Death by Disparity

What is the point of talking
When every word is misheard
When every concept is misunderstood
When every topic is taken and mishaped
Redirected, de-evolved, broken.

Every action bent and twisted
Every meaning turned into agony
Arrows of nothing, made of nothing
Created from nothing, piercing.

Paintings for the blind, every stroke a waste
Cataracts of the mind and soul
Burn every picture from the walls
Blistering the canvass,
Smoking ruins, ruined brushes
An artist in despair.

It was a sunrise, motherfucker
In sharp reds and oranges
Golden scallops on clouds and new days rising
It was love unfolded
Honesty unbared
But all you saw was darkness
All you felt were messy lumps of wet

A voice without sound
A sound never heard
A life never lived
What a waste.

Every stroke illuminates my face, but you don't see me.
I witness an illusion that holds my name
Listen as you treat it so
Watch as you describe it so
Words given that were never said
Meanings taken that were never meant
Your words, not mine
Your meanings, not mine
A story of a person,
Unfolding, rewritten, its subject ignored.

Where is my existance? How can I be?
When am not these distortions
These abstractions
These untruths?
Am I not enough as a person?
When I must be retold as a fiction?

You paint me with your colors
Things I cannot choose
And you think to yourself that its real.

I am waiting to exist, but I am dying.
Unheard
Unseen
and Unbelieved.



Perception defines our existance and what we consider to be real. If we are not understood as we are, then who we are does not exist. Love understands, because understanding is the only way two people can exist in each other's world. The only way to ever truly be together.

The Hand That Feeds

Its been a while since I last posted. Things have been pretty good actually. We've progressed a lot on the 'my home is your home' front, and the move-in is going fairly well. We've our first anniversary coming up, the Muse and I, and so the year in review has been looked at carefully- it appears all systems are go.

Now in saying that, things are still... tumultuous. I can't say that i mind, steady is kind of boring, and boring is its own little hell. So its not always easy to say how well things are, so much as it is to say that things are progressing.

The Muse has been asking in her way about the Second Sight, and I'm not sure how to explain that one other than to say that people who live together often think of things in the same way. She knows I know certain things, I can tell certain things about her about others without being told. As for myself, I never really sorted out the Sight- I am by most measures a kind of natural scientist, and do not explicitly beleive in the supernatural.

What I do beleive in is that people are capable of seeing and remembering far more information than the stuff that passes through thier concious mind, and that they can often perceive minute details that they can use and associate feelings with that they wouldn't really be able to 'put a finger on' if asked about directly.

For me, this occurs in an internal visualization of people, a set of colors and feelings about someone that is displayed 'inside' of them. The colors, their vibrancy and consistancy, the way they stretch out along the seen image of a person is almost always present. I called it the 'glow' in my youth, the 'aura' in my new agey college days, the 'shine' in early adulthood. The colors of a person, whether it be some sort of synaethasia, or simply the remembrance of emotions in my mind, help guide and enlighten me towards the specific traits held within people.

It's not always accurate. To describe it as a 'sense' would be the closest thing - it can be fooled, blinded and misdirected. It does not understand detail, or politics, it does not know things that I would not know already as a person through detailed observation. It is very much like an observational shorthand, as if my mind processes certain physical details very quickly and displays them on an internal overlay, as if to shortcut actually thinking about the observations taking place.

They say baseball players in the zone can see 'colors' on a fast pitch, telling them where and how to swing. Even so, the knowing of a thing and the doing of a thing are two different creatures entirely. Sometimes I see and swing, sometimes I swing and miss. Sometimes, I have no clue as to what should be done and fall prey to my emotions instead. It would be during these times where I make most of my mistakes.

Yesterday, the Muse and I had a kind of fight. I don't think it would be the typical kind of fight - I don't really show the symptoms of anger, I dont yell, I don't get red-faced, I don't 'get' anything but cold and calculating. I can and have done those things, don't get me wrong, but they are highly unlikely. I am a creature of control, and even in anger stick to that control.

I spent the first part of the morning preparing a spot for the Muse. She has a lot of stuff, finding spaces for it all is challanging, and I've had to give up a lot of my stuff to make room. She was out avoiding my child, as she nearly always does- I'm not sure she's aware she does this, but I know she does; they seem like little things, little reasons, but always at the same time and in the same way. You can fake a lot of things, but not priorities- over time the truth is telling, always.

So my young one goes back to her mothers, and sure enough on the dot the Muse calls to tell me she's coming home (funny how that always happens just so) and I offer to pick her up at the train station. I like driving with her, spending even a few minutes on the way there and back; I long for her company and cutting the time apart short is usually a pleasure.

But she's in a mood, having neglected herself over the course of a day. She hasn't eaten, though she certainly could have at any time, and she's been circling in anger over something she doesn't even know, rubbed raw on something. Spiraling down into her own little world. She doesn't bother to stop it, though she certainly could at any time, it just doesn't occur to her to exercise her will in this area. It is as if she has chosen to be a victim of her own thoughts, given over control to something that hurts, for whatever reason. Perhaps a sense of power- she is a different person when she's angry.

To me, the difference is between looking at something in color, and looking at the same picture in black and white. When she is closed like this, there is nothing that can be done. I haven't seen this kind of change in anyone else, is it a personality disorder? Is there someone else, lurking inside her? I think there may be, I can see her come out from time to time, always in anger, when the spirit of the Muse leaves and this animalistic thing steps forward.

I say animal though it thinks it is a person, because it has no free will. It does not think, or consider, it responds on instinct. Its concern is only for the self, it only sees what it is conditioned to see. It acts according to pre-learned concepts, it takes nothing new, it learns nothing new. An animated biological machine. Souless.

I know these things because I can do these things. Disconnect my heart from my body, to do what needs doing. To seal off hurt or despair or overwhelming emotion. To close off self-analysis, to function in the heat of malfunction. It's a simple thing to learn really, all you need to do is be hurt by someone you love. Over and over and over again until disconnection is the only thing left that can save yourself from yourself. It is a hiding place, a refuge, a protective response by one part of the mind to serve as a shield for another.

Anger can be sacrificed, it is a self-generating emotion, built to be hurt and hit and take damage like no other emotion can. It can eat itself to survive, growing in its own consumption, and naturally blocks out all other feelings and connections- hurt, despair, sadness- but it is a double edged sword, and in blocking out other things also serves to stop ordinarily positive connections; compassion, patience, and empathy.

It is the weapon of choice when those 'positive' connections can be used against you. When compassion enables another to take emotional advantage, when patience enables tolerance for terrible behaivior, when empathy and understanding only returns hatred, disgust, or fear. Anger is in fact neutral; simply a tool that can be directed anywhere. It is a knife that cuts; the eye of an attacker, the tumors of the ill, the victim for thier money or their life. Anger weilded by a clumsy hand will always do more damage than good, anger held by a sharpened mind can be helpful or utterly devastating.

In the Muse, this way of thinking, this alternate personality, is a tangible thing within the Sight. It is an absence of color, a lack of personal radiation. I beleive I will call this thing Persephone, after the Greek myth who was kidnapped and held in hell. Persephone was starved, and so hungry she ate six pomegranate seeds, and in so doing, sealed her fate to return. This is the Muse, held in hell, and forced to return on occasion because at one point, she had to do what was needed to survive.

I often ask myself which one is which. Is the Muse held within the shell, or the shell within the Muse? Or are both contained within each other, the yin and yang of survival, polarized yet coexisting. I love the Muse, dearly, deeply. The Beast within me loves Persephone, who in being an animal, loves in his own distinctivly animalistic way. Do animals love? Is there something resonant beyond emotional being that can connect two creatures together?

The Muse and I delight in each other as human beings, but the others... When they meet, it is never in passion, but anger and distaste. They hurt, they rip, they claw. To disconnected to emotionally engage, but both an intricate part of the people they are attached to. And so they meet, they spar, they nurse their wounds. Because the people who hold them suffer the consequences of what the animals inside of us inflict.

So I pick up the Muse from the train station, and immediately see Persephone peeking around the edges. She hasn't stepped forward, shes just in the background, hovering, one hairsbreadth away. I ask if anything happened, the Muse says no. I ask if she's hungry, and she says she hasn't eaten all day. Occasionally, she can be sated if she's had something to eat. I don't know what the link is there, but hunger brings out survival, and she's less likely to switch out on a full stomach. So off we go to our friendly neighborhood restaurant.

Sometimes the Muse is just well, moody. Just like everybody else, really, and you can change a mood just like anybody else. Lighten it up, discuss something fun or interesting, all the little things that re-engage a person back into the world. But this time, something has gone wrong. Persephone is twisting every little thing to become more angry. The Muse doesn't even know she's doing it, but the animal is feeding inside of her. She starts to make sniping comments, insulting me directly. Accusing me of being dishonest in my intentions, questioning my motives, calling me a liar. This becomes like the depression spirals she used to get on medication, but again its different, this one is anger, not sadness.

