I don't know if it's too soon for another life update; to be honest, I haven't been doing a whole lot since my birthday gathering and starting my new job at the beginning of April. If you don't really go on too many adventures or you stay inside your own head too much, it doesn't really make for interesting blog posts. Maybe that's why I tried to branch away from my standard blogging fare lately: I decided to write reviews of books I read over the last few months (I feel like I'd be horning in on other people's racket by regularly book blogging, though), and used the format of unsent letters to work through some feelings I've held onto for a little while...I'll admit that one book I reviewed uncorked a lot of the emotions I deal with in the other post.

I am trying to take better care of myself these days. During my last long weekend, I found myself so tired and unsocial, but a project like making slow-cooker chili boosted my mood in time for the work week. Things like limiting my time on social media and cleaning the apartment last weekend seemed to help too. I've started bullet journaling to try to bring a little more order into my scatterbrain. I replaced all the years-expired spices in my pantry (thank God for Bulk Barn). I got my dosage adjusted on my meds (15mg of escalitopram, up from 10mg).

I actually was somewhat social on Friday night: a few good folks had birthdays that week and were celebrating at Charlie's. I didn't know if I was going to be up to leaving the apartment that night; lately it seems like the walking and the bus rides seem like much more effort than they used to be, and by the time I get home from work, I have little interest in doing either. I'm glad I went, though I was a little more in observation mode at first, but as more people came trickling in, a few of which I hadn't seen in person in far too long, I felt more a part of the evening. I bowed out after a few hours due of a mixture of exhaustion and wanting to catch the bus before the ones that go to my neighborhood stop running, but by the time I left I had  a couple of beers, some good conversations and a few hugs; all welcome. 

I ended up sleeping away most of the weekend after that night. It may be my body's getting used to the new dosage, or that I shouldn't have had those beers, or that I just need more time to replenish my "spoons" as I get older, but I also wonder if solitude has become my natural state, and any effort to change that gets resisted by my own body.

This is the kind of stuff that makes me wonder how well I would be able to handle a serious relationship with someone. I have these windows where I can feel human and interact with others; I worry that if I'm in a position where I'm living with a partner, that's going to mean they're going to have experience the me that exists outside these windows of humanity. It's easier to retreat to your own space and minimize unnecessary contact with others when you live alone. I need my space, but I wonder if that's keeping my personal relationships from growing much deeper. Part of me would love to be have the level of intimacy some of my coupled friends have with their partners (one pair of whom just moved out to a converted church), but part of me wonders if I'm capable of it.

One thing that came up in conversation on Friday really stuck with me: if you tell someone you're "good" or "fine" when you really aren't you run out of things to talk about pretty fast. Truly connecting with another person beyond the surface requires being open about some of the less pleasant, messier feelings. That's another window right there: if I don't know someone well enough, I don't want to delve too deeply into the real talk; If I know someone too well, I don't want to worry them with it. It's like I'm always looking for the sweet spot to build something with someone new, but at the expense of my existing relationships.

I've long been aware of my "drinking window": without anything to loosen me up, I'm too shy and reserved to make conversation, but if I'm aware I've had too much, I try to pull away before I make an ass of myself or get too loosely emotional. I even have an "attraction window": if I don't really know them well enough, I'm too intimidated or the walls I keep around myself are too high up to act on it, and if I know them too well, I like having them in my life too much to potentially fuck it up by bringing sex into the relationship.

Maybe this is the kind of thing that needs to be explored further with therapy.

Letters (ghosts)


I don't know if I've ever been in love, but this may be the closest thing to it I've ever experienced. I'm not even sure how much physical attraction factored into what drew me to you; it was there, but it seemed to come after everything else. I did feel a little intimidated by you when we first met, but as we got used to each other more, I felt strangely comfortable whenever talking to you. Whether others planted the seed for what I felt or if they were just shining light on obvious signals I was giving off; same result either way.

I don't know why I'm able to be far more emotionally intimate with you than I am with most other people. I don't know how much of my identity is performance and how much is my authentic state, but with you I don't feel like I'm acting. I can actually access the parts of myself that seem to be missing most of the time, that I frantically search for when I want to build something similar with another person.

It's easier to discount the feelings when we haven't been in the same physical space for a while. Memory echoes and distorts and flattens you into an abstract concept: there's something in your elan vital that's never replicated correctly, though, and I always forget exactly what I feel as it gets foggier. I would eventually convince myself that whatever picture of you I had built in my mind wasn't real, but then we would cross paths and the fine detail that was previously lost would be filled in again. 

For the longest time I was a little unnerved that out of all the people I've met over the intervening years, I never felt the same rush from being with them. You would be in my dream and it would take root in my memory more than actual lived experience did. I would chase that feeling every time I thought I could replicate it, but often found myself slamming into walls. Was I just looking for a substitute? 

I'm actually glad we were never actually an item. I don't think we would have worked in the long run given who we are as individuals and the trajectories our lives have taken over the years. There are truths I've come to accept about myself and I am still navigating the idea of what it means to be me; who I thought I was back then doesn't exist. 

Sometimes physical distance is the key to maintaining some friendships; we have the space to grow, change and live our lives. We don't have to deal with the stagnation and amplified small annoyances of close quarters. We can easier replenish the well of things to tell each other. Every reunion is welcome, and the time between them doesn't seem to even exist anymore because the sense of connection is that strong.


I worry that the ground shifted in our friendship; there is a distance between us that wasn't there. It may just be my own anxieties telling me this, but I've had my asshole brain proven right too many times in the past to shake these feelings. I don't know how to breach the subject with you because I don't want to upset you with my own neediness, and I don't think I can handle the emotional impact of having this confirmed. I would rather let the connection slack than have it break from me trying to hold it too tight.

The last few times we've spent time together were welcome, but something felt off afterward. I shared my pain and confusion, but always seemed to hold something back; maybe I was just waiting for openings that never came, or maybe part of me just couldn't believe that the path to happiness and fulfillment was open to me. Perhaps you sensed that I was no longer worth the investment, that I would always be doomed to complaining about the life I had accepted through my own resignation and passivity. I waited until I was far enough away for you to not hear me, but more than once I broke down crying after we hugged. 

A few years ago, I was visiting a friend in another city. We had one of those conversations where we slowly got past the outer shell of catching up and into more substantial matters, the kind I used to have with you. One of the things she talked about a close friendship of hers that had since had a widening of paths, but for the period of time they were closest, they had a telepathy where one could sense the other one needed comfort without a work being spoken between them. Our own orbits may have just happened to line up specifically when we needed each other, only to diverge once I was getting more out of the relationship than you were.

We're probably not as far from each other as I assume, but I would rather make an unnecessary retreat than an imposition.


I use the word attraction to describe whatever it was I began feeling about you, but I don't even know how accurate that word is for the mess I've found myself in. I loved looking at you, but consciously averted my eyes much of the time because I knew my gaze would linger a little too long. The combination of your beauty, poise and kindness made you stick out in my mind for a while before I realized I was in the thick of whatever I felt.

