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gym feels

this one ain't so serious folks, i promise :)


Due to the gigantic influx of gym-goers fulfilling their resolution it's been a bit cramped in the gym I go to usually. My usual gym is a very fitting dumbbell shaped room with the free weights and machines being farthest from the entrance and the yoga mats and straps for gimmicky fitness related crap closest. The treadmills, non-moving bikes and stair-things are in the middle.

Ignore the lines inside the rectangles, I was just lazy and didn't edit them out

January 2 comes along and I drive to the gym as per usual - going the long way trying to avoid cops and having to turn into incoming traffic because I fear for my life frequently. But as I pull into the parking lot my face contorts into confusion and I reach for the volume control of my stereo to turn down Ice Cube and his opinions on west coast and east coast relations. Last year I began going to the gym religiously after mid April and I didn't get to experience the new years rush. So when I finally found a parking spot behind the ice rink arena a block away, I didn't realize just how many people would be streaming in and taking all the parking. I shrugged and dismissed the mild inconvenience, I was going to the gym anyway, what was the problem with walking a couple more steps to the doors? But obviously it gets worse.

My gym is located in the left wing of a giant recreational center. This meant that usually when I ran on the treadmills I could watch people swim and play around in the big wave pool right in front of my gym, only a thick glass wall separating the two. This also meant that after my workout I usually went into the hot tub or sauna and stared at the wall until I was satisfied. But as I entered the building I could already hear how crowded it was in the gym floor, especially for 5 in the morning after New Years day. I'd like to think it was because the receptionist saw my confused look, or maybe it was because she too was feeling overwhelmed, but she nodded at me as per usual and instead of casually dismissing me, she instead started telling me at how incredibly rude the new people were. I nodded trying so very hard to feign interest but really all I wanted was to start my workout because it was back day and that meant deadlifting and deadlifting is the highlight of my day.

A minute of small talk turned to five and I knew it would turn into ten if I didn't eject myself out of there. I made sure that the receptionist noticed my sudden change of direction when I looked for the time and shrugged when I, "suddenly realized that I'm kind of in a hurry and should get this thing started."

Opening the door to the gym was an experience all in itself. The doors were airtight and slightly soundproof so all I could hear from the lobby while I chatted with the nice receptionist was the low rumble of machines being used and the low mumble of many people talking and grunting. But when I opened them the sounds amplified themselves by at least 10x. Talk of what body they were aiming for, what protein shakes they had bought, what brand shoes they thought were best, and various other useless crap mishmashed into a cacophony of high pitched squealing that for some reason annoyed the shit out of me.

"Wow Cindy, I am so fucking hung over right now but I want to get fit and better for 2014!"
Yeah we're such partygoers! Let's continue talking while you sit on the only bench press so people can't use it!

Don't get me wrong though, I totally condone verbal interactions between two people, I just fucking hate it when everyone tries so very hard to talk over the noise and it ends up being a room filled with people screaming at each other.

"Whatever, I'll just run on the treadmill and listen to some nice music to get into my zone before I start lifting some heavy-ass weight."

But that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Our gym had a total of 15 treadmills and I had never seen them so full that there's a lineup to run on them. There were two employees of the rec center carefully watching and timing people on the treadmill and instructing them to get off after ten minutes. That's how crowded it was.

I usually don't write about fatties but there were two that laid down on the yoga area and took up all 8 of the mats. It was almost artistic how they laid down so majestically that they needed every single mat to cushion their already cushioned limbs. It bothered me how people didn't tell them off only because they were probably pushing four-hundo and it would be mean if anyone got in their way to bettering their lifestyle. What was really amazing though were the regular yoga girls and guys that somehow managed to achieve meditative state pushed into the corner of the room with no mats of their own. If you have never seen ten or so grown adults in lotus positions back to back and inches from each other, I recommend it. Those people who can meditate in that environment probably deserve some inner nirvana.

Oh god the free weights.

It was disastrous.

Have you ever been so pissed that you wrote a poem in your car? I surely haven't.

It took me 10 minutes to get the six plates I needed to start deadlifting. It was strange how some of the kids there held onto their plates and how hurt they looked when you asked if you could use it. If it wasn't for the regulars I probably would have taken twice as long to hunt down more plates. I don't even know how I got my hands on an olympic bar, considering there were only two in the gym.

I did my first set of five and for some strange reason strangers around me took that as a signal to start giving me advice. I know how daunting the gym can be for first-timers and I understand the value of advice and wisdom given to me by those who have achieved or are close to achieving their goals. Hell, if it wasn't for some random guy who suggested I try deadlifting and squatting, I wouldn't be enjoying the gym as much. But if it's some 15 year old and his friends hanging out at the gym during Winter Vacation with 8 inch arms and curling 25's with shite form, I start to have a problem with it.

According to them a deadlift rep doesn't count if you touch the floor with the plates when you bring it down. According to them and other's around them that deadlifting is dangerous and if I go any heavier than what I am doing right now I will break my back.

I learned a cool ability that day. The ability to stare at someone and hear them, but not actually listen to them.

If I sound smug or condescending towards these people, then fuck you. Motivation begins and ends from within and if these people's motivation begins at January then cool, I don't give a fuck. But when their motivation ends at February and I can go back to quick hour long workouts then I will be the last person to cry for them. If it doesn't end at February and instead keeps going, then cool.