A few more questions, a few more topics. A simple test to prove its not a normal mood, it is in fact something deeper, perhaps chemical, happening in her mind. Broken synapses, pathways that should lead somewhere but don't, being misdirected and used by the something inside of her. Persephone is growing by the second, tires of the game, and the Muse complies, telling me to be quiet.

The food arrives, but its too late. I'm not actually hungry, I've already eaten, like normal people do throughout the day. I've ordered to be polite. I put my arm around her waist, willing to wait it out, and she shrugs it off. She glares at me. A smoldering fire with no place to go.

There is nothing I can say that will help. It has already been decided that anything out of my mouth will be used against me. She doesn't want to be touched (which is extremly unusual for the Muse, but normal for Persephone, who, still in the background, is somehow calling all the shots) and so I am to do what?

Sit down, shut up, and foot the bill like a good boy? Pay someone for the 'privelige' of being treated unkindly? I'm already angry at her insults, and I don't want to play 'who's packing the bigger animal' in a room full of people. This is what I came for? Too much. She wants the ride, she wants the food, and she wants a whipping boy to make her feel better. An argument to finish off the building rage and bring out the animal so she can let it all go. Like it's her right. As if I am compelled to sit there and take it like a good little victim, be all bruised and banged up by her will because I am incapable of doing anything else. Because I, as a good person am obligated.

I offered the ride. I offered the meal. I offered my companionship. But my compassion is being used to take emotional advantage of me. My patience is being used against me to excuse terrible behaivor, and my understanding and empathy towards someone I love is returning nothing but distaste and disgust. And I have protections of my own. Hardwired, through years of abuse, just like hers.

Disconnection.

There is a difference between telling someone to go fuck themselves, and actually fucking someone over. One is a statement, and the other puts one into a bad situation.

In the case of a meal, non-payment is a bad situation. I decided it would be best to pay for the meal. One, because that is the classy thing to do, two, because being nice to someone who is being an asshole to you puts sand in their gears on a whole 'nother level, and three because in the language of wealth and wealthy families, money on the table says that you are above conflict in regards to the meal. The meal was to your satisfaction, the company was not.

This is the upper-class equivilant of flipping someone two birds on both hands while screaming in their face about what a fucking asshole they've been. The timing is unmistakable, the statement clear. One can speak with their body as much as with their mouths, take one from me and I always have another.

I sort of expected it to be left on the table as a tip. No self respecting person would ever actually touch that money if they could help it. That's the fourth burn, because although its right there, and the obligation has been covered, you cant actually make use of it. It mocks the recipient, because you couldn't be in that situation without an unspoken obligation taking place; you would have to have taken something or someone for granted for the gesture to have an impact, and the measure of the impact is a direct statement towards their guilt. The madder they get the guiltier they are, and the guiltier they are the madder they get.

If you were completely innocent, you'd just think buddy was being nice about it, that these things happen, and use it to pay for your meal. It only effects the guilty, and only to the measure of their guilt. Justice in a single serving.

And I left, taking my vehicle with me. Now to be clear, I knew that buses were still running, and she would have at least cash or her pass to get home, ensuring that she had her bag and her wallet etc. I don't think I'd have done such a thing at night, but then, I didn't really expect her to come home that night either. I figured she'd stay at a friends, and maybe (or maybe not) call in the morning. At the time I didn't care. I'm not about to be with someone who treats me like that on a consistant basis, and if she didn't see the error of her ways, then that behaivior would continue. So if she thought about it and decided she was still in the right, then its best to just let her go.

Cold. Very cold. Thinking about relationships under a disconnect is a bad plan. God forbid you should act rashly on something, and then be forced to pick up the pieces when you chill out and get your emotions back. After I chilled out for a bit and got my emotions back, I decided there was probably a better, more humane way to handle the situation. But too late, what's done is done.

As it turns out, she came home not long after. Just to grab a few items and leave, I think. Persephone in full form. I figured as much. She had been banging at the walls for hours, and I really do think she just needed time out in the open. I apologized for being a dick, but explained that it was a reaction to the way she had been treating me. I think she saw the light- the Muse began peeking, hoping.

If you force a consideration, she has to switch. An animal cannot consider things. It can go over options, lay out a course of action, respond on an instinctive level- but cannot excercise its free will, the decisions one makes that relate to connections with other people. Considering the connections forces the mind to be able to understand what those connections, what those emotions actually mean, and an animal cannot understand them. So the Muse returns, emotion sets in, apologies are taken and recieved. Persephone is tired, her six seeds spent, and the Muse is allowed to exist without further interference. Exhausted, physically and mentally, she sleeps.

Sometimes you can put out a fire. Sometimes you can't. All you can do is make it burn so brightly that it consumes itself and goes out.

I love her both ways and always, harshly and gently. Many things done, many things learned. Next time, it will be easier. Tumultuous, but progressing. Everything changes.

Arrrr, Its Driving Me Nuts.

Said the pirate with a steering wheel popping out of his waistband.

I hear ya buddy.

So the Muse and I are thinking about moving in together. There was a short checklist of things she had to prove she could do, given that she is significantly younger than I am, and thus has no proveable history.

Can you keep a real job? Check.
Can you handle your own personal responsibilities (rent/bills/etc)? Check.
Can you live in the same space as me for a prolonged period without turning homicidal? Check.
Can you turn your natural taste in music up without me wanting to harm myself or others? Check.
Can we sleep in the same bed and actually get some sleep? Check.

That last one is actually quite important. If you're in with a heavy snorer, sleep-puncher or generally restless person, its a long freaking haul. I kid you not.

Can we keep a presentable house? Ummm. Please define.
Can we keep a presentable house in which I am not doing 98 percent of the housework?

Epic Fail.

For all kinds of reasons. For starters, she doesn't actually live there yet. Secondly, I am not a paragon of clean myself. Thirdly, we have a difference of understanding as to what 'clean' actually is, and fourthly, fuck me if I can brooch the subject without sounding like a condescending asshole.

Oh I start well enough, and with good intentions, but before I actually reach the subject, I get sidetracked into any one of a few possible areas, and let my growing distaste for the situation loose on items that are completely irrelevant. In the end, it sounds like I'm not happy with her, as a person, when in fact, it is just one section- but an important one.

Fighting about chores seems like a stupid fight to me. There are far more important things in a relationship that need to be done well. And they are. But all things being handled, the eye turns to the next most irritating factor, and well... there it is.

Arg. How did this get so complicated? She's already nervous and anxious about doing anything in my home. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the kind of person who has to have all the mug handles pointed north or anything, and really anything is better than nothing.

Am I selfish for wanting this to occur? I spend up to ten hours a week doing chores. I cook, I clean, I do laundry. I tidy, I water, I build, I vacuum, I reno, I do garbage, I make the bed. I clean up all of her messes and all of mine.

I suddenly realize why every homemaker bitches at thier husband for not putting in thier fair share, because I have to tell you, when everybody puts in eight to twelve hours on a workday, those few extra hours of help are at a goddamn premium.

Is this going to be my life? Doing everything by myself, and/or bitching/training someone else to pitch in, having to double-check every time to make sure its done right, or even done at all? I keep waiting for the light to turn on, but nothing. And I become just a little more jaded and bitter every day.

This is my kharma, bitch slapping me for sure. I have been that guy who did nothing. I let messes grow, and I let my unwillingness to clean up messes I didn't make to justify not helping at all. I played ignorant when really I just didn't want to get involved, comfortable that someone else handled that sort of thing for me. I found better and more entertaining things to do, and convinced myself that minor, specialist work made up for simple but time-consuming labour.

To all the women that had to deal with that from me, I apologize. I did not know just how much that affected your frame of mind, or your willingness to participate in other things. I was selfish, self-centered, and pretty much a jerk about the whole thing. My bad. I was a dink, and I am sorry. I promise going forward I will be more open-minded, fair about the things I expect, and the expectations I have of others.

If it is any consolation, I expect to be in your situation for some time. It is the suck. The deserved, and well deserved, suck. It is going to take quite some time to pay this particular kharmic load off, but I guess I had it coming. I will try to complain less, and keep this lesson in mind.

Poetic justice is less cool when you are dealing with the justice and not admiring the poetry.

TelemaFone - The Saga Begins

So the Muse is I think embarking on an epic quest to get the right phone. She ordered one, discounted through a reseller, sight unseen. it arrived.

This thing, it is not the thing.

It is the Pepsi some waiter tried to slip you when you distinctly ordered a Coke. Is it wet? Yes. Will it do all the things a beverage will do? Yes. But it is not what was ordered. It is not what was wanted.

So. Send it back? or whatever and drink it?

Of course, its not exactly the same level as all that, your beverage didn't cost you five hundred dollars and its nothing you get personally attached to. Not only that, but signalling the waiter and returning it wont cost you 60 bucks shipping, and its not like you brought in another drink at a hundred dollars a shot to tide you over until your real beverage arrives.