I had that moment of realization one Friday night when I started to realize how frequently you were in my thoughts, and how much I always looked forward to the next smile hello, the next chance to talk, the next chance to enjoy your company. It followed me that night as I trudged through snow and ice to find some distraction that didn't take. At the very least, I was now aware that there was some kind of light in my life that I hadn't really sought out, but had grown to depend on in the middle of a darkness. That's probably too much to ask of any one person.

It wasn't purely physical; in fact, I long assumed I was completely immune from that part. The way sunlight hit your eyes brought out an amazing shade of brown I didn't think existed, but that was just an accidental observation. There was this feeling of discovery that came with each conversation. I would hang on your every word because I wanted to learn more about you; the longer we talked, I felt like we had known each other for years. It could have been a "misery loves company" deal, two frustrated people in the same situation forming a temporary bond. Maybe I was just lonely. Whatever it was, something about it felt electric.

I only realized what I was going through because I hadn't had feelings like these in quite a long time. I thought I did, but it feels more and more like those previous times were pitiful recreations of the last time I actually felt this way; some feelings are only made clearer by their absence. I worry it seeped into our interactions a little too much, tainting something that I would have been lucky to keep as is. 

It scared me. A lot of feelings and insecurities I've been able to ignore suddenly came to the surface. I crave intimacy, but am afraid to let another person get close enough to me or spend enough time around me for my performance to slip, and be exposed to all the parts of myself I try to repress when I'm trying to prove I belong. I also wondered how this was going to conflict with who I figured out I was so far, and what answers I would have to delay or sacrifice for the sake of a potential relationship. There is a lot of work I have yet to do with my life before it would be in a condition to share with another person. 

I'm bad at this. I rarely say what I want to protect me from the pain of not getting it. I keep too many doors open a crack without going through any of them. 

There are days when I miss that spark of connection I felt during our conversations, but I wonder if it was just on my end. Sometimes I am so afraid of the feelings that come from seeing your face that I avoid visiting certain places, or I time trips through parts of the city to minimize run-ins. I used to try to blur the thoughts out with cheap beer every time I was reminded of you; I wanted you out of my mind for a long time, but the process of avoiding you only made you a fixture in my thoughts. You're no longer front and centre, but I've resigned myself to the low-grade hum of your memory constantly going through my head, spiking louder every time I meet someone with the same interests or demeanor, or see someone that matches your physical profile enough from a distance. 

There is no grand romance. We are not owed anything. We're two adults, each with our own needs, ambitions and priorities, trying to handle our own lives the best we know how, and trying to find space for the things that keep us going. If there's something that awakens these feelings, maybe that's the good in and of itself.

Going to NYC again

I didn't mention this in the last entry because I didn't think it really fit the whole topic, but I'm going to New York again at the end of June. It's another weekend trip for Pride with my sisters (just like the last time I went), but I'm going to try to squeeze a bit more exploring into the time I'm there. I wasn't even sure I was going to do it until I found out the timing of one of my scheduled days off landed on Pride weekend Friday, which I took as a sign to go.

I am a little concerned that I'm not as excited about this trip as I think I should be. Part of it is that buying airfare for this trip drained the coffers for this month fairly quickly, but I also haven't really felt up to being around people aside from work (which is going well, but I don't really talk too much about that here). I had originally accepted a request to be a photobooth photographer at a Zombie Prom this week, but by Monday I had a feeling I wasn't going to be up to it. I planned on going to Le French Fix on my day off to write, but ended tethered to my bed for much of the day, drifting in and out of sleep. I haven't even been to Charlie's since my birthday outing. Even things like errands come with questions like "will transit be a headache?", "how much money am I going to end up spending?", and "who do I risk running into?"

I wonder if my depression is coming back, or if my body's getting too used to the meds. It could also just be the relatively crappy weather we've had lately, and I haven't really taken as many lunchtime walks. It probably doesn't help that I tend to pull away from people when I'm feeling less than optimal. It's likely going to be a "wait and see" type of deal: maybe my excitement for the trip will come when I'm not feeling the effects of sinking so much money into one thing, or when it feels more real that I'm actually going somewhere.


It's only been a week and a half since my last post here but it feels like longer; as expected, I'm still adjusting to the new job. It's not so much the work itself as the small things: the disruption to my routine, learning policy and procedures, and getting used to new people. The last one is usually the most exhausting part.

I usually come home at about five but find myself taking a nap shortly afterward, which then pushes dinner later, and eats into the rest of my night. On a good night I normally fall asleep around midnight, but on nights where my brain is a little too active or I'm in that frustrating state where I'm trying to grasp at an idea that came to me so easily on my way to work in the morning, I'm lucky to fall asleep at 1. My alarm's set for 6 am, but the cat usually wants attention before. I have to make sure she doesn't start chewing on books (especially library books).

When I'm this exhausted, it's too easy to pull away from people. If I don't feel at my best, I tend to avoid social interaction, even if I still crave connection and engagement. It's hard enough for me to ask "want to hang out?" when I'm relaxed and rested. If my brain's in that hyperactive constantly chattering state, I feel like I'm using all my social energy on the imaginary conversations it cooks up.

It never really feels like I have enough hours in a day. I catch myself wasting too much time waiting for things to happen, waiting for a specific kind of interaction or notification to materialize, or for the right conversation starter that would unlock whatever valve in my mind is storing all the thoughts bouncing around it. I want to read, but by the time I get myself out of this state, it's time for bed.

I decided to implement a small change this week, though: no electronics after (roughly) 10 pm. For years I rarely went to bed without the phone in my hand, ready to scroll through my Instagram feed, check in with what my friends on Facebook were doing join in whatever Twitter conversation looked interesting. I'd try to get to sleep by midnight, but there would be the occasional late night conversation with an out of province friend, or the temptation to Google some arcane piece of information that crossed my mind would prove too great, and I would be keyed up too late at night. 

I'm looking for other ways to feel less scattered and more in control of my life; I'm considering bullet journaling to see if that helps with productivity and organization during my free time, and help me sort out some long-term goals. 


It's my birthday today; I'm 36. So far it's going far better than my 35th birthday, which was mostly spent in bed recovering from a half-assed night out (or two), which was more to keep myself out of the apartment and distract me from my brain than to enjoy myself or be with friends. I'm definitely in a better spot this year on a few fronts: my employment situation is more stable, I got some much-needed medication, and I'm finally more open about who I am to the people that needed to know most. I also felt more deserving of the company of the good folks in my life, a number of which came out to celebrate with me at The Foggy Goggle or Charlie's Club on Thursday night (I deliberately scheduled my outing to take advantage of the long weekend so I could recover from the shenanigans and shindiggery that usually take place at birthday parties. I'm getting old, folks). It was a good night.