It pains me to know that most of the people in the gym right now won't know the joy of hitting a big milestone in an almost empty gym while those around you clap.

Not really doe, fucking hell I hope February comes quick.



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Growing up

It's almost 2014 here in British Columbia and I just noticed that I've only written four blogposts in all of 2013. It doesn't matter much to anyone but myself and the incredibly small handful of people that read brodinary but happiness starts with myself and I want to do things because I want to do them, not because I want others to see that I've done them.

 This year was the year of motivation for me. Every year since I've been able to understand and comprehend things, there has been a plethora of nice and comfortable things that have been happening to me annually and without fail. Coming from a family with the emphasis on family, we did most events as a family and sharing it with another as a family. I've always had the big brother or kid idea stamped so deep into this picturesque scene that I was so comfortable and unaware that I was really only one thing. We would go out and celebrate Canada Day or Easter and for the first bit of my life I was a kid, enjoying the things and not really participating in the behind the scenes stuff like placing the eggs or planning the events of the day. Then I grew up and started filling the role of a big brother.

 There I would become a big part of the preparation. Since this is my blog, I'm going to act superior to you. Being a big brother is a pretty big deal, I was responsible for three lives that would go out on their own eventually and lead their own beautiful and happy lives and I was responsible for mine. I gave up three years of my life because for some reason I wanted to see how they would grow in their most vulnerable and most impressionable state. Of course that's  not the only reason I basically disappeared for three years. Laziness was also a big factor, also self hatred and some depression blah blah blah. Amidst the three years of debauchery and self exploration, I took care of my three siblings and I don't think I'll ever consider those years being wasted.

 Feel free to judge me all you want, call me a loser or call me a lazy bum. Just know that it was my choice to be these things. Fuck you because I had the ability to do this and you're just jealous that you can't be lazy for three years watching your siblings grow into amazing living breathing people with hobbies and interests and complicated conflicts.

 So I became a big brother and I helped with these things and participated in them equally. That was my first taste of really growing up.

 I was a big brother for 9 years, but I really started being one four years ago, when my responsibilities suddenly disappeared and I was faced with a blank canvas and the question, "What do I do now?"

 Then four years came and gone and I learned a lot about everything. I had too much time to think and too much time to dwell. I had fights with depression, fights with friends, fights with family, and fights with myself.
But even through all that I still remembered to be a big brother and maybe just maybe I came out of it a better person. Now that my time as just a big brother is ending and I have to start thinking of being an adult, I've found some lull time. I didn't realize that my life was moving on until late this year.

 It was around late April of 2012 that I begun growing up. The final and youngest sibling was eager and able to enter school soon and while everyone was preparing him mentally and physically for the big day, I was secretly preparing myself mentally of his transition into independence. Soon he wouldn't need me to watch him the entire day and his own day will consist of adventuring into subjects like math and spelling without me. This was the absolute definition of bittersweet for me. When you take care of someone or someones for a long time you start to wonder if they're relying on you or if you're relying on them.

 Then eventually they started becoming their own person. They go to school and meet new people. They begin sharing the things they've learned and they're so very beautiful about it. They beam and radiate a certain warmth that you only feel because they are shining so bright. Then it slows down.

 They start having problems and begin to learn that they can solve it themselves or with other people, you're not needed as much anymore.

 Then they realize they can share the things that make them happy to people their age, ones who might appreciate it more. I remember many times where they would show me a drawing and the only reason I was so happy about it was because they were so happy about it. Not because it was an amazing work of art or not because it was something that required a lot of commitment but only because they were so proud and happy about it.

 I remember waking up at October, cold and miserable, my heater had somehow stopped during the middle of the night and the cold air seeped in slowly through the bottom of the door. I had woken up without opening my eyes but I already knew something was wrong because I was so ridiculously cold. Then I pulled the blankets up to my eyes and relished in all the comfort. It was too cold and too comfy to get out and try to restart the heater so I was just stuck in that little bubble of comfort I had created with my blanket. I laid there comfortable and quiet, letting the silence of suburbia soak in the glowy aftereffect of my dreams. I had lain there for a long time before the sounds of everyone waking up started.

 Three months ago I needed to get up and sleep next to my brother just encase he rolled off the bed or if he started coughing. Then I needed to start making breakfast or find the change of diapers or DVD of Blues Clues before he woke up. Then we planned the day together and we would either stay in and watch TV or go out and play in the park.

 But instead I just laid there, with nothing I needed to do.

 Then I started realizing just how alone I truly was now that they didn't me anymore.
So my resolution, my final resolution for 2013.

 Don't forget all the feelings and terrible searching you needed to do to get to where you are now. No matter how shit you start feeling or how bad you want it to all just end, just remember the nice times things you felt and the nice things you will feel. Move on because they are moving on. Everybody is moving on. That isn't too hard is it? Just don't forget those beautiful pockets of happiness and maybe you can feel it again someday. Just that chance of feeling it again is enough to keep you going, and don't argue with me because I know it is.
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Mahjong

I wrote this a while back in a discussion about Asian families and how it was like growing up in North America. The act of "washing" mahjong tiles consists of haphazardly pushing in your own tiles with everyone elses and shuffling them all together. With the tiles being made of bone or hard plastic, this gave a very loud and recognizable clashing. It was a noise that, if heard anywhere, you would instantly assume that it was people enjoying a game of mahjong.



