These are the barely noticeable faux-victories that pass for accomplishments now. Trophy lives.

Something that never got published from years ago

"That's how it starts..."

And that is how it starts, isn't it, now years later plied with the same drinks at a cheaper price even by inflation standards, lower tolerance and a larger pocket teeming with reasons to make the same decisions that have become so vilified. We turn the engine on.

"But can you drink it down?"

And honestly it's hard, it's not as easy and the anxiety creeps in and proves to be more feeling ever could have been apparent years ago when these same methods were subverting anxiety, not subsidizing it. And I'm looking for another way to find that I've got nothing to say.

"I hope I can keep seeing you..."

But it's not that easy anymore for all the obvious reasons, but strangely it's as compelling as it ever was, not moreso and no less so, just and equal pull, consistent as a magnet (science! magnets! (how do they work?)). You are easy to miss. As long as you don't say we're falling in love.

"What a lovely way with words"

It's the only way I know how--"who loves me, who loves me?" and "who do I love?" "and how?" and so many other questions with impossibly long and untrue answers, coated in paint and drying, fast. And act so down. Is that the way you see the world?

"If you were here, baby we'd increase the dose"

And isn't that always the way, then the anxiety takes a backseat to something else that need be forced down, but in one of the most obvious and least surprising episodes (to everyone but the people you inhabit for the several hours between the 5th drink and the alarm) that can be imagined. Call me anytime.

"She makes me feel so ill at ease"

And that's what it comes down to isn't it, that Hamlet, am an attendant lord, not a lead part and variable to the end, sane when the wind turns one way and dragged by my nose and eyes down a hillside when the wind comes back. And my heart, good lord,

My heart is really on its sleeve.

But then, where are your friends tonight?


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?