It was wonderful to see everyone that came out or who happened to stop by (third rule of Charlie's: you're guaranteed to see at least one good person randomly drop in for a drink). I always worry too much about the number of people who couldn't make it or that I neglected to invite, but I need to use the rest of the year to nurture relationships instead of limiting my socialization to the big events like birthday parties and Haliversaries. I've said this before, but I'm quite awkward and shy unless I'm fully comfortable with a person, and that affects my ability to reach out; I'm always anxious about how it's going to be received. That's also a large reason why I never really embraced online dating at all even before the big fog descended; I have to spend a lot of time with someone to know whether I really click with them. (Of course, there's still the ever present danger of developing "the feels", which one day I hope will either manage to respond to with something other than "oh fuck fuck shit fuck!" or generally making things weird).

I've mentioned this before, but one of the reasons I hold these events is because I like seeing the people from my different social circles coming together and potentially forming their own connections with each other. There seems to be a disproportionate number of my friends who are heavily into any combination of reading, drinking tea, global travel, bicycling, craft beer, and/or creating art (or music); I wonder how much of this is conscious curation on my part and how much is just natural gravitation towards one another.  This doesn't even include the connections I made through shared interests in sketch comedy.

Speaking of sketch, I decided to start reposting my old SNL reviews on social media to allow me to get the rest of the 1984-85 reviews written and edited and posted on a regular schedule instead of frantically trying to assemble each review every week during my spare time; it's easier to write personal entries right now, but most of my traffic is for the reviews. I want to be able to branch out from just the SNL stuff on the other blog too; more writing about books, music, maybe get some live shows in there. I've had these grand plans in the past, but soon felt worn down by the usual grind of my life. 

This coming week's going to be a big adjustment with the new job starting tomorrow and all I need to get used to in the next little while; I'm a big creature of habit, so I'm expecting a bit more exhaustion than usual over the next few weeks, but I'm trying to keep aware of what I want to get done. Keeping this in mind, today was spent on some low-key adulting (laundry, returning cable/internet equipment) and cafe writing (because who knows when I'll feel up to this again); I'm also just going to treat myself to a quiet dinner out tonight. There are a number of fronts on which I want to get better organized (housework, creative time, finances), so perhaps this will be my unofficial goal for the coming year.

Anything beyond that will be gravy.

Hi, it's been a while

I apologize for not writing in here for a few weeks, and on personal (ie. non-dream, non-abstract thoughts) matters for even longer. My plan to write in a cafe at the same time each week hit a snag mid-month, partially due to bad weather, partially due to boredom with the routine, and partially due to energy levels. I'm at Humani-T Cafe on South Park Street right now, trying to just get the flow back by listening to Todd Rundgren. There are a few seeds I'm planning to elaborate on here a little later in the post, so keep reading to figure out what they are.

The big news right now is that I've accepted a new job beginning next month. As a rule, I don't specify where I work or what I do in this space, but I'm looking forward to the change, and it sounds like the kind of work I know I do well. I'm still not quite at the "immediately move to the Halifax peninsula" stage yet; I just want to enjoy not having to worry about a job hunt for a little while while looking for ways to save a little money, pay down debt, and go out every now and then.

I hadn't been going out as often as I had been at the end of last month; I made it down to a friend's birthday party last week, but for the most part I've been apartment-bound aside from errands (always gotta keep Autumn rolling in cat treats). There were a few nights where my brain was hyperactive but my body was exhausted, neither of which were especially conducive to socializing or cafe writing time. I've also had some bad headaches in the last week or so; I'm chalking that to the weather. On the weekends, I still feel myself tethered to the bed, even more so when there's a purring cat on it. There are a zillion things I need to get done around the apartment, but there doesn't seem to be enough hours in a day to do them, and less so when you feel like a zombie after work.

I've been reading and listening to music again, though. I don't see myself becoming a full-on book blogger (I can recommend a few local ones, though), but I've been showing off the things I've been reading on Instagram and sharing thoughts on them I was on a heavy jazz kick for a little while, making my way through the works of Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Charles Mingus and Pat Metheny during my work day; the last week or so has been more of an 80s Alternative kick (think R.E.M. and The Replacements). Spotify has been a lifesaver the last little while. I want to get back into podcasts again but I've mainly been sticking to LOL UR GAY because I know the hosts and don't want to collapse into sobs while listening to a particularly emotionally devastating or resonant episode of another show.

My birthday's coming up in a little more than a week (if you're inclined, you can buy me a little something). I decided to arrange another get-together next week (if I neglected to invite you, let me know), partially to celebrate, partially because it's been a while since I arranged something like this (6 months to be exact), and partially because I feel bad about not calling people for coffee/beer/hangouts (I am an anxious wreck about that kind of thing, though, so I prefer the formal "gathering"). Last year I wasn't really in a great frame of mind to actually celebrate (depressed, contract job ended), though I did hold a small belated gathering at Charlie's Club a month later (mainly as an excuse to go to Charlie's). My circle of friends in the city have been part of a few good birthdays in previous years: the surprise party at Steve's place two years ago that my younger sister had secretly come down for, the evening at the Foggy Goggle where I met a few cool people for the first time, the dinner at Mother's Pizza where an old friend from high school came by with her sister's family. Even before moving to Halifax, I've had some very good birthdays: the impulsive cab ride to Amherst with Alec and Wilson when we were all at Mount Allison University, the visit to Sackville shortly after I left Mount A, the visits with out-of-town friends around my 30th (which I was keeping pretty low-key about). Sometimes I need the reminder that I am loved like this outside of blood family, and I think about these moments to remind myself of good people.

Life can be sweet even if I can't fully feel it sometimes. 

Behind the lens

I haven't taken pictures in a while; I want to get back into it as a hobby. I don't want to have any expectations to meet, just a chance to play around, possibly with friends, and get comfortable with the camera and my own skills that I don't feel like I'm struggling to juggle the need to think technically and be aware of the right moment to capture the shot. I rush to get through my discomfort and it shows in the pictures. I eventually would like to get some new gear, but before I do that, I want to feel like I've mastered working with the stuff I have.

I don't want to try to make money. I don't want to make a statement. I just want to document what interests me, and I want to improve my ability to do so. Perhaps I need to take a course; I did a photography program in grade 11 but moved halfway across the country the following summer, so I never graduated to color. White balance still throws me off.

Event photography has never really been my thing. I think I need a certain level of control to feel comfortable shooting. I don't like crowds much, and I much prefer slower paced, intimate and relaxed shoots. Photobooths are fine, especially if we've all had a bit to drink, but events are for those who are quicker on their feet and feel less conspicuous with their cameras.

My weakest area is focusing on the eyes. Too many of my pictures have slightly out-of-focus eyes; my subjects become objects instead of people with souls. I want to be able to to capture the way the light brings out a richness and beauty in their color, but more than that, I want to get better at detecting the small shifts in emotion that speak volumes: the inviting spark; the barely-contained sadness. Your mouth may say something, but your eyes give the context. 