To me the washing of mahjong tiles somewhere in the house is, even now after so many years, like white noise. Beyond the drowsiness, it drifts me back to those Friday and Saturday nights when the parents got together and threw us kids like shrugged off coats into a pile, upstairs or down in the basement. It didn't matter. A kid, one usually four years older would act like a den mother or wedgie dispensing brother for the night: we still needed to be watched.

Scrabble or Pictionary or Monopoly already set up before we arrived. Hot Wheels or Lego dumped on the carpet.

At Paolo's house, Marvin's sister Lana, 4 years older, was the warden. She decided what activities would be available, the aforementioned board games, a cartoon tape in the VCR: Denver the Last Dinosaur or Chipmunks' World Adventure or some Disney flick.

Sometimes we were bifurcated. Boys in the living room snapping together their stupid hot wheels tracks through cities of LEGO. Though there was always a girl or two out of the bunch who wanted in, for the most part the girls would retreat into the unknown territory of Gina's room and emerge later subtly different. More sparkly?

But most times we were together. Under the hot cone lamp that hung over the dark wooden breakfast table we wanted to be the racecar or the terrier, or tried to guess somebody’s scribble of a mutant cactus, or stole someone else's letter, or slipped a hundred Monopoly bucks out of the bank while Gina was distracted by her idiot brother’s antics.

We were together doing our stupid little talent show contests, rolling into the room to "I aint fraid of no ghosts," looking like Chippendale dancers with particle accelerators strapped to our backs. Or we were going around the world in the hot air balloon of the living room carpet. I was always Alvin, the charismatic chipmunk. One was Simon, the nerd. One was Theodore, who liked to eat. All the girls wanted to be Brittany.

Paolo’s place wasn’t the only place we knew. The parents liked to rotate. Us kids had a feeling for each. Marvin’s was cool because it had a big screen projection TV and you could play big Nintendo. It had a basketball hoop out back and the patio was quartered into large concrete slabs perfect for 4-square. There were games of ping pong on the table out on the patio as the moths whirled around the flood lamps and got stuck in big bangs or flung themselves into mouths as we exclaimed: Slam you! Bammo! Pfffth! Another plus: Marvin's parents always had push up pops in their drop-in freezer and fun could be had pretending to push the kid who reached inside for one.

Jon’s place was like visiting the country, or what we understood the country to be, it was actually farmland Cloverdale. It was twenty minutes by car and sat on two acres, one of them wooded. It wasn’t really country, but at dusk the fireflies came out like it. Once one of the girls, Yna, caught thirty of them in a jar and cried when they were all dead in two hours.

At Ellen’s there were dogs kept in an outdoor pen and little bunny rabbits in the woods. At all the other houses the boys slept with the boys, the girls with the girls, but at Ellen’s we huddled in the dark, on the living room’s pink 70s carpet, surrounded not by tacky wood panels but by the piney woods of rural Newton long ago. We told each other ghost stories by the light of a 4DD lamp and leapt at each other for shrieks and made it so not one of us could sleep. We kept telling stories until dawn, until our parents dragged us, bleary eyed, to the car where sleep would finally find us.

The sleep ritual was always most stringent at Marvin’s. His mom always came downstairs, stern and efficient (she had a game to return to). She was mother to all of us at that moment. We were made to brush our teeth (we each maintained a toothbrush there) and wash our faces. At Marvin’s house there were only two cramped kid’s rooms so they put us kids in Marvin’s and Lana's beds, respectively. They had us boys lay horizontally across Marvin’s queen size and we would jostle each other or hog the sheets or throw them on a surprise victim to dutch oven. Man, how flatulent we were. SBD’s and Bitbrrrrrrs and Atomic Fireballs and Chinese Firecrackers. Lana would come in and threaten to tell on us, on our gas and our guffawing. Gina and Ellen and Yna would crowd around her, their faces gradually scrunching up in disgust around the point of their twitching noses.

We calmed ourselves, threw our hands over our mouths. We promised we would be good. Promise. And the girls went back to their room as we tried to eat our laughter.


This sleeping arrangement continued for many years. I don’t remember exactly at what point it was decided we were too old for it. Or who decided this. With my feet hanging off the side of Marvin’s bed, I was already beginning to feel suffocated by my life. Yet still I had no clue that this, all this glory, was doomed. Even lying there planning my eventual escape from childhood, it was not something that came to mind. That we would grow up to such an extent and grow apart, or that one of us would begin to smoke pot, or we would start sneaking off with one of the girls for sex. That some of us would have better things to do with their white friends and some would move far far away. Still thankfully inconceivable. And farthest from my scheming brain: that eventually we would keep in touch through the rare electronic missive, connected only by faded photograph and crumbling memory, and by the sound of those mahjong tiles being washed as we drifted to sleep.
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Stroll through the beach


Through youthful touch we meet in blankets of sand.
Darkest brown, your gaze tightening, hearts constricting band.
Soft breeze, dark ocean, thoughts of petty tease,
Your form, ever so burning, eternally, my eager disease.