She's really the wrong person to do this sort of thing to, because it's not just something to get over. I would let it go. I can do that. I never stay irritated at anything for very long, assuming that it doesn't involve people. I would take my redheaded bastard of a phone, and give it a home in which it would be loved.

The Muse doesn't roll that way. This will piss her off forever. Like in twenty years when by some freakish coincedence she meets the seller in the street, she will just out and kick him in the balls. Nine times. When he asks why, groaning in agony, she will clearly and distinctly tell him, that that was for every time she used her phone and had to deal with the realization that her thing was not the thing.

On her deathbed, she will set aside some portion of her estate for the hiring of a young professional mixed martial artist group to find this man and any children he may have, so that every year on the anniversary of receiving this thing which is not the thing, they will be heartily ballkicked. It will be disguised as a charitable foundation, around which an unholy order of monks will form, seeking out each and every one of this mans line and his decendants, and ensuring that each will know the testicular agony of their forefathers, from now until the end of time.

Clearly this man does not understand the extent to which his genetic line is in peril. If he did, he would, continuing the metaphor, run across the street to the nearest supermarket, get a bottle of Coke, pour it into the right glass with the right bendy straw, the perfect amount of ice and apologize profusly for the confusion.

It is unlikely he will come to this conclusion in time. We will see how this epic quest unfolds. I'm not even kidding, in ten thousand years, there could be a holy war over this.

Last SHIFT

So it looks as though the industrial sounds of SHIFT Sundays are coming to a close. DJ Dervish spun his last set with co-host DJ Syborg, and did a damn fine job. The Muse and I were a bit late, she had to work until midnight, but we did catch the last few bits, and all seems alright. Certainly a bit more hardcore industrial than the Muse likes, a bit to mettalic for my own tastes as well.

SHIFT had a following because up until the last few weeks, it boasted what Saturadys used to have but gave up. I think a lot of the Dark Tribe misses that classical style, the more haunting melodies and dark psy feel that made New City what it is. Still, people are people, and our Sanctuary is exactly that - we still come and dance. Music at New City is kind of like the weather here in Alberta. If you don't like it, wait five minutes; it will probably change to something completely different.

At any rate, it marks the end of Sunday nights in general at the club - kind of unfortunate, because that made three nights a week, one of which usually worked out to our busy schedules.

Cast and Crew:

Doorman: Brutus. He knows us, its nice to get waved in. Class act.

ScottHawk: Always in fine form. New green on the mohawk. Looks alright, not as eyepopping as the orange. Still, always time for a hi-bye that guy, its nice to see a familiar face.

Bookkeeper: The Librarian was nowhere in sight. She still rocks it pretty hard by herself. She likes it when they spin German opera into the techno, can't say I disagree, I've always liked that iconic feel. She had on some new pants, black denim, almost bell-bottems, zippers on the sides. Very stylish. Classic black arm length shirt with super tiny ruffles that went all the way around.

Strawberry/Augustin: Augustin was looking pretty wiped, prolly had a huge brithday bash to recover from. Saw Strawberry on her way to the bar and said hi, but I have a hard time starting good conversations. The Muse wasn't there yet, and I feel all tense without her there with me. She's the anchor on the ocean storm, I like to have that set before I venture out to far on my own.

Dark Ballerina: In fine form. New shoes, some sort of stilletto with a half platform on the back. There with a random, Krys I think she said. I think she brought her man out Saturday, good to know they get out together, I appreciate that sort of thing more these days. One of the Muses constant delights is that she can fit in almost anywhere, like me. Its great to be with someone who can keep up like that, I'll bet anyone in the same boat would miss it if it wasn't there.

Chrome Rainbow: A new face, hard to miss with the two huge silver chains he wears criss-crossed instead of a shirt. Multicolored 'hawk, black to green to yellow tips. Skinny. He cant dance, but seems to enjoy himself anyways. He's trying to make an impression, and I suppose he does. What that impression is is another thing entirely.

Bartenders: Bruno and Boots, Bruno serving up most of the drinks. Fairly cheap as well, had a few redbulls, and the ever present jaeger shots. The Muse had a few drinks, but we both took it a bit easy, Monday comes hard for us both.

No coat check: Besides its summer, who the hell would wear a coat?

All in all pretty decent. Not to much advancement on the friends front, but slow and steady and all that. Twice bitten twice shy, etc. It's harder I think when one is not playing a role. Real friends take time, so its probably just as well.

Time Flies

Wow. It has been way too long since I last posted. Things have been... crazy fast.

Been to the club a couple of times since then. I've taken the first few steps into meeting all the people I talk about, and so far I've been really happy.

I have actual names for the Ballerina, Strawberry and Augustin. I had already made friends with Knoah, but that is progressing a bit deeper, I added him on Facebook, and he seems like a pretty cool cat. I know who the Bookeeper is, although I haven't said much to her yet, and a new friend, now the Mad Hatter, says hi on a regular basis.

Know these people is a bit different than just watching them, but I've been reminded lately that becoming involved in one's life is just as important as living it. So I'm trying.

I get kind of nervous now though. Before, I could just go and hang out, there wasn't anything to hold or maintain. Now that there are all these connections, the visits seem.. weightier somehow. Almost like a responsibility. Still, I feel its going in the right direction, so lets see how it plays out.

The Muse has been especially wonderful of late, we've talked about her moving into my house. I'm pretty excited, but I'm also pretty anxious about whats going to happen in the future.

I made some pretty big mistakes in my past, and I don't want to see them repeated. It's hard after having a major commitment dissolve, ten years to one person is a long time, and no matter how good things are, no matter how amazing, I still worry sometimes about whether or not it's just some big show or self-delusion, and whether or not the whole thing could come crashing down at any given time.

I don't think it will. But I don't know for sure. Watching. Waiting. Being a good person.

Hope.

It's All Going Pretty Well Really

The migraines have settled down to a dull roar, finally. Managed to go to bed and wake up with the Muse with no pain at all. It bothers me during the day sometimes, but as long as I keep up on when it starts, a couple of Advil seems to put down into the 'Definately Manageable' catagory.

I am a little worried about my overall health, I've been coming down with things that are generally reserved for the stressed and immuno-deficient. I don't get it really, I don't feel stressed. Then again, I don't really recognize stress as a feeling, so maybe I am and just don't know it.

The house is back on track. Should have the basement finished off and rentable within a couple of months. The yard is annoying, never had a yard before, and now I have a big one. It grows all the time and needs constant TLC. If it wasn't hideous, I'd pave the whole thing and paint it green.

The Muse destroyed her phone last week, and has her heart set on some fantabulous gold-plated number. It the latest of the greatest and blah bloo blah, prolly has satellite imaging and blowdries your cat, I dunno. But it seems important. She definately needs one, and she likes to have things just right sometimes.

I half-heartedly support this. I am very sensitive to certain things; I know if I was talking about getting a new brace of knives, or building a new target, or even just getting a new lamp for my living room, I know what I want, and nothing less than that exact one will do. If I get something different, it feels wrong and bothers me on a personal level- forever. So although I personally do not understand her delight at this particular one, I am certainly on-board with the feeling of obtaining at least some small piece of perfection in a life that is otherwise very make-do.

At any rate, it costs a bundle, and she doesn't except gifting in the form of financial support. Which is also frustrating sometimes. She wont be able to buy her phone for six weeks on the inside- I lent her my alternative one for the meanwhile.

Oddly enough, it's a phone I never use, and had been disconnected due to a credit card renewal mishap at the company office. Cost me about $300 and change to get it reconnected and have it work.

I could have just let it go, left it unused and never renewed it. I could have given the Muse that same amount and she would have more than enough, supplemented with her own money, to buy this holy telephonic grail, pretty much on the spot. She'd never accept such a thing though, I offered twice, once directly, once back-handedly, and no dice. Doesn't like either help nor charity.

No doubt, she wants to earn it for herself. And good for her, I'm not going to interfere. I suppose I'll simply keep my assitance to the background, it's what I'm good at. Still, I am a bit bothered- I make decent coin, and my own needs are very modest. What is the point of working hard and earning a decent living if you can't help out those you love when they need it?

I worry about it sometimes, because in my last, long-term relationship, everything was divided; this is mine, this is yours- but nothing was ours. I happen to like the idea of sharing costs and expenses, even if that thing is for the exclusive use of another. I'm not paying for the thing itself, I'm not giving a handout, I am contributing to a lifestyle I support, and part of my lifestyle is ensuring that her lifestyle goes smoothly. When you live life together, it's all the same thing.

I suppose what I really want is to be a fully fledged us, in which my effort is our effort, and her expenses are our expenses. In which our efforts are our efforts, and our problems are shared. Our rewards, our situations, our belongings, our life.

Maybe that's just a goal, and not the reality. I would like to add a 'yet' onto that. I hope I can one day. Just not today, it seems.