I would love to take an informal but well-composed and focused portrait of each friend and acquaintance I've somehow connected with over the years. There are so many people I know that are amazingly photogenic, but I want to catch that essence about them that suggests they would be interesting to know. You can only gather that so much from a picture, but it still seeps in. I would keep track of the passing of time, the shifts and the constants, by revisiting each subject periodically and trying to recreate the shot as closely as possible.  

I'm particularly fascinated by human chameleons, the ones that change their look often, not as a disguise but as a way to show their authentic and evolving self. I want to document both the drastic shifts and the more gradual evolutions. What story does a change in appearance tell?

I want to capture that boost in confidence that comes from people feeling like their truest self is being revealed through their outfits, makeup and hair. That quality of swagger and poise, especially outside of the realm of cishet white males. People should do what they want with their own appearance: my body, my choice is absolute.

I've always been fascinated with the essential impermanence of hair, and its connections to a person's identity. Good hair should always be documented. Fresh cuts and shaves, tight tapers and fades, clean lines. Vivid dye jobs. Thick, long, and healthy. Amazing volume, wild yet tamed curls. Hair grows and loses shape and artificial color so fast, and needs maintenance to look its best; there's also a cleansing and therapeutic aspect to a fresh cut or shave. Stripping off the bad energy. Growing the grey out. The growing normalization of woman-identifying or AFAB people with very short or no hair; baldness isn't always by choice, but so many pull it off with elegance and fierceness. Perhaps the trick is comfort with the look; the sense that you feel like yourself, or that it's just another facet of your appearance that you can work with, accessorize, and coordinate into your personal style.

I want to document queerness. Every time I see a visibly queer person in public, part of me wishes we were friends. I'm interested in how people took control of their life's narrative and stopped having to mute who they are. There are so many stories here. The struggles and victories in finding community as your authentic self. Affirming your existence in a world that is often trying to erase you. The question of what defines and signifies masculinity and femininity. I'm especially drawn to the middle ground and the world outside the binary; both and neither. Androgyny, non-binary, genderqueer identities. Queer folks living their lives, experiencing joy, sorrow, or just being boring.

I love photography that manages to include the mundane aspects of life, the ones that totally slip your mind until you're suddenly reminded of them randomly years later. Those little details that fade into the background but can instantly transport you back in time. Cartons of milk and cereal boxes that have changed design countless times over 30 years. Old cassettes with their labels' hype branding from the 80's about the improvements to sound quality in their duplication processes; Chromium Dioxide, Super Cassette, XDR, QC-10. 

I wish more shots existed of the retail landscapes of the towns and cities I used to live in when growing up. I moved around a fair bit as a kid, and as much as the people, houses and schools were a big part of my memories of a given place, the storefronts root them in a particular timeframe. I moved to Miramichi, NB the summer before grade 12; I've seen pictures and videos of the former towns of Newcastle and Chatham, but a lot of them have a more historical bent than I'm interested in. I want to see what they would have looked like in my lifetime, the world that so many of my friends grew up in, and not just the faces and people within. One idea I always wanted to do was to travel to each of the places I lived in as a child every few years and shoot a mixture of similar and unique town and cityscapes. It's funny how change only seems to come the second you step away. Being able to revisit a place after you've grown and improved your spacial understanding of the world alters your perspective; even a small town like Pictou, NS seems so much bigger when you're younger.

The idea of taking pictures of different places, people and stories around the world holds some appeal to me, but that feels like a pipe dream. I can't really afford to travel right now; hell, I don't even have a car or driver's license so it's hard enough getting out of the city. I tried making some extra money with my photography a few years back, but I doubt my skills warranted the effort it took to keep putting myself out there, and the whole hustle only seemed to decrease my love of photography. If I don't know a person well and they don't have the magic quality that draws me out of my shell, I'm uncomfortable during the shoot. To be honest, the whole experience made me feel like a hack.

All I can really do right now is work on my skills and shoot around the city, trying to get better at observing the world and people around me, and to feel comfortable capturing them with the camera in my hand.

A strange dream I just had

I'm trying to write down the various dreams I've been having lately. The images are sometimes so vivid and I don't want them to dissipate back into my subconscious, but if there's an emotional aspect, I also want to keep track of that. I actually just had one such dream this evening during a nap:

I show up at work, which doesn’t resemble my actual workplace in the least; for some reason the boss never bothers to show up so we all decide to depart early. Some of us aren't worried about the future of our jobs, some of us are. I end up taking public transit home; in this dream, it's a train, which is odd because Halifax doesn't have commuter rail. The city also appears to be a mixture of North End Halifax (specifically, Young and Robie) and Winnipeg (specifically, the western part of Portage Avenue, but more run down looking). A number of people I know are on this train (I will obscure their identities); A is in front in a separate section, I see B and C in other seats close by, and D is sitting in the back row, reading. The latter person’s presence upsets me. I glance back periodically, hoping she doesn't notice me, but I'm also trying to resist the urge to point her out to the other people I know on the train, partially so they would know why I’m so agitated, and partially because I suspect they would all instantly fall in love with her. 

A has a record player on the train, and he has a lot of really bad CanCon and Christian discs that he is listening to in order to make fun of. One record is an obscure guy from Bathurst who looks like He-Man, and yet his songs are played every day on the radio to meet CRTC guidelines; I also spot a couple of Psalty the Singing Songbook LPs in the stack. He also has a Brian Eno Ambient album for some reason (on white vinyl); it’s a clear choice as to what both of us want to listen to. B and C get off the train in North End Halifax, I’m supposed to get off next but don’t, due to a combination of not wanting to go home, wanting to find something to eat (but still worrying about the cost), and curiousity about how long I can ride without D noticing me. I deliberately go as far as I can; there is a long stopover by a Pizza Hut, but I find myself waiting for A and D to leave, and end up at what used to be Unicity Mall in Winnipeg.

There is a used record store. There wasn’t one in the mall, but I’m looking through the stock to see if there’s anything there. There are a few cassettes here in there, some in broken cases. A lot of blank tapes for some reason, but mostly late 90s designs. Like in most of my record store dreams, the stock shifts around, titles disappear, and such. My cell phone battery is about to die, but I’m still shaken by the train encounter, and post that I’m in “a mood”. Eventually, the store gets set on fire, though I don’t know if it was me or someone else who did it; that turns out to be a moot point, though, because the record store destruction portion of the dream turns out to be a sketch by The State.

If any of you armchair psychologists have theories about the symbolism of this dream, take a crack in the comments.

