown.
(Before I go any further, I would just like to say that this is not one of those blogs where my employers read it an I get fired for...I don't even know...negligence? I'm looking at you Delta Air Lines)
I'd like to give you a mental image of a day at the job for me:
Firstly, I stroll in around 4:45pm, say my whatsup's: "Whatsup, man. Whatsup, dude. Miss." I sign in, and then head to the back to sit in my small little office connected to the kitchen. There I will sit until 6:30 doing a whole slew of things: nothing, the internet, homework, talk to employees, leave, nothing. You get the image. But then comes the first phone call: Large pizza, check, pasta, check, 30-45 minutes, check. This cycle will continue until works done at 9:45pm. The most phone calls I've gotten in one shift is around 15, the least amount is 2. Normally the calls hover around 7. This job is great, I get payed to do nothing. Sometimes, I even laugh at the hilarity of it. Seriously, I'll come into work, sit in front of the computer, phone in hand, and just do numerous spins in my wheelie chair bursting with hysterical yelps. This job borders on a sick joke. I never expected the possibility of job that lowered me, that made me a worse person for doing it. A job that would leave me so bored, yet, so happy, at simultaneous times.
If the leader of the Union were Jesus, I would definitely be Judas.
I'm seriously going to hell for this shit.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Finally
Well, she's back, she's better, no: we're better. We've worked out our kinks, I don't think she'll ever turn her back on me again. To make sure I got that bitch a hysterectomy...Norton anti-virus, mother fucker.
CATCH YA' BACK LATER
CATCH YA' BACK LATER
Friday, March 12, 2010
It Seems Like Eternal Burning
One of the many perks of having close relationships is the ability to trust someone dearly. The friendship that you hold is so important to both persons that to stray from such loyalties would seem alien. Even the thought of betraying ones own could upset the mental order of an ardent friend. Yet, despite the shear impossibility of such an affair, the horrifying reality is that it still occurs. Children lie to parents, friends back stab each other, and lovers bed tempting strangers. These examples I once considered as preposterous as the theory of evolution. Something so wild, so extravagant, that to even think about it would turn my brain to mash potatoes, my heart to gravy, and my soul to a ladle that would distribute the delicious, bloody gravy to the rest of my body. But no. Reality slapped me hard in the face, and left something so bitter, that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to shake it. Worse than the mark left by an anonymous drifter, the one that burns for a lifetime, and leaves you cursed to spread forever: I have been infected by someone I once trusted.
Why would you do this to me? After all the time spent together just kickin' it, you decide you can turn your back on me and screw me? OR should I say let me screw myself? Damn you straight to hell, you emotionless, inconsiderate piece of garbage! You machine! How could I once have kept you so close for you to do such a thing?! How dare you ever call me your companion, vile temptress! Thou disgust thy self. I can't understand your encrypted code so how can I ever fix the problem between us? You act as if we speak different languages, but in actuality you cloud the very words you want me to understand. I loved you, and you loved me; what happened? You've changed; you've traveled the world and then some and discovered things that don't work me for. Remove thine parasite, you damn virus! Purge yourself till you cough up no more than tangled wires and stainless chips. Then maybe one day I can forget about all you did to me, and perhaps, all you did to everyone else, and then maybe I will forgive you.
(STD's [or what are now being called STI's] are no laughing matter. Unprotected sex is a dangerous game that no one can risk playing. Statistically: one in every two people have contracted at least two STD's in the past year. Why risk your perfect or decrepit health, by dabbling down under with out a condom?)
(As bad as STD's sound, they really do not compare to my ailment.)
Due to strenuous energy consumption, a climax of file downloading, and the festering pussy of the internet, I have contracted...virus and spy ware problems. Anyone who complains about herpes, or whatever the fuck, I have no sympathy for you. You got laid, I stayed at home and got this shit. Virus's and bullshit internet infections are the lamer equivalent of STI's, and my computer is a fucking tragedy: Greek style, before Jesus Christ kinda shit. And unlike sexually transmitted diseases, I can't go get some ointment or medicine to get rid of mine...unless of course I'd like to pay money. I'm dieing over here, this spyware is so bad that it won't allow me to start up free removal programs...it's rough...help me...I need my computer to work properly...