Even still, that is just a little thing, and not much of a stressor per se. Work is going well, family is doing well, girlfriend is going well. So what the hell, body? What's got you all mechanical failure and stuff? As far as I can see, worrying about what could possibly be stressing me out is the biggest source of stress so far.

Maybe if I just stop looking, the cause will cease to exist.

Ain't it SICK(3)

So the club tosses SHIFT every once in a while in favor of a more hardcore industrial sound.
I don't mind, its the same DJ, and he's pretty kickass. I haven't been out in a while; last week I had just gotten home from spending the day in the hospital, and the week before we had planned to head out on Sunday, but it was some live punk band instead.

I'm not angry enough for punkcore anymore. Also, I am pretty much angst free these days. So we skipped. This week I felt like moving, and so we hit the club, spun some lights, and had a good time. Hit the groove fairly early on, and miracle fantastic, my headache vanished. I could feel it dissolve in the rush, and I kept up the pace enough that it didn't come back for the whole night.

It's much better even now, so I am seriously considering hitting up the gym for an hour or so of cardio, to see if that might help things along. I had been extremly anxious about what would happen, and if full-on exertion would cause it to trigger. I am quite relieved to find that the opposite seems to be the case. Glorious.

Cast and Crew:

Doorman: Paulie. Waved us through with a smile, its nice to see the establishment missed us as much as we did it.

DJs: DJ Dervish manned the tables most of the night, passing off to DJ Nameless (who has yet to earn his name, all the dropped beats in the night seemed to be his workmanship. He is still only mediocre, but I think Dervish is trying to help him out a bit with that.) And he was really, really very good. Industrial can be a hard spin, it has sub-genres within sub-genres, and occasionally it's a little wearing, one requires a few softer melodic content, even if its just for contrast.

I've been spinning lights there for long enough now that they watch for the rings; as soon as I slip them on, they hit the fog machines to make way for the ambient light show. I like this, it's apparently been happening for a while, tonight was the first night I really noticed it; before it seemed more coincidental.

I just like to move really, I don't hop onstage, I don't really limelight per se, in fact, part of the reason I switched to rings was so that I would never have to hit the stage in order to have enough room to move. I weave around the crowd, or in my space, or with the Muse- and I'd do it if I was the only person in the room.

The Muse tired out early, I think the music got to her a bit - she favours the more eclectic modern rock sounds, remixed for the dance floor. She gets into the things she's heard before. I don't surf for music much, and only occasionally listen to the radio. The job of the DJ is to play things one would like to hear, and for the most part everything is new to me.

Its all very structured though, I know how a piece is going to play after just a few rounds of musical phrasing. I was brought up in music, classical, orchestral, folk, rock, alternative, techno, house, jazz- anything and everything. Everyone in my family aunts, uncles, cousins, has been taught to sing and play at least one instrument. My father plays four, my mother as well. I myself play the piano, and have a good time of it.

I should really get one for my house now that it is a house and not an apartment.

So I spun lights just for her for a while, it's fun to put on a private show, even if its in front of a crowd.

At some point the Muse gets asked if she has any ecxtasy. I should say not. We don't do drugs. I have many friends who do, and I don't mind being around them. I've become acustomed to the question, most people with my focus are on drugs, and certainly the art itself is psychedelically friendly.

That isn't to say I don't get high, I most certainly do, it is amazing what adrenaline, endorphins and self-hypnosis can do. But they are all very natural highs, the perfect movements, the right piece of music, the rush of making love in all the right places. But these things are good for you, and drugs- well, not so much. There is always a price to pay for altering your own body chemistry, and most often, that price is much higher than what one would expect.

Dawit: Looking as usual, hit the stage for a few minutes with the Dark Ballerina. I haven't seen her there for a while, it's good to see she is still around from time to time.

Librarian/Bookkeeper: Out and having fun, the Librarian was sporting a full length latex evening gown, black with a white strip criss-crossing the torso. Amazing; I have to save up to get something in the same vien for the Muse, she has the perfect body for something like that. Indeed, the Muse carries the perfect body. Period.

Shame: Said hello, offered a high five on the way by to both of us. I feel slightly hypocritical in not leaving him hanging, but I'm not one to carry a grudge. I only get irritated if you hit on my girlfriend while I am there. Otherwise, I try to let it go, or I'd be angry all the time- the Muse is harrassed by men constantly. Everyone of them it seems is just waiting in the wings to try their luck. If she steps out of the safety zone (about 15 ft) someone is always there to come knock-knock-knocking at her door.

She has gotten into the habit of pointing me out and mentioning I would probably skin them alive. Which I find endearing. I'm not the violent type, though I am frightfully good at it, and would find another way to resolve such a problem unless there was no other way.

You only have to take it until you can't take it anymore.

Augustin/Strawberry: Popped in for a while to get a drink and danced for a bit. They seem to know Librarian and Friend.

Oh! Some poor chap tried to hit on the Librarian and she shot him down proactively. It was goddamn amazing. You could see him on the fringe, trying to work up the nerve. He gathered up his testicles and walked over, about to offer up his line. About two feet away, she didn't really even look at him, she just moved. And three things became suddenly apparent:

a) The Librarian is not someone you just casually hit on. She is queen over her little territory, and you had better have one hell of a game to even consider it.

b) The Librarian is Dark Tribe, and her casual approach to dance (a sort of bobbing half step) belies the fact that she is very much into her little moment, and that it is a moment you may watch, but are not actually a part of in any way.

c) Buddy's testicles had suddenly retreated up into his small intestine.

He kind of stumbled a hasty retreat, giving her a wide space. Her zone, projected without a specific focus, had castrated the man on the spot. It was awesome. Respect.

Bartenders: Bruno and Boots. Boots managed to remember my drink without me saying, so good on her, and Bruno was doing very well the whole night. The Muse thinks Bruno was giving me the eyes, though she tends to think that of every woman who looks at me. I don't know, maybe there is something to that. I'm pretty terrible at seeing these things when I'm not looking for them.

A girl would pretty much have to grab my penis and put it in her before I recognized any kind of flirting action going on. It took me six years to figure out dancing and flirtation practices in a club setting, and even then, the only evidence that I got something right is this gorgeous fantasy girlfriend who seems to prefer my company to that of any other man. I still dunno how I managed that, maybe she's right- I say I picked her, she says she picked me. We're prolly both right. I don't think I could have done it without her.

No Coat Check

Drinks: Rum and Coke, interspersed with water and Jaeger. Much Red Bull. Tasty.

All in all a great night. Danced so hard I am still sore three days later. Pretty much perfect.

Cheers!

Hanging With Agony

So the headaches aren't going away, and nobody seems to know whats going on with that. Just talked to my mom about them, seems she went through some weird migraine-like issues when she was about my age as well. I take after my mother quite a bit in terms of build and make-up, so perhaps this sort of thing is normal. Let's hope it passes; I forget sometimes that my mom has had quite a few pieces of medical work done, I would not like to go through the same.

I am getting better at dealing them up, these explosions of pain that follow through just about any kind of arousal activity. The first few took me by surprise, but it wont be long before I can wall them off if need be. The first time it happened, I was reminded of the long hours I spent learning how to deal with close, intimate pain.

For perspective, I should first mention that I have no piercings of any kind. The thought of having anything heavier than ink embedded permanently into my skin is horrifying. I'd never get used to them, and I would always want them out.

What I have instead are tribal markings on my chest and biceps; triple lines crossing over the muscle on each arm, and long dragging claw marks on my chest. They mean many things, and were drawn, not by ink, but by blood, many, many times. Each line has been cut and recut, the scars growing thicker and longer every time the ritual was repeated, ten lines in total.

The tenth line, the 'thumb' of the claw marks ripping out my heart, is the smallest and deepest mark at about two inches in length. The rest vary, the pattern runs nipple to nipple in a slashing diagonal, the middle of the middle claw gouges through the center of the Heart Chakra.

It takes about three hours to work through them all, opening up the lines so that the blood runs freely and evenly throughout the entire length of them. It is a balance of artwork, surgery, ritual, discipline, meditation and body mechanics. Some lines are easier than others. The left arm comes easy; the marks are done with the weapon-wielding right hand, the strokes are sure and graceful, the concepts of Strength, Honor and Discipline are bedrock.

The right arm is harder, the left hand is used to being more defensive, the skin snags on the edge of the blade, pores get caught, corrections have to be made. The concepts of Respect, Self-Value and Awareness are more abstract, and harder to focus on than concrete examples.

Both of these sets are simply leads into the the larger acts of thought and penance, wherein one reflects upon their nature and tries to root out their mistakes. For the set on my chest, the middle mark is exceptionally painful; it requires removing one's base desires from one's mind, the act of moving emotional thinking into a rationalized state. There is a large nerve bundle there, I don't think anyone ever gets used to that.

The tenth mark comes as a kind of relief, a simple signature end to the set. A personalized note, the sense of self in agreement with the act at hand. A small flourish and it is done, and the washing and cleaning of the marks soon follows.