Pray tell, Annabella, for do tax my heart!
For I fear this love and crime are not far apart.
Sultry winks and adorable romances,
A beautiful result for one’s own precarious advances.

We were naught, a simple two,
Caught upon a careful charade for too few.
Be it fates hand that meld us to one;
For ‘til time come now, we hath not begun.

Our hands meet upon white sands of oceans tongue,
We are, stories told, but a song loved and unsung.
As final day’s gentle flames flow far into the distance,
Our warmth glow and we are one, from loves careful persistence.

Gentle whispers of desire and sinful ability,
We are but space and time, humanity’s true invisibility.
A display of our true and final affection,
The one most eager for us all, our lustful infection.
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Christmas Miracle

Warning: Some serious feels in this article

It's a widely known fact that December is a time for both giving and taking. Not in the sense of gift exchange but in the sense of criminal behaviour. Behind the sugar coated curtain of Christmas glee and affection lies a very select group of scum that target to take advantage of these kinds of people. There are two kinds of people during Christmas Eve. The ones that approach the 25th with the plan to smile a bit more, or ones that approach the 25th, circling the date, and making sure that they're prepared to start breaking into houses or mugging those unfortunate carrying bags filled with presents.

You tend to hear such expressions like, 'Oh their house got robbed on Christmas? That's really unfortunate' or 'Oh they lost their daughter so close to Christmas? That's really unfortunate.' Both those scenarios are really bad but an added magnitude accompanies them when mentioned that it happened in such a close proximity to Christmas day.

Unbeknownst to little Susan, her house was being robbed during her rendition of Silent Night. Better have kept those receipts bitttch


I spent a beautiful Christmas morning stuck in a dark room with someone that was not going to be around for much longer. Because it was Christmas I felt an extra ounce of compassion in my heart for this man that is usually reserved for extremely attractive Asian women.

This particular person suffered from the common ailment of being incredibly unlucky. So it was my job to watch him and make sure that this person didn't spread his unluckiness.

The room itself was just a dark cold room with one single exposed lightbulb on the floor in the middle of the room. Our shadows were cascaded in such intricate shapes that it was like we had silent silhouettes of guardians that watched over the two of us. Two chairs and a table were the only things given to us. We had no source of entertainment other than each other and really that was way more than enough when I got started.

So this John that I was with suffered through the textbook symptoms of facing inevitability. His hands were shaking, his eyes were darting around, and he was blinking faster than an epileptic watching Japanese television. Soon he would tire himself out and then he would begin to ask questions. In this room of waiting, societal norms would crumble and it didn't matter if you were racist, ugly, or a woman. There was one person in front of you and if that person was a young Asian kid then you better forget the fact that your grandfather called my grandfather a gook and begin to understand just how hopeless you are.

 May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end!


People broke faster than others and this person here broke pretty fast. Maybe it was the added weight of Christmas day or whatever but this John broke fast and he started crying into his large hands.

The first person you experience like this really takes a toll on your psychology. The second, not so much. Then the fifth person and it just becomes a job. Then after thirty it just becomes white noise. Everything they do could have been filled in a questionnaire and I could have check boxes according to how they would act in the next couple hours. You really become dehumanized after so much of these jobs.

This John begins to talk and he tries to regain his sense of dignity by asking for my name. I tell him my name and he tells me his. I don't take any extra precaution to remember his name because really there isn't a point. I've been told that the only two names I would probably remember while doing this job would the first and last. John asks why someone so young like me is doing something like this and I tell him that it's for money. He makes a joke about it and laughs a little too ecstatically and I just smile without changing my eyes.

He tells me his life story and I become good at condensing decades of lives in a short Wikipedia-like  sentence.

A single beautiful moment of death coalesced into one convenient sentence that takes out all sense of beauty.

 And with this he looks at me hoping that I gained some insight from his journey. His long walk through a well-worn path of birth beget into school beget into university beget into career beget into death. And sadly I couldn't lie to him and I simply nodded at whatever the hell he had to say. Eventually his ancient screws that held him up unscrewed after years of wear and his entire body drooped into his chair, a sign of surrender, like the final act of a marionette, discarded and might as well been forgotten.

We both jump slightly at the loud knock behind us and I reach across the table to give the man one last handshake. As I walk away, what he had shared with me was already vaporizing into nothingness. I left and that was it for his story. I get to continue mine.

I stopped by T&T supermarket on the way home and picked up some milk bread that had just the right amount of sweetness in it. I really liked that bread and we needed it to stuff into the Christmas turkey.

Sorta like this but without the chocolate


This has happened so much now that all memories and stories about different lives has become just a single entity of insignificance that I could no longer even feign interest in them. There's a small window of thought that emerges from me after each time I have to spend hours with an unfortunate person's last lap. I wonder if I want to spend my last hour talking to someone who will forget eventually. Is there really a difference between telling a loved one and having it forgotten by them when they too pass away compared to telling a stranger? Or did these people just want to tell anyone because intrinsically we are all selfish and they just want someone to acknowledge that what we did mattered? But eventually I'll just forget and do whatever is next in my life.