Still keeping you all in the loop (if you want to be)

Ever since I started writing back here in November, I feel compelled to keep you all in the loop of what's been going on in my life. It's funny; I've tried private journals and diaries before but never really stuck with them past a few days or up to a half a month, despite the appeal of being able just bleed raw feelings onto the page. Maybe the accountability of posting in public appeals to me more. I hope to write at least one personal post every two weeks; I used to try to share the SNL reviews once a week each Saturday but found that was such a grind. Maybe I will get back to that schedule for the other part of that blog, but I think that will probably only come with a backlog of content ready to post.

I had a good long weekend; Nova Scotia implemented a February statutory holiday a few years ago and my workplace is one of those that closed for the day. I decided that I didn't want to worry about whether I used the downtime productively or not; in the past I would make vague but grand plans about what I would do with a huge block of time off (I'm going to write! I'm going to take pictures! I'm going to socialize! I'm going to finally clean my apartment!), only to get depressed when I inevitably spent the whole weekend in bed or surfing the internet without really engaging with anyone. I didn't do anything overly exciting but I did try a new doughnut shop I've heard good things about, and generally felt well-rested.

The next few days went pretty well, despite some sluggish starts in the mornings: I got a postcard from one friend travelling in Ireland on Tuesday, met another friend for some post-work drinks on Wednesday, and went to a comedy show on Thursday, where I saw a few friends perform, ran into another I hadn't seen in a long time, and drank with a few more good folks at Charlie's.

I also decided to start taking my computer out to coffee shops to write again; I find I get better flow when I'm outside of the apartment and there are no attention-hungry cats trying to distract me. So far, it's paying off a lot more than it had been in the past; I don't know if it's the meds, or there's just a little bit more "openness" in my writing, but the words are coming again, and I feel connected to them. I'm trying set aside regular weekly time to work on my writing or other creative pursuits; tentatively this is going to be every Thursday after work, but I'm considering doing a second weekly "cafe time" to force myself out of the apartment.

Unfortunately, the last weekend was a bit of a step back. The sluggishness from the start of the week seemed to take over my body on Saturday, and by Sunday I just felt tethered to my bed. I've been feeling a bit more moody, impatient and grumpy for much of the week, as well as the physical heaviness that hadn't really been around for a few months. I don't know if this is my meds starting to plateau off, or if it's just other stresses just piling on each other that need to be vented, but I hope this is just a temporary setback. I'm trying to self-care my way through this: for me, this involves making sure I taking the time to read, write, listen to music, and making sure I take care of errands (I just slow-cooked and froze a bunch of stew to curb my tendency to eat out), but I still sometimes find myself eating my feelings, and sometimes my thoughts are so loud that I can't hear the music I'm listening to.

I'm not the greatest at reaching out one-to-one. It's easier to just make a social media post and hope that the likes or comments provide enough of an endorphin rush to lift my spirits, or that someone else starts the engagement for me. But when I feel low or anxious, I never feel certain how any one-on-one communication will be received, or if it will just be wasted spoons. I'd rather just post something generic and have people opt in. I sometimes wonder if I'm capable of writing a lengthy and intimate letter anymore; there's such a performative aspect to much of what I say or do that I feel like I can't fully be vulnerable.

If a post didn't get any likes or comments, did anyone actually look at it?  I pore over my site analytics a little carefully, trying to figure out who was actually looking at it. I can guess who some of my readers are strictly by seeing the logs showing geographic location and how they accessed the page. I'm guilty of really superficial engagement; I use the like button as a way to indicate I've seen something, to express general agreement, or to trick the social media robots into showing me more content from that person. Are algorithms just meant to isolate the losers of the world so they don't take attention away from the already-popular? When I'm online, sometimes I just want to feel like I can connect on a human level beyond the thumbs up, the heart or whatever. This is why I like reading blogs, especially if I know the people behind them.

The next month is going to require me to be a bit more frugal than normal, so I have to be careful about how I use my time and money; I probably won't be going to Charlie's or to any shows for the next few weeks, so if I want to see people I'm probably going to have to suck it up and reach out, unless someone else does first. I have to get out of this opt-in mindset and tell people what I want.

Getting old

What is the generally accepted demarcation of middle age? Is it a set chronological age or is it when certain milestones are reached?

I'm turning 36 in a little more than a month. 36. The age Homer Simpson was when The Simpsons premiered (the writers did manage to age him up a tiny bit over the last 29 years). The same age as Jay Sherman was on The Critic.  I was rewatching the first season of Cheers last summer and the realization struck me that with the exception of Coach (who was only in his late 50s at the time) I was the same age or older than the entire cast. I tend to think in terms of television way too often.

Do previous generations always seem older at the same age to each one that follows? Maybe the cigarette smoke and banned ingredients in food aged them, and the more insulated from these negative influences people were, the longer they retained their youth. The adults of my age group still seem teenagerish in comparison to records of those who were the same age in the past. It could just be the distance that analogue media tends to coat over the moments preserved.

I'm at the age where many of my friends are married and have children; a number of them are already divorced. I went bald young but I'm seeing white hairs creep into my beard; I'm seeing other friends in the same age group embracing their grey hair (and looking damn good). Maybe we learned the lesson that refusing to accept the physical aspects of aging is ultimately a losing battle. Sadly, some of our bodies are starting to turn on us, though it's just as often a case of genetic timebombs going off than poor maintenance on our part. The reminders of our own mortality are becoming more frequent.

I sometimes feel further away from middle age than a lot of the people in my generation, since I'm not partnered, nor do I have any children, and I can't really see myself owning a house at right now even if I could afford it. I know people about five (or more) years younger who seem to have pulled off the "adulting" thing better than I have. Despite this, I often feel like my soul is about 60; this could just be my fondness for post-punk music, though. Maybe I just think more in generations than chronological age. The hippies are now in the age range widely considered elderly, with the punks not too far behind them; Generation X is now firmly middle aged. Grunge was over 25 years ago, Nirvana's Nevermind further removed from today. Babies born the year I graduated from high school will be heading to university in the fall.

I'm seeing incredible people in the world who are doing good and interesting things, people I would like to get to know. But sometimes I think to myself, "am I too old to make this connection?"

Them's the berries

I wrote this about two years ago. Relationships were on my mind at the time as a few of my friends had gone through breakups the previous fall; as much as I was trying to keep things vague in the post, I was also trying to work through some of my own feelings by writing about them, still blindsided and conflicted over the automatic neurochemical reactions I kept experiencing with a specific person a while back (part of the equation: for the first time in at least 10 years, it was a woman). As far as I know, nothing was going to come of it, but I still try to keep the number of real-world interactions to a minimum because I don't want any involuntary emotions leaking out. 

The friends that went through breakups that fall have since found new relationships. I'm rekindling a relationship with myself and recharging the batteries whenever I feel drained. Platonic love is underrated, anyway.

Some messy and real Valentine's Day cards I would like to see:

  • Me: can't get strongly attracted to anyone without an emotional connection.
    Also me: Doesn't want to risk the emotional connection by acting on the attraction.
  • Unrequited feelings are the risk but requited feelings scare me even more.
  • You can't guard your heart without it shattering from the pressure anyway.
  • Let's skip the relationship and go straight to being amicable exes.
  • You're an amazing person and I think the world of you, but seeing your face peels me open every time and I still can't get the skin back on.