One learns to enter into a state of mind that can deal with large amounts of pain. With even a few seconds of meditation, I can put a sharpened coat hanger right through my forearm without even blinking. It's not that it doesn't hurt, you just don't let yourself feel it. The ritual marking above is performed with no change of facial expression at all, and if one should start to feel themselves slipping, the process is halted until self-control is regained.

I mention this so that when I say these headaches are the most intensely painful experiences of my life, one may know that my life up to this point has not entirely consisted of lap-dancing rose petals as I lay stretched out on a polar bear rug by the fire. It is pain outside my experience, but one hopes it is not beyond my ability to control.

Ah well, what is the purpose of life, if not to be tested, to learn and to grow accordingly? There are no problems, only complex situations, and I'm only to happy to be challenged. Let's see how that works out.

The Cruelest Irony Yet

For the past four days, I have had the worst headache of my life. It feels like my brain has turned into liquid pain, which someone has decided to compress against the walls of my skull.

I don't get headaches very often, and when I do, I don't take anything for them. A nice nap, maybe a warm shower later and for the most part I am okay. All the headaches I have had up to this point have had at least one thing in common- they went away. This one is not, it just keeps getting worse.

I have a very simple cure for most headaches; sex. Go have some, you'll feel better. In fact, I think I find this to be a cure for almost everything. Rough day? Go make love for a few hours, you'll feel better. Think you might be catching a cold? Cuddle up with your lover for a while and sweat it out. Sore Muscles? Ear-ache? Dark humors of the lower colon?

I have just the thing for that.

A simple cure-all, for everything from claustrophobia to depression. You don't even need to be feeling under the weather; good sex will make a great day just that much better. Trust me. I generally have sex anywhere between three and six times a day, and I feel fantastic.

Except for right now, because as it happens, somewhere on Friday night between four and eight pm, something happened inside of my head to make every orgasm the most absolutely excruciating experience I have ever had. Like someone put a small explosive device in the center of my brain and hardwired the trigger to my sexual response system. They did a fine job of it, because it now goes off whenever I do.

The web is pretty empty on the subject, mentioning that there are some migraines triggered post coitus, and that it's a rare enough phenomenon- what with the chemicals released being nature's heftiest painkillers and all - that one should go see a doctor.

I held off on this a bit; honestly, I find doctors to be redundant. I have read nearly everything they have, textbooks, journals and the like, and now with most new white papers published on the internet, one can easily find, read and discover what is going on for themselves. Medical language poses few problems, and it's easy enough for me to understand causes and diagnoses. If I can't find something, there is probably nothing to be found, and so any doctor I am going to see will either agree with my proposed treatment plan (whether I share it with them or not), or have no idea whatsoever and simply medicate the symptoms. In short, unless I need antibiotics or restricted painkillers, there is very little point in going.

By Sunday, the need for the latter had become apparent; the baseline headache had gotten so bad I could barely think, and sleep hadn't helped in the slightest. So off I went to the hospital, in search of a few answers, one of which was to ensure I wasn't bleeding inside my head or anything.

I found it difficult to express the nature of the problem. It is easy enough to say, yes good sir, I am here because I have a headache, oh and p.s., my skull shatters whenever I cum. It is more challenging to express the difficulty of the problem; that this is a life altering change of events, because I have a lifestyle which is more or less based around expending vast amounts of sexual energy.

The casual response of 'Take it easy, lay off sex for a few weeks, and you should be fine.' is like saying 'Right then. Please stop everything you normally do for fourteen days. Should clear right up.'

Yes, I get that giving up sex for two weeks for you, Herr Doktor, is missing your alt Thursday rubbentug, and that half a blowjob you get from your girlfriend between shifts every other week. For me, that means a huge disruption in virtually every aspect of my waking life, morning, noon and night.

I start every day by setting aside an hour or two in order to make love to the Muse, I then run to work for a few hours, and skip back home whenever possible to see her over a lunch hour, finish up my afternoon caseload, and then back home again to fall into her arms until dinner. After dinner is for talking and snuggling, and a few hours of play until we both fall asleep exhausted. On the occasions where our schedules conflict, I tend to do chores, because they almost always need doing.

I don't watch TV, I don't work on 'The Car', I don't follow sports, and I don't go out drinking with the boys. There is only the Muse, and all the things she inspires in me. Don't get me wrong, we go out, we shop, dance, talk and dine together, she is without question the primary focus of my life. One of very, very few things I am truly passionate about. Not making love to her is like telling me to not breathe for a while- it is something that simply must be done, and there is a pressure, a growing ache inside of me whenever I'm not with her.

I realize this sort of thing is too intense by half (or by twenty) for most people, and those people are probably right, you don't get this intense by living a normal, healthy life in Wherever, Canada. But I didn't, and I'm not, so I am. One of the very special and wonderfully unique qualities of the Muse, is that she is built in the same way I am. And together, we are not so much broken, as we are simply different.

There may be many people wired the way we are, many who would be in only one half of a relationship. I fall so hard for the person I'm with, it's easy to manipulate me. I'll pretty much do anything for that person, if it's within my power to do so. If she didn't care about me in the same way, the possibility for exploitation would be huge. Together, we have lives focused on each other, and lovingly so; in almost any other situation, we would be open for abuse. I'm pretty thankful, each and every day, that this is not the case.

So anyways, the wait at the hospital is fairly short, and I get a CT scan done within an hour two. It comes up clean, and just to verify the results, they decide to do a lumbar puncture. Five, actually. Its small hole they punch into your spine, so they can drain some fluid out. I don't know if he had to do one per sample, or just couldn't find what he was looking for, but he stabbed me a whole lot of times just to tell me the results came back clean.

Today I feel like someone kicked me in the back, which is good, because the sharp pains shooting up my back distract from the still growing, ever throbbing pain in my head. In the end, as expected, the doc had no clue, and gave me some Percoset for the pain. Hooray.

Except of course, like almost all narcotics, they are sensation killers, not just pain killers, and so you can't really have sex on them anyway. They do work well for the pain in my back though, so down the hatch they go.

Todays Moral: If you can't cure something, create a problem you can cure, and then go cure that instead. Then maybe people won't notice what a gigantic waste of life you've been. Then again, maybe they will.

The Beast

I don't often talk about my past. It happened a long time ago, and bears little relevance on the present and the future. I almost never bring it up in casual conversation, and sometimes I like to pretend it doesn't even exist. My upbringing was strange, and it has resulted in a very, very complicated creature.

For nearly my whole life, I have been at least two people. My parents are rather overwhelming in their belief system, a faith which makes only a certain kind of sense from a certain point of view. This belief has a great number of holes and self-conflicting concepts, which became apparant to me at a very early age. I have mentioned previously that I have always been sexually aware, as far back as I can remember.

For perspective, I should mention that I can remember learning how to walk. I remember pulling myself up on the curved wooden dowel of the balcony railing leading up from the stair in our front hallway, and teetering my way over to the couch, and reaching out with little hands to grab the plush green velvet, trying to make those first few steps before falling.

When I was three and a bit, I would listen to the sermons in church, and do very well at making sense of them. It became apparant that my awareness, my constant arousal, would be viewed by others as a Bad Thing, and so it became a shameful secret that had to kept at all costs. It was my first act of true independence. I refused to believe that there was something wrong with me, and that people themselves were confused as to the truth of what God had to say about sex and sexuality.

The downfall of the faith presented to me was held in its utter refusal to consider itself as anything but Undeniable Truth. There was only One Way, The Way, Our Way. We are Right, everyone else is wrong. I considered this when thinking about who I could trust. How did they know they were right? What proof was there besides their Big Book, which happened to agree with them? Wasn't that a self-referencing definition? We know we are right because we have this book that says we are right, and we know that Book is right because it agrees that we are right.

Lots of people have books that say they are right. And some of those books are in specific disagreement.

Here is my argument for Why Everyone is Lying to You, Even Though They Honestly Think They Are Telling the Truth, Age 3:

If I want to know whether something is true, I ask my Mom or Dad. If they don't know the answer, they ask my Grampa and Gramma, Uncles and Aunties. They ask their Friends. They ask the people around them. When everyone talks about it and agrees on something, that Thing is considered the Truth.

I am a boy, walking home from Church. I have parents, and grandparents, and they have a Bible. They believe this book to be the Truth, and they believe that it is True because everyone around them agrees that it is true. They are right, and everyone who does not agree is wrong.

On the other side of the world, right now, at this very moment, there is a boy walking home from Temple. (I always pictured these people on the Other Side of the World as walking upside down, as if the sidewalk was on the ceiling) He has parents, and grandparents, and they have the Quoran. They believe this Book to be the Truth, and they believe that it is True because everyone around them agrees that it is true. They are right, and everyone who does not agree is wrong.