So really all I'm hoping that can come out of this is that I don't die during Christmas and when I do die, I don't want it long and drawn out. I think.
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insouciance

Sometimes when I can't sleep I think about all those people I've talked to and try to recall all the things they left behind. I pull the blanket up to my nose and I stare past the ceiling trying to see and feel something. Then I start opening doors that I keep trying to close. I start thinking too much and start again on thoughts of the afterlife. I think of the old computer that I had long ago in my early teens that we replaced because the power button stopped working. Then I remember finding it again in the basement and carrying that heavy monstrosity up the stairs and putting it down carefully on the carpeted floor of my room. I stared into the hole that used to have a power button with one eye closed as I inched closer and closer to it trying to see if there was anything special. Then I had the bright idea to go down to the kitchen, grab a chopstick, and bring it back up and inserting it into that hole.

Miraculously, the computer turned on again. It's old and dusty fans started spinning within the bowels of its metal chassis with such volume that it was almost as if I had turned on a lawnmower. I connected the computer to a newer monitor and waited for it to completely boot up. Hearing those hollow beeps and electronic midi's starting up the system brought such a nostalgic warmth in me that I couldn't help but smile. All those late nights struggling with slow dial-up connections and frantically searching for that one cheat code for that extra hard video game suddenly came back to me, a most familiar feeling of recollection filed under 'little things' in the back of your mind.

Even through the incessant coughing and wheezing from caked dust, the computer trudged its little metal spinners and pullers and pushers and started up once again. I understood that this ancient machine was fragile and for some reason I thought I should also be careful in moving the mouse or pressing keys on the newer hardware that I had connected to it. Almost as if this computer could somehow feel some phantom pain from the hard clicks or the exaggerated slamming I resort to now with my fingers when I type (I've been asked if I'm angry at the keyboard when I type). But for this moment in time I grazed my fingers over the keys slowly and gently, almost as if I was running my hand over a sleeping dog, making sure to not disturb it.

I spent the entire afternoon slowly going through all my old files. I enjoyed myself as I read poems and stories unfinished and smiled at the pictures I saved and music I somehow downloaded. At a certain point I had eight windows open, each one a different folder in the computer. Now this was something I regularly did because I always assume that I will need to quickly access something. On my current laptop opening that much was cake, but on this aged hardware? I tried closing one of the windows, still unaware of what I had done and when it refused to close I froze along with it. I stared for a couple minutes at that screen, the happy warm feeling slowly dissipating. I felt every drop of that warm pink liquid called nostalgia as I began over thinking once again. It saddened me when I realized that the moment I turned on this computer, it was in the same state as we had left it seven years ago - except dustier, slower and a lot older. The night we had decided to retire it, it was still pushing itself, making sure that it still did what it had to.
The tower, the skeleton, rickety and so brittle that it needed to be propped against a wall in order to stay up.
The software, so outdated and weak that it needs so much more effort to do things it did with relative ease before.
The memory, parts corrupted and fragmented that you can't really trust it anymore to remember some things.
It's PSU, the power supply unit; chugging, coughing, struggling, beating. The very heart of the computer so weak and fragile.
Fated to not turn on again because of human carelessness.
Nothing really can escape inevitability can it?
It was almost as if this computer had just woken up after seven years of death and it just continued as if those years were nothing. The only thing it has to show for it is its deteriorating body and corrupted mind.
When I stare up at the ceiling during nights I can't sleep, I think back to that day. I sometimes wonder if there is a heaven for computers and if I had pulled that ancient behemoth away from it just for a brief exchange and to catch up. Then I smile because it's so absurd. Then I wonder if there is something after death, a computer human heaven.

Mix them according to preference. Or don't mix them at all

I met a nice girl the other day. She was in a lot of debt for someone her age and for some reason she pissed off the wrong people. This lead her to a sort of crossroads that lead to the same place, if that makes any sense. I took her to the beach very close to the city and made sure to remind her to bundle up because beaches in December are nippy.

I picked her up at her place and we walked in silence to the beach. She wore a perfume that was redolent of funeral flowers. The kind that are artificially enhanced to last a bit longer than usual. We got into public transit and she made her way to the back of the bus where we sat not beside each other but face to face.

I stayed quiet because it wasn't my job to entertain her. There was a quick exchange in glances, both of us waiting if the other was going to start a conversation, a conversational stand-off of the sort. I wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger and apparently she wasn't either. It would be a quiet ride between the two of us. Now she was a beautiful girl there was no doubt about it. A salad of genes that would make any average to below average girl envious. But at that moment of vulnerability, that moment where she had to face her mortal existence, she couldn't be any more beautiful. She didn't bother to wear make up and it was obvious that she was crying the night before. I caught those eyes of hers shaking slightly when the bus stopped to pick up passengers and she would make eye contact with someone for a moment. A fly trapped in a web watching others fly by, living their life. When a person stopped trying to blend and became bare bones, living only to cling onto each day as a blessing, they became something different, something ethereal. Something beautiful.

We eventually made it to the beach, the only words exchanged were commands from me to move faster or telling her that it was time to get off.

Now the beach is a very special place for me. No matter how cliched it sounds, the beach does things to an individual that they wouldn't do otherwise. A beach in the middle of winter is a special kind of solace for people otherwise unfamiliar with a ritual like this. The smell, the sounds, the feelings, they all worked together to erode away the final pillar of a person.
When they finally stare into the horizon, their eyes half closed and their white pupils glazed, I begin speaking.
I usually start with something easy like a joke or a fact. For this girl I just started by saying that in this world there are so little things that can be described as epic. The ocean though is undoubtedly one of them.

