The tradeoff.

No one tells you that as you move up and to the right, there is a not a clearing, as Heidegger would have you obsess on, but rather a crowding. There is a crowding that suffocates the ability to show your feelings at work, to tune them in outside and to get them down on paper.

I wave my hand to dissipate this stale air to bare a stolid facade but my hand is slow and the stream is thick and the flash of the camera hits thick particles, forming a blinding wall like headlights in a fog, leaving me sitting, alone, in silence.


"She loves the singer, every song can bring her close to tears
But when she talks about his band it just confirms her mother's fears
A little crush on the singer but in her heart she knows it's true
Everything is different when he's singing right to you

Her mother says honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do

Let the crowd press on the stage
And let the lights wash out their eyes
Sixteen years ago I was completely mesmerized
And then the night was done and the singer disappeared behind the stage
And the roadies came and picked me out from on the barricade

Honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do, whatever you do

I wouldn't change for a moment my life or my ideals
But once I loved a singer and I know just how you feel
For him to say so plainly what your heart can vouch is true
Means something is connecting you, something is connecting you

Honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do, whatever you do
Don't you love a singer
Don't you love a singer"



"My arms miss you
My hands miss you
The stars sing, i've got their song in my head
Oh, I don't want my words twisted
I don't want you to listen to close
Or wait for me impatiently

And I hope I can keep seeing you
As long as you don't say you're falling in love

[And I can feel you're about to forget]"


How here?

How here, looking over glass structures and the art and architecture, the angles and curves of lesser known folks, long studying and hustling until they landed the contract for the office park building #62, for the startup that got to take on building the "Oracle" building in Markham, Toronto?

How here, sitting in a fabric chair that ignores the past years' focus on back support (sitting will kill you!) on the eleventh floor above a small parking lot and construction?

How here, waiting to put in another day of work on a project to which I have devoted my recent life to create something amazing, how here in between thoughts of implementation, flow, customers and revenue?

How here in a well-worn undershirt, a garment I once thought left for older men only, now as well worn as any band t-shirt, how here with these sore limbs and red eyes?

How here, not by hand on paper but edited and typed out with page demarcations, by dull lamp light with shoddy wifi, watching a highway whose name, location, destination and importance are as foreign to me as its travelers?

How here, packing a bag to take my sixth flight in the last three weeks, how here putting together tolietries and preparing for the task of the 21st century's new security normal?

How here, still a little boy with glasses, spelunking deep into his own thoughts and emotions, looking for some gems in lieu of answers?

How here do I feel these tears come up uncontrollably and strong facing the specter of loss and of something so fucking wrong and so unfair to so many people?

How here do I grapple with the realities of this and the fallout and the blast radius, terms coined for nuclear attacks and easily adopted for this kind of experience?

How here is this dealt with by people who are stronger or more well-adjusted or "making it through" or whatever else?

How here, and knowing all of this and owning up to it, and getting ready for a different world with one fewer brilliant light and full of that much less pure love and honest goodness,

How now?


I have something brewing, it's coming soon.