Two boys, two completely different Truths. Obviously, nobody has the Truth, they just think they do, and any answer you get is going to be biased towards what they think they know- but they don't really know. No one does, despite any claim they may make to the contrary. And everyone, everyone, Mom and Dad, Grampa and Gramma, Uncles and Aunts, their friends from church, is making that claim. That it is Truth, that it is Fact, and that there can be no other Way.

They beleive this is true, because everyone around them agrees that it is true.

That is Why Everyone is Lying to You, Even Though They Honestly Think They Are Telling the Truth.

Being the bright young lad I was, I was also not unfamiliar with the term heretic. And so there I was, three years old, never being able to trust another living soul. My parents are overwhelming enough when they agree with you, nevermind when you disagree. I couldn't fight them, and I would never be able to convice them. There was no one to turn to, everyone around me was in on it, and so on that day, walking home in that small town in the middle of Nowhere, Alberta, I simply split myself in two.

One boy who smiled and nodded, who held all the right answers for all the troubling questions, who learned the faith by rote, and did his very best to uphold all the principles contained within it. The show, the shell, the Very Good Boy. A genuine beleiver of The Truth as it was presented to him. Not a trace of disbelief, not one sign of doubt. My parents, my mother specifically, is highly observant. An act would have never held, it had to be real.

I took the other boy and buried him in a cage, as deep and as darkly as I could. I did not kill him, though I attempted to later on several occasions; he was a source of immense power, indominible, indestructable. He has no rules, he is not fettered by cultural thinking. He doesn't care how many people agree or disagree. He is built to survive, by any means nessesary. He cannot be persuaded or negotiated with. He is savage, brutal, and unforgiving. He is lust, fury, and power. An animal, neglected and tortured. The Beast.

We have an uneasy truce these days, the wars of youth long since left behind. I feed him, admire him and pet him, he comforts and strengthens me. We work together more often than not. He brings a certain nobility to me, fearlessness, courage. There are times when one must bend to social pressure in order to fit in and succeed. There are times when bending results in a greater evil being allowed to unfold. We stand together, fight together, love together.

A very complicated creature indeed.

Satyrday's for Dancin'

I meant to write this all down before too much time had past, but too late, and things are hazy.

So, Saturday at the Club.

DJ No Name Bland was doing alright this time. Less pulp, more substance. And more impressively, no dropped beats. His song selection is gravitating more towards the accessible end of the Dark spectrum, and even his happier, more hardcore beats were still pretty good. Boy can't remix worth a damn, but he is finally showing some decent taste. There were no major clashes, no dance floor dump outs, and all in all pretty good. If he keeps this up, I might actually have to learn his name.

I liked his method of warming up the house. Some subtle, dare I say lounge groove at the beginning, and winding up to the more electronic sounds as the night wore on. Not bouncing back and forth like a beatmatched iPod on Random, but a series of progressively matched themes. If you are trying to please everyone, this is how you do it; let everyone in the house get their groove on for an hour or so, and those with broader tastes can work it all night.

Cast and Crew:

Malasia: A new friend of the Muse. Shes been out with us a few times now, and seems very nice. By nice, I mean a good wholesome girl, with a big ole streak of dirty running right through her middle. She is to laugh, and the light-hearted drunken bi-curiousness she brings with her is pleasantly entertaining. In reality, the Muse doesn't play that way at all, but on the floor, everyone's a bit of a showman, and my Muse knows how to milk an effect. Ah, sweet lesbianistic tendencies, surely you are a trump card in the hidden deck of wiles. Good fun, and she doesn't mind leaving us alone when things get a bit more focused.

Bookkeeper/Librarian: Both out tonight, The Librarian in her full length latex evening gown, and the Bookkeeper in a new brocaded corset and dress. It's always nice to see those two out. We don't speak, but we mutually acknowledge. The Librarian seems to have lost her toys, they tend to gather near when they want to be vulture free.

I am a vulture free zone. I have a presence that seems to affect about a ten foot radius. Generally speaking, boys do not feel comfortable dancing within the zone. They don't feel comfortable hitting on people in the zone. They don't feel comfortable sliding into the zone. There's a couple of reasons for this.

Firstly, if you're pretty much any boy dancing within a few feet of me, you're going to look like a disproportioned midget. If you are skinny, you're going to look gangly; if you're big-boned, you're going to look fat. I'm not saying I'm all that, but I will say I look exactly as I should. Anything you've got that's out of whack will seem exaggerated.

Secondly, there is no free space around me where one might pop in unannounced. I'm using all of it. It looks as though I'm using all of it. If you have your back to me, it is safe. I do not grab, pinch, fold, spindle or mutilate. If you're especially lucky, I might even catch you if you trip. My movements will take up as much or as little space as I want.

Lastly, I am going to make any boy without a few years of movement practice look like a shambling autistic. I don't have moves, I'm not even trying to impress. I just connect to everything, smoothing it out, making the music and ambiance real. I can do this by barely moving, I can do this by capturing five feet of space. I am into it, the people around me are into it.

That's why we are here.

If you need a place to put your soul for a while, by all means come in, we are open. If you're just looking for someplace to put your penis for a while, then buddy, we are closed.

Shame: So as we are dancing, the group next to us drops a bottle of cooler and it smashes all over the dance floor. The voice of the DJ briefly sounds over the music, "Busboy to the dance floor, busboy to the dance floor." And so slinks in a tallish gangly shape with a absorbent broom. His cowboy hat (out of place here) is pulled down low, he avoids eye contact as he begins the nasty work of cleaning booze and broken glass around people stepping mostly around it.

There is something about the way he keeps his back to us, something about the way he is dressed to conceal. I recognize the build. It is Shame. He is not a bartender, he is a low-totem busboy. He is embarrassed, hoping the Muse won't recognize him. It is too late. I have already pointed out the young man at our feet. She laughs. I laugh. Not at the fact that he is cleaning up the sticky, pointy mess - a boy's gotta eat - but at the general revelation of his character as a whole. It was a beautiful thing.

Also: Steev, Dienhard, Noah.

Coat Check: Hellen, then Qwinn

Bartenders: Jet Black and some newbie who reminded me of Boots.

Drinks: Tequila. Not bad. Hella pricey though.

The Muse looked fantastic in a red and black corset with skintight black latex pants. Amazing, simply amazing.

The Ring

(Sorry I've been lax on making poast, I am fascinated recently by this whole Questionable Content strip. I... I don't even know why. I started reading at the beginning, and even though the dialog is chunky, the artwork is a bit rough, and the pacing is brutal, the characters themselves are hauntingly familiar, and I can't... stop... clicking. It's got a lot of niche language in it, and watching the artwork style and storytelling technique evolve before my very eyes inspires the same sort of captivated interest as time lapse photography.)

So a couple months ago, the Muse buys me a ring. It is an industrial steel, black banded 'I Love You' ring, and I liked it.

I don't usually wear rings. I think most people just slide them on and forget about them, showing them off when they remember. I feel them all the time, constantly aware of them. I wore a wedding band for about 6 years once, and never got used to the feeling. It's the same reason I would never get a piercing, I know I would feel uncomfortable with it all the time, and never be able to relax into I removed the offending object from my skin.

This particular ring, the largest one in stock, was still too small to be worn on anything but my pinky. So the Muse took it in to be resized. Apparently, you can't resize steel, so her options were at that point to either give up the chase and leave me with a very fine pinky ring, or go ahead and purchase something more significant. Which she did.

It's not an engagement ring, our relationship just isn't there yet. Certainly a harder core version of the "I Love You" ring, and a little less substitutional than a promise ring. It's more like an "I'm Always With You" ring, a reminder of her wherever I go. Literally, in this case, as I will always be aware of the ring on my finger and what it means.

In most relationships, I have here and now tendencies. While you are here, right now in front of me, there is a relationship. When you are not, that relationship is put into stasis, and the next time I see you, it is brought out and carried forward. In the meantime, there is no real maintenance there. It is assumed to exist, fading over time, without ever completely ceasing to be.

This is just the result of moving, country to country, town to town, my whole life. My parents were always on the move, sometimes traveling in a direction to get somewhere, sometimes moving around villages and towns in the same area like the world's slowest tourists. Even when we were standing still for a while, the community, filled with people like my parents, would shift around us, making and breaking relationships every day.

You would meet the nicest person, the cutest girl, the neatest friend, and you would never know how long you had to spend with them. It could be three hours, six days, or six months. Never more than a year. Often, you would re-meet these same people a year later, and again, never really know what you had left. Even then, although it was always assumed that you might meet up later, chances were slim, and so if you found someone you liked, you treated them as if those were the only moments you had, because likely, they probably were.

You never really dissolved the relationship, you never said goodbye. Children growing up in that situation, children like me, grasped onto anything with even the slimmest hope of permanence. It was always maybe I'll see you later, and yah, that would be great. Make enough of those kinds of friendships, and sooner or later a few come back around. Not many, not many at all out of the hundreds of thousands of people I have met, but a few.