Things that are also epic: Space and the intro to Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin

She stood there, her scarf wrapping her comely cheeks and those ineffable brown eyes of hers looking out into the water, almost as if she was trying to look across the ocean. Then she began talking.

She talked for a long time. But it didn't matter to me. Right now the two of us had all the time in the world and I was more than happy to listen to what she had to say. She talked about everything she ever wanted to be and everything shes always wanted to see. How she will never be able to have children and how she will never feel true love that she's always wanted. How she will disappoint her family and how she hopes that at least one person in this entire world will cry when shes gone. By the end of it all she was in tears.

Then she asked me if I ever have thoughts of the end and I nodded, lying would neither comfort or upset this girl. Then she asked me what every person asks when they can see the end in the distance. She asked me if I think that there is an afterlife. I told her that I didn't but that shouldn't stop her from believing if there is.

YEAH FINISH LINE BITCHESSSSS

Then she asked me about me and I told her about me. Then she asked me what I thought and I told her what I thought.

I asked her if she knew what nihilism meant. She didn't so I explained.

Then she cried again. There are times where I believe that I'm not the right person for this job.
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Thinking about specks.

There are two types of people in this world, both of which can be easily categorized and subsequently referred to as HAM. While trying to think about specks i discovered a theme which persists across many plat forms, and that platform in a plate covered in ham products. That is why ladies and gentle men i refer to everyone by the flavor of speck ham they are (and if you don't know what the hell speck ham is take a gander at the picture below).
SPECK-tacular ham.


 So what are these two people i speak of that are so hammy? Well the first person can be generally referred to as the salt cured ham type. These people are shriveled up shells of their former youthful, liquid endowed selves. They have a little over 1 percent liquid in their bodies and as such are very dry people. After all, salt draws liquid from... I got lazy. Sorry faggots.


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Hello, my name is Roland. We're here to help.

Punctuality in life is golden. It's the standard in which evaluates each and everyone of us as individuals in life. If you have a deadline then you are expected to meet the expectations without any complications or excuses. This being said, if I wait in the damn line and order a coffee at Starbucks then I better expect that coffee in ten minutes as promised. If this promise isn't fulfilled someone suffers -a coffee addict like myself- or it can also mean the coffee maker is on the fritz again and I'll have to wait for thirty minutes for Earl the maintenance guy to drop on by and fit it. What ever the case two facts are certain, I'm going to have to suffer until this problem resolves itself and Earl is going to be one busy man today.

Earl the maintenance guy
I brought up the topic of punctuality because this has been something I've been struggling to improve on. For quite some time this has been a growing concern, a common issue I've noticed in many people I've encountered with in life. Even though we all have the capability to produce something spectacular we lack the motivation and the mindset to deliver a creative project in a timely manner. I especially see this in myself, as this is the depending factor that can attribute to the success of Brodinary. If the content on this blog remains barren as it has been for some time now then chances are this blog is likely to fail, a fear that haunts me daily. As I look around the internet to websites that produce material on a daily basis I question myself, as to why I don't possess the drive to produce a site to a similar ability. I can come up with numerous excuses to explain why but this doesn't do much, it only creates a barrier to keep producing sub-par work. With this comes a proposition, a commitment for myself to follow in order to better myself and Brodinary.

1) Keep content updated every week.
I'm committing myself to produce posts and content each week for Brodinary. I am currently in talks with the original founders to create a schedule so content is organized.

2) Redesigning the site
This has been one of the things I've put off countless times. Since I have free time after this semester I'll be devoting myself into redesign the blog to reflect the original concept behind Brodinary.

3) Spreading the word
Networking to a broader audience so our content is viewed by as much people as possible. Having an audience to support us will be a big step.

 Stay tuned for the next episode.
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Hello, my name is Roland. Jayus is today's word.

Here's a poem that I've been working on. It's been uncompleted for quite some time now but I've been editing it to clarify sections and to fix the flow. Not 100% sure if the changes were for the better so if you have any feedback please leave a comment. 

 This poem was for a Creative Writing class in which we had an exercise to list what we did in normal day. After coming up with a simple list I played around with verses to create this poem, as it reflected the feeling I had at the time. It was when I was just in a creative slump, my oldest brother had just moved out and things felt strange around the house. This was also when I spent hours on the computer just finding interesting things. and by coincidence I stumbled upon a site that shared foreign words that carried with them much meaning. From the list I choose two words that connected to how I felt, Jayus and Toska. This being said here is my poem.

Occupied streets that seems empty. 
Jayus

This morning
working on a poem
the mouse clicks
as animals do,
while my weary eyes strive
to finish.

The microwave beeps
And fills the room,
with the reward
of left-over Chinese food
while the T.V shows
reruns of CSI, as promised.

Plastic champagne cups
are filled with water -
a sudden shiver,
as spilt ink forms faces
on the ghost white futon
and coats my fingertips.

I take a shower,
like waterfalls showering over
to refills the prayer cups.
A faded frame sit
as incenses are lit.
Waving once, twice,
thrice with thoughts of family.