How could you do this to me HP pavilion? We were tight, we were like this...*hand gesture*. You treated me like a piece of meat, computer. Will it ever be like it was?
Why would you do this to me? After all the time spent together just kickin' it, you decide you can turn your back on me and screw me? OR should I say let me screw myself? Damn you straight to hell, you emotionless, inconsiderate piece of garbage! You machine! How could I once have kept you so close for you to do such a thing?! How dare you ever call me your companion, vile temptress! Thou disgust thy self. I can't understand your encrypted code so how can I ever fix the problem between us? You act as if we speak different languages, but in actuality you cloud the very words you want me to understand. I loved you, and you loved me; what happened? You've changed; you've traveled the world and then some and discovered things that don't work me for. Remove thine parasite, you damn virus! Purge yourself till you cough up no more than tangled wires and stainless chips. Then maybe one day I can forget about all you did to me, and perhaps, all you did to everyone else, and then maybe I will forgive you.
(STD's [or what are now being called STI's] are no laughing matter. Unprotected sex is a dangerous game that no one can risk playing. Statistically: one in every two people have contracted at least two STD's in the past year. Why risk your perfect or decrepit health, by dabbling down under with out a condom?)
(As bad as STD's sound, they really do not compare to my ailment.)
Due to strenuous energy consumption, a climax of file downloading, and the festering pussy of the internet, I have contracted...virus and spy ware problems. Anyone who complains about herpes, or whatever the fuck, I have no sympathy for you. You got laid, I stayed at home and got this shit. Virus's and bullshit internet infections are the lamer equivalent of STI's, and my computer is a fucking tragedy: Greek style, before Jesus Christ kinda shit. And unlike sexually transmitted diseases, I can't go get some ointment or medicine to get rid of mine...unless of course I'd like to pay money. I'm dieing over here, this spyware is so bad that it won't allow me to start up free removal programs...it's rough...help me...I need my computer to work properly...
How could you do this to me HP pavilion? We were tight, we were like this...*hand gesture*. You treated me like a piece of meat, computer. Will it ever be like it was?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sonic the Hedgehog?
So I was having one of those dreams that make absolutely no sense, and out of nowhere I sit down and start playing some video games...
No joke, this is what went down.
It seemed alright at the time; no doubt, once I had awoken it didn't seem as natural.
Thought that I would share it with you.
No joke, this is what went down.
It seemed alright at the time; no doubt, once I had awoken it didn't seem as natural.
Thought that I would share it with you.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
(Un)Interesting
March 4th: the Olympics have come and gone; and although I consider the last 17 days to be some of the best consecutive days of my life, I am left with a tormenting realization. Only with special circumstance am I truly shown the extent of how interesting my life can be. Such a major sporting even entering my city, with millions of people coming to experience it with me is an absolute, once in a lifetime affair. There are only a handful of other episodes in my life which I can even consider on the same level: my two month European adventure, as well as a few of my more hectic birthdays. I question how I can write about such trivial occasions like family dinners, and my thought process, and make them sounds like they're actually interesting. I hate to insult my demographic, one which consists of artists and intellects, but Jesus, how do any of you read this? You have a computer don't you? Look up chatroulette or something, that place is filled with interesting people. The internet was not made for reading, books were, leave that shit for the librarians.