People wonder how it is I can pick a person out of a crowd and make friends with them, instantly. Some of my long term friends, the ones I have met since moving and staying here in Edmonton, call me Slider. As one of them would say, 'He just slides right in.' And its true. Any group of people, any place on earth. I can find a way to hang out for four to six hours, no problem. Not for anything more than a few days, but for one day? One night? Simple as breathing. It's what I do.

I can tell you what sort of personality you have just by watching you for a few minutes. You may be unique, by there are only so many different themes, and they weave and bend around everyone.

Your life is written in the small, detailed lines on your face, how often you smile, how often you frown, how excited you get, how solemn you are. Your eyes, clarity, focus, perception, tell me how you see the world and absorb information. How you talk, what words you use, the timing and inflection, tells me your vocabulary, your cognitive thought pattern, your sense of humor, your state of mind. How your body is built tells me how you are used to moving; strengths, work habits, life experiences.

When I am choosing to blend, I am prepared. My clothing is layered, my hair is neutrally set. I have no logos, no sports teams, no brand names. My jeans are washed and black, not new, not worn. When I enter a room, it's as if I've been there before. I have a small, neutral task to do. I am every person you've passed by without thinking about. An extra in the movie of your life.

Within the first few moments of entering a scene, I've already grasped the theme of the joint, got the layout of the establishment and mapped out the different parties gathered there.

Within the first two minutes, I've decided on a persona and hit the bathroom. My hair is now slightly altered to suit the theme of the place, and the people I'm going to hang out with. It might be slicker, maybe shaggier, maybe more unkempt. Maybe my shirt was just too obviously out of place, its gone, and lining one of the many deep pockets in my ubiquitous jacket. Maybe my shiny silver watch is now neatly resting above the shirt sleeve. Maybe I look snappier, maybe I look worn out.

Within the first ten minutes, I've got an advanced grasp on every relationship in the room. I know who the buddies are, who the daters are, I know who the meetup groups are. I know if those two guys just met that girl in the corner, or whether they've known her for a year. I know if everybody in that group of ten people knows each other, or whether they belong to a function and just happen to be there together. I know who is killing time, I know who is open to conversation. Then I listen to the noise of the place, open myself up to the situation, and I know where to be.

It's all by ear from there. You will find that I can do anything you can do, but you will likely be better at it. Do you like to play pool? I'll challenge you, and you'll win, but it will be damn close. Close enough for a rematch. Close enough to continue the conversation. Do you play darts? Same deal. Pong? Golf? Video Games? Political outrage? No matter the game, I can play it, and I'll be just difficult enough to beat to be fun. A run for your money. I'll ask you for tips, and when I win, as I will always win at least once, I will probably do it by using the same trick you just taught me. Everybody wins. You're the man, I'm the man, everyone's The Man. Let's drink.

You will find that I have a piece of history in common with all the major players in the scene. Moved up from a small town? Me too. Small towns are great. Or they might suck, depending on why you moved. Injured? Me too. Check out this scar. From a different country? Me too. Speak a different language? Me three. College? Broken Home? Military? Nuclear Family? I can relate. Oh, I have my differences here and there, but all in all, we're on the same page. I hear what you are saying. I speak your language.

Because I do. Within just the first few minutes of conversation, I've already started to sound like you. My intro was done in a very neutral accent, and as I hear you talk, I've been switching that pronunciation to match yours. I use your words when I speak, I use your meanings, and once I gist the flavour of it, I can say anything and still sound like I grew up twenty miles away from your home town. If I explain something, or inquire about something, I use the words and timing that will bring that meaning home to you. There are very, very subtle shifts in dialect, especially here in Canada; its more about how one puts words together and uses them more than just mere pronunciation. I know I've hit the right vein when I crack a mild joke and get the timing right to make it sound humorous.

Humor is mostly about timing and presence, not about content, at least it is for me, as I don't know what 'funny' actually is. I know when things are funny, and I laugh at comics and jokes and people, but I can't make something funny. I can make people laugh if I am with them, for some reason I know how to do it if I am tuned into them, but in a neutral set, like in writing for example, I'm completely lost. The jokes I try to make usually pan, and things I never intended to be funny turn out to be.

So I just tell it like it is. Life is funny, and thank god, because otherwise I'd never be able to bring someone to laughter, and its a handy thing to do sometimes.

We can spin tales the whole night. You can tell me a story, maybe its real, maybe its embellished, but if you like to tell it, I like to listen. I like stories. I collect them. I might even tell a few of my own.

If I like you, I will probably play a little game with you at some point near the end of the evening. I doubt you'll be aware we're playing it. I do it because up until this point, the persona I'm projecting is tailor built for wherever I am. It's not actually me though, its essentially a glorified coping strategy.

For whatever reason, I needed to be there for that amount of time, and I have made the very best of it. I have had the very best time it was possible to have given that situation, according to my needs at that time. I did my best to make sure you had a good time, and most likely, if I liked you, you were on fire tonight. The invisible hand turning your every move into gold. This is my gift to you, for being open to a new person and a new experience, no strings attached. I may not exist, but surely there are others who do, and hopefully that same openness is shown to them. It's the best that I can do, under the circumstances.

Here's the game: I will casually tell you two stories about myself, and it will seem as though one is true, and the other is not. The tale that seems true will fit in with the easiest to believe, that I really am just an ordinary boy, like everyone else you meet. That I have my place in the world, and for whatever reason our paths have crossed. This tale is usually swallowed whole, with few exceptions.

The other story will fit into something far more difficult to believe, that what you are seeing as this guy, is just one tiny fraction of what actually exists. That I could be anywhere, or anyone, and have the same kind of experience. That there is no one place for me, that I fit in everywhere and nowhere, adapting to different cultures, lifestyles and ways of thinking.

Most people laugh at the second tale, everybody has wanted to be somebody or somewhere else at some point. Sometimes its chalked up to being a dreamer, or that maybe I had to much to drink, or that I'm just spilling out bullshit. Sometimes its completely ignored, it doesn't compute and the whole thing is skipped over. However you take it, I'll agree. Oh, I nearly got you there, yah, no, its not exactly true, but it is a good story. Heh, maybe I saw that on Discovery or something, man am I wasted.

Every once in a blue moon, somebody at the table has their own iceberg. The girl nobody thought was paying attention. The guy who used to talk so much he was hushed down into a year long quietness. There is a specific look that moves across their face when they hear the change of tone in the last piece, when they hear my voice, when they hear my timing peek out for those few seconds, and you know they believe. Sometimes people will squint at the first tale, and suspicion rears its head. They think it's a fabrication, but can't process the why or how.

Those who find the truth, almost always find a way to talk to me alone. You know, it was really nice meeting you, they say, maybe we'll catch up later. Yah, I smile back, that would be great.

Even though life tends to be more stable when one is always in the same geographic location, there are no absolute certainties. You can cuddle up, you can care, you can love someone as hard as you want, but after they leave your presence, you never really know when or if you'll ever see that person again. Tragedy strikes. The unexpected occurs. The situation changes. The truth of it is, is that all we ever have with someone is Right Now. It doesn't matter how many times you seen or been with them before; there is a first time, there is a last time.

And so it is, that I play with my new ring; feeling the cool metal of it wrapped around my digit while its edge digs gently into the webbing between my fingers. A part of her always with me in the here and now. It's quite comforting, really. I love always being reminded she loves me, and is out there right now, wanting and waiting to be with me again.

Faith

It's important. There are upsides and downsides to every situation, and every situation is changing all the time. Faith is what allows a person to stand firm, believing in a particular outcome, despite the immediate demands of the present. If you believe in someone, you by extension have faith in them- you believe that person will ultimately win out over the situations they are presented with.

If you believe in a relationship, you put a certain amount of faith in that; you believe it will ultimately win out over the many challenges it is presented with. You cannot love without faith, you cannot be committed to anything or anyone without it. To live or to love without faith, is to render one's self an emotional mercenary, supporting whatever side happens to offer the most to you at that specific point in time. Switching partners or sides in a relationship has been thus coined as being unfaithful.

Faith is not granted, its a form of trust, and trust has to be built over time. If you break trust, if you break the faith or belief of another, it will never be restored in the same way. You can, in certain aspects, form a new kind of faith, a new Big Picture, and trust a person to be true to themselves. Without belief, without faith, love is just a word.

What is the difference between being faithless, and being unfaithful?

I suppose one is a state of being, and the other is an action. I think it is fair to say that one leads into the other. In most cases of infidelity, first the faith in the relationship is removed- the belief that a person can get what they think they need out of the current relationship is broken or dismantled, and then that person acts. Perhaps the action is neutral, perhaps it leads against the previous faith.

It certainly can't go in favor of the previous belief; once torn down, those old beliefs aren't really motivations anymore. Even if it it did go in favor, it would be dismissed as coincidence or habit. On a long enough time-line, with only neutrals and negatives, at some point a negative is going to occur. Unfaithfulness then moves out from being a possibility of a broken faith, and becomes an eventuality.