Lie down
on the stained futon in malaise,
with my thoughts
of my older brother
moved out. Starting
to print a few poems,
with void voices echoing
around the table covered with
worn-out newspapers and dusty books.

Seconds turn into minutes, then hours, and
days start to nullify here. Caught
in routine, with plagued tasks.
But maybe. maybe
it’s necessary,

to stare
at oneself in the mirror and
get dressed, just
 to sit with Toska.
Anticipating
the oncoming day.

 Stay tuned for the next episode.
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Hello, my name is Roland. This is The Joy of Painting.


It was like taking a plunge into ‘literary’ waters. I quickly fell into a deep depression losing all sense of my surroundings and found comfort in alcohol . Days were spent binged on anything accessible. At one point I even resorted to armed robbery of a 7-11 convenient store with my shitzoo dog named Dr.Goldberg JOO-stien to feed my habit. Sufficient to say I was living a feeble life. Things didn't go as planned and I cracked. I was a failure. The mental struggle had owned me and I was reduced to nothingness, now in an apartment complex somewhere down town, in and out of reality on the decayed sofa that was in the living room. I had just ordered a batch of pills from my dealer Sven of the East Side Dough Boys and eagerly waited. Remote in hand the channels flickered between one another when the room filled with the soft angelic voice of an angel. “Talk to the tree, make friends with it” said the afro’d man. His words pierced through me and had awoken me. I shuffled through the stack of paper and started writing. Once the show was over I gathered my belongings which consisted of ten sheets of writing, my lucky red yo-yo, a photo of me at burger king, and headed back to Kwantlen with a sense of achievement. From the sheets I created my first poem. P.S my friend Travis is a literary ‘God’.
Bob Ross in his natural habitat
The Joy of Painting

White Shells wrapped with stripes
     waiting, to see the day.
The paint brush releases,
     sweet dispositions
as beau blue drifts over the beach

He smiles at the camera, happily
praises the newbies. says
“Let’s paint,
                a cloud above the sea
whichever works with you”

as splashes of bright cerulean
touches the tips of tides and
showers the sands,
     shadowing over
the beach are hands of waves
waving back,
      happy accidents

 Stay tuned for the next episode.
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Hello, my name is Roland. Konguru is I


Sorry for the delay in between posts, as I’ve been busy with term papers and assignments. It’s just one of those times when there’s always work to be done, that busy period in life we go through that tests us to our fullest capabilities. Stress increases and all that matters is just producing something we’re satisfied enough to hand in. We as university students know this as finals, and to be completely honest with you I haven’t been telling the truth (I’ve lied and it only seems fair to come clean). I’ve been browsing Youtube for the past few days, something I’m not totally proud of, as this was a habit I’ve mentioned that needs correcting. However, as bad as this setback sounds there's some positive. The word “Konguru” has been introduced to me, although a foul slang for some, I’ve found it quite fitting.
MFW
I discovered this word “Konguru” when I was watching a production on Youtube, called K-Town. To spare you all from this drunken drama fest of an Asian version of Jersey Shore (you can watch it of course but I’ll be silently judging you) it’s about a community of mid twenty individuals who have semi interesting lives. One of the cast members Scarlet first used this word, as a replacement to the commonly used phase “FOB”, an insult to immigrant orientals which stands for fresh off the boat. Although not as bad to the latter term, “Konguru” means a fobby male or female who just came to America and acts very shy. Compared to a direct insult which makes fun of a person's adaptation to a foreign place, “Konguru” talks about the mannerisms of a foreigner, as they have common courtesy in their actions. These are individuals who maintain their polite considerate nature. I found myself fascinated with this word, as I investigated further into it’s origins I  soon saw myself as a “Konguru”. These were people who were timid, compared to the outrageous clubbers in the show who had no common sense. What I found surprising in the show was how offended others were when they were called this, as they would protest in vulgarity to the insult. Myself I found the term “Konguru” to be quite the compliment, a title I’d be proud to hold.

 This is where this blog post comes in, as my last post I left off with the thought of finding a tag for myself. I’ve considered this as my online user name, Konguru. I’d like to get some feedback from you guys and see what other possibilities were available

 Stay tuned for the next episode.
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I ran over A DOG... IN SPACE. Almost.

Sometimes i drive my space dog mobile into the dog planet "dog-place" and i run over space dogs in my space dog driving car. In this space dog driving car, where is dog pictures and various dog related things. These things can include dogs, and space dogs (but mostly dogs). When i dress myself with dog skin and explode from my only semi habituated dog lacking planet (known as earth) i make sure to try and drive over as many earth dogs as possible with my dog crushing dog car. I call my dog car Dr. Dog Destroyer the second. Dr Dog Destroyer the first was broken into by a gang of space dogs. They stole my car lighter. Those damn dirty dogs. Anyways, my Dog driving dog destroyer was speeding through dog space time when ALL OF A SUDDEN.... i drove over a dog... IN SPACE. Almost. I guess it's a dog eat dog car driving fender world.

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Hello, my name is Roland. Please stand back while I redefine the circle.

We can all agree that my life has been great but it can be better. Strangely it only took a simple class exercise for me to discover this.