Not only that, but it seems that everywhere I turn there are people having more exciting times than me. Look at the characters in movies, literature, and theatre. Although fictional, they still appear to rub it in my face, and laugh at me for my inadequacy. I find it impossible to appreciate such media outlets when all I can think about is leaving the theatre to go sit on my couch at home. Like, fuck, that's really exciting. If I'm lucky maybe I'll come home and find my house robbed, the only thing missing will be the couch, and I'll be forced to sit on the floor. If that example Isn't good enough for you, listen to some rap. Those guys' lives are extravagant as shit covered in diamonds. A line from Ya Boy's first track: Let Me In, off his new album: Kush 2009, gets me about as riled up as...FFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
I was blowin' smoke down this bitches throat,
Nigga, I accidentally blew too hard, nigga, and the bitch swallowed the blunt,
Whats crazy is that when the bitch shit it out it was still lit, nigga,
I told her she was a bad bitch, nigga, and we smoked that mother fucker, nigga,
And it was Kush!
...I'd just like to know why my life isn't inspiring rap lyrics like this. What the fuck do I have to do to obtain such legendary status? It's hard to believe that all these under privileged black people have been selected by the Rap God's to generate classic stories that will reside in the heart of billions. My life needs a jump start. Wait a minute...jump start, hmm. How about this: jumper cables, my nipples, car battery, hmm. That's not actually a bad idea. Wait, fuck!
Tupac Shakur's Changes:
Got love for my brother, but we can never go no where
Unless we share with each other. We gotta start makin' changes.
Learn to see me as a brother 'stead of 2 distant strangers.
And that's how its supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he's close to me?
I'd love to be back when we played as kids,
Nipples attach to car batteries, buts that just the way it is.
Mother fucking, God damnit, fuck you 2pac and your mother fucker genius. If you weren't already dead, I'd smoke you.
Gah, oh well. I can't complain, life seems pretty alright despite its lack of pizazz. I was lucky enough to be in the host city of possibly the greatest Winter Olympics of all time, and I am grateful for that. Little Mexican children probably saw me on T.V., shitfaced, covered in blood and vomit, chanting my national anthem, tied to the side of a moving car.
Yeah, that was fun.
Not only that, but it seems that everywhere I turn there are people having more exciting times than me. Look at the characters in movies, literature, and theatre. Although fictional, they still appear to rub it in my face, and laugh at me for my inadequacy. I find it impossible to appreciate such media outlets when all I can think about is leaving the theatre to go sit on my couch at home. Like, fuck, that's really exciting. If I'm lucky maybe I'll come home and find my house robbed, the only thing missing will be the couch, and I'll be forced to sit on the floor. If that example Isn't good enough for you, listen to some rap. Those guys' lives are extravagant as shit covered in diamonds. A line from Ya Boy's first track: Let Me In, off his new album: Kush 2009, gets me about as riled up as...FFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
I was blowin' smoke down this bitches throat,
Nigga, I accidentally blew too hard, nigga, and the bitch swallowed the blunt,
Whats crazy is that when the bitch shit it out it was still lit, nigga,
I told her she was a bad bitch, nigga, and we smoked that mother fucker, nigga,
And it was Kush!
...I'd just like to know why my life isn't inspiring rap lyrics like this. What the fuck do I have to do to obtain such legendary status? It's hard to believe that all these under privileged black people have been selected by the Rap God's to generate classic stories that will reside in the heart of billions. My life needs a jump start. Wait a minute...jump start, hmm. How about this: jumper cables, my nipples, car battery, hmm. That's not actually a bad idea. Wait, fuck!
Tupac Shakur's Changes:
Got love for my brother, but we can never go no where
Unless we share with each other. We gotta start makin' changes.
Learn to see me as a brother 'stead of 2 distant strangers.
And that's how its supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he's close to me?
I'd love to be back when we played as kids,
Nipples attach to car batteries, buts that just the way it is.
Mother fucking, God damnit, fuck you 2pac and your mother fucker genius. If you weren't already dead, I'd smoke you.
Gah, oh well. I can't complain, life seems pretty alright despite its lack of pizazz. I was lucky enough to be in the host city of possibly the greatest Winter Olympics of all time, and I am grateful for that. Little Mexican children probably saw me on T.V., shitfaced, covered in blood and vomit, chanting my national anthem, tied to the side of a moving car.
Yeah, that was fun.
Monday, March 1, 2010
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