The longest month

January still hasn't ended yet, but it feels like ages since the new year began.  I'm not sure whether it's the weather (a few storms, but no actual storm days aside from an early close) or something else but time seemed to slow down this month.  I also haven't been feeling the greatest lately; I've been coming home exhausted from work and crashing for about an hour most nights, and I had the beginnings of a sore throat a few days ago. I had a handful of "can't get out of bed" depression nights as well, but those don't really feel like the norm anymore. I also feel like I've pulled back from people a bit over the last two weeks, but it's more "my brain and body are exhausted" than "I'm trespassing on their lives".

I still managed a few nights out; no real planned get-togethers or anything, but I forced myself to go out (and pay cover) to a couple of things over the last few weeks. Last weekend I ended up hitting Retro Night at the Seahorse Tavern; I didn't really dance or mingle and the crowd was a little young for me (I'm 35; most of the people seemed to be in early 20s), but I liked the music, and there was something entertaining about seeing all these people dressed up and enjoying themselves. It's not something I would do regularly, though; I prefer the crowd and conversations at Charlie's any night.  

I was listening to LOL UR GAY last week at work (full disclosure: I know the hosts; you should also subscribe to it), and one of the topics discussed was setting time aside to focus on creative work that doesn't necessarily pay the bills: comedy, writing, etc. It had me thinking about marking out a specific time and space each week to work on projects again. I would sometimes hit a local cafe or the library to do the SNL reviews or photo editing (mainly to minimize the number of times Autumn would jump or lie down on the keyboard), but that was more of a "when I remembered or felt like it" thing, not a regularly scheduled block of time. I'd be interested into making this a social thing as well, meeting up with a friend just to work on our own projects.

I'm going to try to write in this space more often. Social media algorithms seem too isolating sometimes.

Another life update

I want to thank all those who responded to my last post; I haven't been so great at finding the time and brainpower to send my reply to your kind e-mails as of yet, but rest assured that I will sooner or later. (Also, keep them coming! I take a look at my site analytics to see where my traffic comes from, and wonder who's visiting the page.)

I haven't been feeling the greatest this past week or so, which is only really noticeable in light of how much more human I've felt in the last month compared to the previous year. I still feel like the medication's helping, but I'm exhausted and a little more stressed than usual. Some days you just run out of spoons quicker than others, I suppose. All I can really do is try not to worry whether an evening is productive or not, get some rest, and make sure to cuddle with Autumn when I need to feel a little better. I'm working on engaging others more and not fall into the habit of "passive likes", but if my brain's telling me I need a night off the computer or phone, I'm trying to listen.

I hit a fairly big reading slump late last year, so most of my library borrowing as of late has been TV-on-DVD sets, but a book I put a hold on a few months ago finally arrived last week. It's a poetry collection, Depression & Other Magic Tricks by Sabrina Benaim; I saw it on an Instagram account I follow and the title piqued my interest. Reading or listening to others articulate their own experiences with depression helps me feel less alone; I also enjoyed Melissa Broder's So Sad Today for the same reason, and am grateful for the number of people in my life who get what I'm going through.

Dolores O'Riordan died this week. I wasn't really into The Cranberries (liked a few songs of theirs but her style jumped out at me more), but the news felt particularly brutal and wounding. Maybe it's just because it was so sudden and unexpected and she was so young. 46. A little more than a decade older than I am. 

I keep thinking about which of my friends should meet each other; I get a kick out of seeing people I know from separate social circles start to form connections with one another. Maybe I just gravitate to specific personality types or vice versa. It may be time to hold another get-together similar to my Haliversary outing last fall. 

Autumn's meowing at me again. I need to get to bed.

A request for personal e-mails

I miss e-mail. I still get plenty of new things filling up my inbox, but just like the box in my apartment lobby, most of what I get is bill notifications, subscriptions, and junk mail. The odd piece of correspondence from another human being slips through on occasion, but not enough for my liking. 

I've always preferred e-mail to instant messenger conversations. When I don't have all my spoons, I just don't feel up to keeping a conversation going, even if I feel lonely and disconnected. In the age of social media, e-mail's fallen by the wayside, but there's an intimacy in two people exchanging words directly that's lost when you have to think about networks and potential audiences.

I want you to send me an e-mail. Write about anything. If I don't really know you, tell me a little bit about yourself; if you want to get to know me better, let me know. Strip away the curated persona you maintain on social media. I can't guarantee I'll send a response immediately, but I will respond, hopefully with the same thoughtfulness (or more) that you put into your e-mail. The best way to contact me is with the form that's on my contact page; I guarantee anything you write in the e-mail is just between us, and using the form will not subscribe you to any mailing lists whatsoever.

I also like (and don't get enough) snail mail, but I won't share my mailing address publicly. If you're interested in paper correspondence, let me know.


I finally decided to go to a walk-in clinic on November 23rd regarding my depression. This was a step I had been thinking about taking for a little while, but something in me held me back. I remember one time deliberately going to the area with the clinic instead of going straight home, but not being able to bring myself to walk in the door that night. I don't know what it was; maybe I was just wary of sitting in a potentially crowded waiting room that day.

Anyway, the doctor put me on a daily dose of 10mg of escalitopram and ordered blood work to rule out any other medical causes. It's still too early to know whether this is going to do the trick for me; it should kick in sometime shortly before Christmas (let's hope). I've been feeling a few of the side effects though, particularly the exhaustion: it's very rare for me to be able to stay awake too late after 9pm, though sometimes I will wake up in the middle of the night. For the most part I'm laying low while my body gets used to this, so there haven't been too many outings or nights out, and most of my weekends are spent in bed (my cat doesn't seem to mind this part). I'm still looking into my options regarding therapy.

I sought medical help because I was tired of the repetitiveness of what my life had become. My regular coping methods were band-aids at best, and not very good ones. My brain took the fun out of a party I had been looking forward to and kept me from making plans. I had evenings where I was a combination of drained and agitated, lonely but also feeling like interacting with other people was beyond my capabilities. I also felt that I owed it to the friends who continually encouraged me to take control of things by getting help; I worry I was frustrating them and letting them down the longer I let this drag on.

There's a glut of listacles online about the signs you have depression, anxiety or any other mental illness. I see the value in these, but I've always preferred to read people telling their own stories. It's one thing to see a list of symptoms, sometimes paired off with memes and gifs from movies, but there's something depersonalized about it all; it helps me more to know someone else is experiencing the same things I'm going through, to be able to connect the clinical stuff with impact it has on someone's individual life. Telling the story makes it more real.

I just want to have other stories to tell here beside this one.


I wonder if it's worth it to keep this site.