So what to do when someone is consistently and demonstrably faithless? Is it just a matter of time before they head to the other side? Should one just accept the inevitability and cut things off before the damage takes place?

As we've previously established, The Muse is definitely the jealous sort. She sort of expects to be cheated on, it's her history. She's easy to victimize, and its obviously been done before. No doubt her hyper-vigilance is the result of bad personal experiences. It's been a rough road, and one I generally don't mind traveling. I get questioned and harassed constantly, and god forbid I should ever mention anyone female in a positive light.

Did I mention I am slightly masochistic? Not yet? Seems a good a time as any. I enjoy a bit of pain and hardship in my life. I think it builds character. Also, I'm used to it. My life was so hard for so long, that eventually I grew to be comfortable with it. If things are going to smoothly, I seek out the rough bits and roll around for a while. I mention this because I don't want you to think that I am bothered when the Muse gives me the gears; the truth of it is I enjoy the concern and attention.

I am worried though, that it has been some time, and there seems to be no letting up on that front. She is as skeptical now as she is the day I met her, and just as quick to jump to these wild conclusions. Believe it or not, I am very much a Good Boy, despite the aura I tend to give, and one would think after being proven wrong again and again, she wouldn't fall off the deep end at every little thing.

I have done some shady things in my past, fair enough. But for years I've been beyond reproach. Now I am living beyond 'beyond reproach', and getting more crap than I did when I was behaving badly. Karma, I am truly your spanked up little bitch. This time through though, I've been nothing but Good, walking down the right path and doing good things. I don't deserve this kind of faithlessness.

Alright Karma, since you'll have it your way anyhow- maybe I do.

SHIFT Work

The Muse and I had decided to picnic amongst all the Little Brothers this Sunday night, but our plans were laid to waste by snowfall. It started early Sunday morning, and has not stopped, though at least it has died down to a few small flakes here and there. So instead we stopped by our favourite haunt to catch Master Dervish in play once again.

His musical choices are lightening up a bit, while still keeping within a few darker, more underground tones. His partner in crime, who is currently Nameless, did a fantastic job of holding down the fort while Dervish himself got down to the art of moving. The man is connected, no doubt about it. His own unique style of aggressive punk movements, bedrocked in the intricate subtle motions of vintage gothic underworld, is a wonder to behold. It uniquely reflects his own style and personality, is not contrived or preplanned - simply the result of his own internal reactions to the sounds around him. Dark Tribe at its finest; it is good to have an artist like this in control of the music itself. Small wonder his sets are so immensely satisfying.

I had a hard time getting into the music, but through no fault of the sound itself; firstly, my side still feels empty, and I had a hard time keeping my mind off it. I usually light my myself up, that is to say, open a channel to all the nerves running along my skin, and use that energy to seek out movement. There is a sort of critical mass that must be built, all the pieces are put into place, and then everything begins to work synergistically with each other- becoming more than the sum of its parts, so to speak.

Without the pieces on my right side to cart over and transport that energy effortlessly and efficiently, the system as a whole begins to suffer. It takes more work, more effort, to maintain myself, and the resulting self consciousness takes away from the connection to the music. The deep bass only ripples on one side, the lighter trebles that demand quick arcs and arm placements are nearly unfelt. The whole experience is ungainly. In such cases, one should allow form to dictate motion, series of movements performed a thousand times can still be called upon despite the roots of their origin being displaced.

If I were counselling on a psychological disability, say, unhappiness towards a specific person, I would say 'fake it'- put on a smile as close to genuine every time you see someone whether you feel it or not, and soon one will find their disposition towards that person improves. The body moves, the mind follows; this is human nature. And so it goes that I take this same advice towards my body, even though I feel nothing there, I should move as I wish to move, as though those feelings were in place, and perhaps they will return. Nature will always fill a vacuum, if the pressure is strong enough.

Secondly, I thought I had enough supplies to manufacture two handlights for the session, and turned out to be mistaken. I love my rings, I love moving them, I love watching them. I love the endless flow that comes from bearing them. Their movement makes demands on my form, pushing it, drawing energy from me when I would think I have nothing. When I dance, complete, I do not feel self-conscious, or tired, unhappy, or anything other than driven contentment in doing so.

The Cast:

Qwinn: Getting friendlier, we've exchanged hellos a couple times now. The Muse excels at these kinds of relationships, whereas I never know how to act. I would like to be friends, and I would like to sit and chat with them, but I have no idea how to go about doing that. I know how to seduce, to tease and to play; if that were the goal, I would have no end to the means in doing so. But it is not, and so there is a great hole in my thinking, where ordinary chit chat and friendly actions lie, and so I stumble about trying to look as though I am comfortable with the minute and a half of conversation. I'm sure it will get better with practice, everything usually does. It is something I am desperate to learn.

Dannika: Looking as pleasant as always. She danced with us a couple times, she always looks as though shes having fun. I wish I could have light-hearted fun like that. I am too serious by half.

Dawwit: In fine form and a new coat. Always stylish, that boy. He only hit the floor twice as far as I saw, he seemed to be more into the mingling tonight.

Genova: I've seen her twice now, 'dresses like a hippy' the Muse says. She has a sort of easy flow about her, obviously a kind-hearted, fun loving person. She's too psy-trance to be Dark Tribe, but shes connected, no doubt about it. I quite like her, the Muse I think feels threatened by her somehow. My Muse has the most beautiful gray-green eyes that have ever been placed in flesh, and they flash constantly with jealousy. I am at One with this, some people prefer to live in stillness, others prefer the storm. I would say without a doubt, that I am one of the 'others'.

Occasionally however, jealousy stirs up the razorblade edges of the Muse's personality, and she makes the meanest remarks I have ever heard. Not so much the saying of things, as the meaning implied behind it- I think she forgets that I hear intentions just as well as I hear words. I am no expert in dealing with jealousy, but here is some helpful advice for the men out there when confronted with a similar situation:

If your girlfriend makes disparaging remarks completely out of the blue about another girl you may or may not be watching, do not simply jump to the defence of the innocent as may be your habit. If at any point, you feel the need to not only defend but to add a counter-argument, upholding the nature of the person in question, and perhaps even making firm mention as towards their positive traits, or the misconceptions your girlfriend may have about said person as a whole, find the nearest syringe full of novocaine and inject it directly into your penis.

This strategy will approximate the end result of your defense without having to hear about for three days afterwards, and also disallow the possible use of your comments when, in the next week, some guy is hitting on your girlfriend, and you make use of the same strategy she did.

Just a friendly heads up there.

Shame: The aforementioned guy. Still hitting on the girlfriend. I want to eat him. Oh, he's so witty. Oh he's so charming. Oh, he's so in with the establishment in general. Oh, he's so pulling the exact same shit I would pull if I was twenty-two and trying to get into her pants. He seems so nice. Of course he does, that's his shtick. To be just friendly and outgoing enough, to be charming and genuinely interested enough that the boyfriend can't punch him in the face without looking like an ass. Riding that edge of civil decency, the common code of courtesy, to slide right in and plant the seeds of a relationship.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not threatened by the guy. He wouldn't last a week with the Muse, and she would tear him to shreds for trying. But he lies with his smile, like a high-functioning psychopath, and I want to tear his mask away from his face and expose his inner crapulence for what it is. Shine the Light down on him so hard he burns up in it.

Hatred is a connection between two people. Non-committal reactions are the absence of a connection. In order to really get your hate on for someone, something, some quality of that person has to reverberate within yourself. We are quickest to judge others for the things in which we are most guilty, and we hate others for the qualities we hate in ourselves. That's the connection.

Shame here reminds me of everything I hate about myself, of the monster that lurks inside of me, banging against the bars, begging to be let out. I want to feed him every kick in the teeth I ever gave myself for being like that, because on some level, I feel it is something that should be destroyed. I can't fault him for having the same beast, I think we all do really. Can't fault a man for being born. But you can smack the beastly little paws that swipe out through the bars, and so I believe I will bide my time; be good, and be patient. If it poses a problem, wipe it out. Maybe he will find a reason to hold himself back. I'll give him every chance to do so until he makes it impossible. It is likely I will have to deal this up one day; I want to be sure I am on the right side of the conflict.

Bartenders: Bruno and Boots. Boots likes to watch me drink for some reason, and Bruno likes to pour. I guess they found a piece of their calling, I tend to do both.

Drinks: Lil predrinking with a few Jaeger shots. The Muse was staying sober, I didn't realize that until after. Interesting.

DJs: Dervish and Nameless. Pretty amazing. They remind me why I like to go out in the first place.

Duration: Just under 2 hours. Couldn't slip into it, stayed for the music. Danced with the Muse for a while- no matter what, she is always something I can lose myself in for a while.

The Muse was looking fantastic as always. Latex pants and a black corset. Mine mine mine mine mine. I love the way she moves, I love the way she moves me. Pretty kickin', all the way around.