Let me introduce myself, I'm just an ordinary guy trying to make the best out of life. You could say I'm living the hedonistic lifestyle. While this consists of sleeping in late, which is good, it means I don't do anything productive, which is bad. The times I am up are waste on YouTube and games, which is good, it also leads to time being wasted, which is bad. To sum up the majority of my life, it consists of sleeping, playing games, and amusing myself with cat videos. I think it's safe to say about a quarter of the views have been from me on keyboard cat. While this lifestyle is ideal, it's something that I'm fed up with. In light of this need for a positive change I'm setting forth a plan, one of which will either fix me, or cause my own demise; either way you guys have the privilege to be up front and centre.

Debut music
Before I go into the details of my wonderfully planned outline, I feel it's necessary for me to explain why this post was created. This all started in creative writing class. We were being taught about the technological side of the industry, as the physical part of publication has decreased over the years and online presences are the norm. What I speak of are blogs, which for an emerging writer we're given the opportunity to showcase our works to a broader audience. The main problem with this gift is that we're in competition against one another as writers, we try to get ourselves noticed by the internet; a mad dash to create an interesting profile for others to connect and familiarize themselves with. This is where the exercise comes into play, as a way to further develop the reasoning behind our blogs. Oddly enough in our writing class this exercise didn't revolve around what the main subject was, writing. Rather, we were indulged in an activity that had us visually represent who we were or how were were feeling with paints. Now for any person who had to represent themselves visually comes challenges, one of which I did encounter. Like if I was a duke blue or princeton orange, as the choices of colours were many. In the end I finished the exercise and this is was the result. Now for the plan.

Step one is to figure out the key things in my life, and as the list stands it consists of sleeping, gaming, and overall anything fun. While the idea of becoming a professional sleeper is one I'd love to pursue, sadly there's no demand for this occupation, yet. Perhaps the sleeping industry would need more time to sleep on it. This then leaves me to ponder about my other options, especially the gaming aspect. It's safe to say I play games constantly, who doesn't nowadays. For the longest time it's been a dirty habit I've been embarrassed about, but as the first step of addiction treatment states, one must accept their disease before they can change for the better. Myself, I'm just getting around this curve. But to admit this seems to have negative connotation surrounding the habit itself, the complete opposite of what I've seen trending around the web. This is clearly evident as YouTube persona like Robbaz, Videogamedunky, Psystarcraft, Niichts, SomaZ, Purge, and others who thrive as the community gamers people spend hours watching, myself included. Now to make a long story short, after spending a considerable amount of time thinking things through I've decided to throw my hat into the ring. Only once I get a better nerd machine (computer) to handle the task ahead. For the time being I'll be planning the ground works and letting you folks into the thought process behind so.

Step two will be figuring out my online profile. Stay tuned for the next episode.

Painting for class exercise       
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Bribing homeless people for their clothes

     Sometimes I wonder how much easier it would be to be homeless. If I really give it some thought, and naive reasoning, a homeless person is essentially living THE life; the true 'thug lyfe'. I can't imagine a time when being homeless isn't better.

     Here is a hypothetical, imagine you are on the bus going to an ostrich party or something and some homeless guy gets on (for free) and sits next to you. Now this homeless guy smells like a potent syrupy concoction of sweat, mostly dry liquor, and maybe poop. From your angle that guy might be the worst thing to ever assault your sensitive nose holes - sensory rape if you will. He not only smells bad, but kind of ruined the idea of going to an ostrich party. He looks just as bad, his face and hair look like they probably got stuck in a car engine (for at least a few days). Not only that but it appears he only owns jean jackets and military surplus clothing. This guy is perhaps the epitome of homelessness; at least in your eyes. So here is the question, how do you feel about this man?

      I guess that most people would be disgusted by this man, they might feel a moment of remorse for judging him so harshly, but that's just how it goes. If you disagree you're probably trying give yourself a big ol' pat on the back for being such a morally righteous cunt. Now think of the scenario from the homeless mans perspective. From this homeless guys point of view he just received a free ride, but this is no ordinary free ride. This free ride is full of people who simply smell fantastic. Everyone on this bus is so worried about looking like an idiot and smelling like a body odor anomaly that they cover every inch of themselves with some cosmetic or another. This man probably spent about 6 whole dollars on all his clothes and somehow this doesn't trouble him. You on the other hand have spent at least 70 dollars on all your clothes. Finally his looks, he looks like a sack of dripping puke, but you look fantastic. What better way to have a nice day than to look at nice things all day. Thankfully for this homeless man, the streets aren't littered with mirrors, only other comparatively beautiful people, so he doesn't really have to worry. You meanwhile are having terrible day, because all you really have in your world right now is this homeless man burned into your mind. Thus if we were keeping score right now it would be Homeless Man 3 - You 0 maybe even -1. This homeless man is now enjoying a wonderful day. Truly a grand victory and when you're homeless there are only grand victories.

     What I am trying to get at is that no matter how great of an ostrich party, breaking all social conventions comfortably may be one of the greatest feeling a person can feel. So when you see a homeless man, bribe him for his clothes. And when I say bribe him for his clothes, I mean ALL of his clothes. Even if you can't wear his clothes because it hurts, sleep easy knowing you've made the streets a little more awkward until he's found the nearest Salvation Army.

This might just be a regular Russian man and his dog.

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