I used to blog for free, but decided a few years back that I needed to register the domain name for my writing and photography; I moved to my current provider when I decided that I need actual hosting for my photography.  I amalgamated my other blog where I did the SNL reviews into this one to better connect that work with the handful of Splitsider articles I wrote years back.

I don't know if I can fully justify the cost in keeping this space to myself, though.

The photography thing is mostly dead; I will shoot when a friend asks me for some quick headshots, but I've long abandoned any ambitions of being able to support myself with this line of work. Hell, I think the main reason why I tried to sell myself as a photographer was to justify spending money on a DSLR years ago while I was working at a call centre and trying not to resign myself to that life. As far as I'm concerned, this was play-acting.

I struggle to come up with interesting content for my writing. I often feel that having this space associated with my own name limits the type of content I feel comfortable posting, and I don't feel like whatever I have to say is much other than navel-gazing.  Right now my life is so monotonous and grey (see last post) that there really isn't much to write about when I actually feel up to stringing the words together. 

I wonder if it was a mistake to bring the SNL reviews onto my main domain. They're the main drivers of my site traffic, but I honestly feel like I've wasted the last 20 years of my life with this intense scrutiny of a TV show whose very nature makes a given episode hit-and-miss. Sometimes I actually resent doing these reviews. I watched the first three shows of the current season but found it harder to stay up through the whole show; if I'm too tired, I just won't bother tuning in, or will go to bed once the fatigue sets in. This is not a knock on the cast or writers, I just don't really feel much connection to the show anymore. I just feel like too much of an old man when watching the current show ("Who is that?" "What is that about?" "I don't know what they're making fun of"). Even when I tuned in this past weekend, when Eminem did a medley with "Stan", all I could think of was that he did that song on the show 17 years ago.  

I've abandoned, closed down, and deleted blogs and websites in the past. Even with this one, I've taken hiatuses from blogging (usually coinciding with work concerns taking priority or depressive spells). I still haven't made up my mind about this site, but I don't feel like the person who created it exists inside me anymore.

New Normal

I'm not going to mince words: I'm depressed.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been in this headspace, and I am fortunate enough to be functional enough to work, but for the last year or so, that’s it. I feel like it takes most of my energy and will to just trudge from the apartment to the bus stop, endure the commute to the office, make it through the work day without letting my façade of humanity slip, and ride back home (which is invariably a worse) commute before the brain inevitably cries “fuck this”. I still have good days where I’m able to feign sociability a bit better, and there are days where I’m drained and foggy before I even get home, but for the most part, I consider myself lucky if I manage to do something with my free time other than lie in bed with my phone.

Most days I’m just tired; sometimes I feel a physical weight dragging my limbs, as if they were moving through water or my body is operating on a slower speed than the rest of universe. My apartment is a mess because I don’t have the executive function needed to finish the chores I start, and I rarely feel the presence of mind needed to partake in my hobbies. It’s often hard for me to bother with reading or watching TV, like whatever I’m supposed to taking in gets blocked out by the fog. It’s hard to review an SNL in this state and harder to write when you’re aware that most of what you’re putting out is the same old shit.

There’s also a running commentary of noise that plays in my brain. There was a recent episode of Bojack Horseman that did a good job of simulating what it’s like to have that voice narrating your existence, second-guessing each decision that you make every day and reminding you of every failing that you’ve accumulated over a lifetime. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I can distract myself from it, but on bad days it gets to the point where I just can’t enjoy anything.

I still eat three meals a day regardless of appetite, but I often don’t feel the pleasure I used to get from my favorite foods, or it takes conscious effort to finish my meal. I try to browse bookstores or record shops but rarely buy anything; the running commentary tsk-tsks me for spending money to get a brief endorphin rush when I can’t even pretend it will fix the greater malaise. Sometimes I feel like my motivations for reading or listening to music are less than pure, born out of a desire to impress certain people more than an actual ability to appreciate the creative work.

The good conversations aren’t happening anymore. I just don’t feel like I have anything to contribute to the discussion, and I’m mostly just observing or eavesdropping instead of being good company. There are times I’m lucid enough to seek company, but a lot of the time I’m so far into my own head that when I’m with a friend, I feel too scrambled to really articulate what’s going on, or don’t feel it’s appropriate to wade beyond the surface level stuff or the dam will break. When I’m especially low, I often don’t even bother reaching out; something in my brain tells me that I’m in my rightful place, they’re in theirs, and any attempt I make at crossing over is trespassing, and any attempt to bring them into my world just drains them to the point of resentment. Am I really connecting on a deeper level or am I just unloading emotional labour?

Dating is also out; I know I’m not in a good place to get involved with anyone, and I don’t really have chemistry with most people; this is something I’ve learned to live with, but it’s gotten to the point that whenever I start feeling the slightest bit of attraction toward anyone, I panic and either try to ignore it or douse the spark. I figure it’s hard enough pretending to be a human for the day-to-day existence without having to market myself. I’m a bad liar, and I probably won’t be able to disguise that I don’t have faith in the product I’m selling. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to share a life with someone; I just don’t feel like I’m capable of the work needed for a healthy relationship.

I know there are people that care for me, that even love me, but sometimes I really don’t know if I can really absorb or return it properly.

I went through another bit of a depressive patch during a particularly bitter winter a few years ago, but back then I still had interests and vague goals, and I could shift the blame somewhat on tight finances and a precarious work situation; now that things have stabilized on the work front it’s become more apparent that my current low spell is deep-seated. It’s jumping from treadmill to treadmill these days; I’m “continuing” at best, keeping a status quo that doesn’t necessarily bring joy or lead anywhere. I’ve mentioned a while back that I don’t feel the same magic I used to from Halifax; the potential and possibilities I used to feel have faded away, and the more people that know me around here, the more boxed into my routine and identity I become.

There are small measures I’ve been taking to try to fight against this void. I try to make sure I get a little bit of daylight and exercise during my lunch break, and I have a few people that I feel comfortable discussing my emotional state with when I’m capable of stringing more than a few words together coherently. I’ve conceded that this is a medical thing that needs to be addressed soon; as much as I’ve been researching the best possible way to go about this, though, I still hesitate to take this step.

I don’t know what would make me happy, though. I’m scared that the answer will forever be outside my reach.

It's not you, it's me

I’ve been trying to come up with a personal blog post for a little while.  Maybe this comes with the trap of having an online space signed with your name, but I’m afraid of posting what I truly feel because I worry about how such a post will reflect on me.  Every time I consciously try to write something I end up generalizing things so much to the point where it rings false.

I write because I want to connect, and this is the way I tap into the part of myself that I have trouble accessing when face to face with someone, especially if I don’t know them well. That said, I sometimes feel as though whatever I put into the web and social media is just more static to be tuned out, especially in spaces at the mercy of algorithms and statistics. I wonder how often my writing becomes white noise as soon as my name’s attached.

Sometimes I go for months without talking to people, even if I consider them friends. It’s not personal animus so much as the feeling that I probably get more out of the relationship more than I’m able to give in return. I can enjoy someone’s company, but when I feel like I’m getting too close or that I’ve opened up too much to them, I instinctively back away for a while. I don’t want to be the guy people only put up with out of a sense of obligation, or worse, pity. My individual friends have their own lives and careers; some have partners and families. I don’t really trust my instincts on these matters, but if I sense a growing distance from someone or assume they need a bit of space, I would rather err on the side of consideration instead of becoming this draining, needy presence that people come to resent.

Over the years, there were brief flirtations with the idea of an active social life, filled with meaningful conversations over drinks and good food. It was a way to stretch out of my comfort zone and build new connections in what was an unfamiliar city. I kept wearing identities and disguises that turned translucent as soon as people became familiar with me, so I shrank away from every space that I felt like I was intruding. I’m not going to pretend that eating double quarter pounders at McDonalds by myself (the automated kiosks are great when you don’t want to talk to people) or binge-watching Cheers DVDs in my apartment is a fulfilling life, but it fits me better than the dance parties or activist galas.

Every now and then I tell myself I should probably make plans with someone I haven’t seen in person or talked to in a while, but worry that any connection that existed between us has long dissipated and the hard-won comfort I felt around them is gone. I admit to being a shitty friend; I’ve rarely invited company over and seldom initiate get-togethers. I just don’t know if I’m up to the work of sustaining friendships right now, and am not going to delude myself that I can handle anything closer than that.

When I withdraw, do people actually miss me, or do they miss the person they thought I was before they got too close to ignore the neuroses and character failures?


Last summer, I offered pay-what-you-can portrait sessions; I did three of the ten promised shoots, edited one set, and then put my camera away sometime in late August, and haven't taken it out since.

At the time I attributed it to exhaustion from the readjustment to work, but sometime last fall, it became evident that I wasn't getting the same enjoyment from taking pictures as I used to. When I was working a temp agency job, I had hoped to supplement my meager income with photography work, but I quickly realized that I didn't have the same level of skill, comfort, and (most importantly) hustle as some of the other photographers I know in the city, so I decided to cede my ground.

I don't know when I'll be taking pictures again. I don't feel that I have the comfort level around other people needed for portraiture, and I'm sure my general tenseness bleeds into the shots. The times I relax, the shots are usually out of focus or improperly framed. Candid party photography is out of the question; I'm more comfortable doing photobooths, but those have a certain level of rigidity built in, even as the alcohol makes everyone loosen up.

I think there have always been ulterior motives behind my attempts to sell myself as a photographer. Money. Cachet. The opportunity to connect with people. It doesn't feel like I've really been able to take pictures for the sake of taking pictures in a long time, though, and I've hit a bit of a plateau in terms of enjoyment and technique. I post them for the hits on my webpage and the likes on my Facebook, but I don't think I really have anything to say with my work besides "I like getting attention". 

Around the same time, I abruptly postponed my SNL reviews. I was hoping to be done reviewing the 1984-85 season by this point, but as I was trying to compile my introductory remarks on the season, I just had a huge rush of "why am I doing this?" and realized that the amount of work I would have to put into each review would better be spent looking for better paying work, maintaining a social life (or trying to), and perhaps watching things that I haven't seen multiple times already.

I sometimes feel boxed in by my whole SNL fandom. It's been a big part of my life for the better part of the last 20 years (it really took off around the time the Comedy Network launched in Canada, with their twice-weekly chronological reruns of full length shows), but when I think about the amount of time and effort I've put into watching, researching, and chronicling a show whose history continues to expand, I ask myself "what am I doing this for, and at what expense?" I don't know what my endgame is. I do eventually want to get through 1984-85, but I can't see myself continuing with the reviews indefinitely, and I feel like I invest too much time and effort into something that's ultimately a niche hobby with a very specific audience.

Sharp-eyed readers will notice that I got rid of the last few "31 in 31" posts. I rarely delete blog posts, but these seemed to descend into repetition and whining after the tenth day or so (up to the point where I abandoned the project). Like with photography, I began to feel like my writing was motivated more out of a desire for attention than anything else. I was starting to run out of stories, and my pulling back from the world meant my brain was becoming an echo chamber for my various insecurities and neuroses. When I'm like this, I tend to pull back even further because I don't want to start draining people; I miss the closeness, but am too afraid of imposing or intruding on other lives, especially those that have considerably more to juggle than I do.

I honestly don't know what I have to say anymore. We're in scary times, and I think there are too many other voices that need to be shared more than mine (another white male). I don't feel especially connected to other people, but I feel even less connected to myself, and I don't think it's right to try to get too close to another person without a better idea of who I am.

The summer's gone, but a lot goes on forever

Leonard Cohen is gone. It was an inevitability, telegraphed by the man himself in recent months, but seeing the official status at the top of my Facebook feed was an unwelcome surprise tonight. Right now, it doesn’t feel much like the big loss I expected to feel; in a year that already claimed David Bowie and Prince, where voters in the UK and US legitimized hatred and resentment of the other, Cohen’s death almost seems anticlimactic. Just another light gone out after our eyes already adjusted to the darkness.

My introduction to him came via a country music station out of Selkirk, MB in the early 90s. They mostly played new country (Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, etc.), but had a few weekly shows outside the regular format, including one that played a lot of folk and bluegrass. It was that show that exposed me to John Prine and Emmylou Harris, and long before I knew his name, I remember hearing a spare and muted synthesizer-based track where a gravelly voice man invoked Hank Williams, women cooed scat vocals, and a ghostly piano played after every few verses. By the time I heard the song again a few years later during a family camping trip to Hecla Island, I knew Cohen’s name but not his work, more familiar with the exaggeratedly dour impression Roger Abbott did on Royal Canadian Air Farce than his words and music until my first year at Mount Allison University.

A borrowed greatest hits compilation was my first conscious exposure to Cohen’s music. It took; I bought I’m Your Man before the school year was out, and Songs of Leonard Cohen and Recent Songs over the summer. My friends Scott and Jay helped fill in some of the gaps of my Cohen appreciation (they also developed my fondness for tea and good beer). By the time I finished my degree, Cohen became one of the cornerstones of my music taste, and a bonding point with many friends. I’m not always in the mood to listen to him, but there have been many times I sought solace by quickly losing myself in his words.

I’m glad to be able to say I saw him in concert. He played the Scotiabank Centre (then called the Halifax Metro Centre) about six months after I moved to Halifax. The tickets were a birthday present from my younger sister, who came with me to the concert; they were cheap seats so we were all the way up in the nosebleeds, our eyes going back and forth between the action happening below and the screens projecting the close-up camera feeds. He was 78 at the time, but spry, seemingly growing younger from the point he skipped on stage for the first time, still able to kneel and climb back up many times during a multi-hour set. For all his reputation as a depressing artist, he exuded a lot of joy that night.