meditations

I’ve been sick over the last ten days or so and, though the majority of my ailments faded near the end of last week, I was stuck with greatly reduced lung capacity and a small amount of breathing pain. Not terrible, as far as impairing my ability to do the things I do, but suddenly being unable to run or give it on my bike was a little bit jarring. I take this body for granted sometimes and don’t realize how much I enjoy using it.  I thought idly yesterday about what it would be like if I didn’t get better and I was stuck with broken lungs for the rest of my life. That would really impact my ability to do everything that I want to (eventually) and I’ve gained a bit of empathy for those with chronic illness. Having everything cleared up upon waking this morning brought about a hugely liberating feeling, knowing I could return fully to my life of infinite potential and not need to close down a branch because of some condition. The cerebral counterswing here, of course, is that I should make better use of my toolset. But I’m working on that.

Speaking of doing things, I’ve fallen grievously behind with nanowrimo and keep making excuses. My story keeping changing directions and very little of it falls into line with the other bits. It’s hard to just sit down and write when you’ve no clear idea of where you’re going or even where you’re at. I wish I read more. SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP and write, you Berk. If you don’t do anything, nothing gets done. Although my strongest motivation write right now is to spite the one person who doubted my ability to write a novel in a month, this is ultimately about me. Just like the TECHNO VIKING (post coming later, maybe), this is a personal goal and I simply need to do it. I have to say, though, that the pep talk e-mails nanowrimo sends out are fantastic. There’s a lot of love in them.

I got back from another trip to Toronto at the end of last week, a place that continues to be excellent. In addition to trying the strange juxtapositions of Korean food, I further consolidated my realization that bearing individuals as idols is a fallacy. There are no gods, there are no there are no mermaids, there are only people. People trying to figure out what they’re doing and heading in whatever direction seems to make sense. See, I have a tendency to elevate certain individuals and idealize them to the point where they exist almost solely inside of my head. Obviously, this is not the greatest habit to have, but I justified it by framing it as inspiration to achieve a higher level of personal functioning closer to what I perceived theirs to be. Realizing that this is based in fiction, though, is kind of relieving. It makes those lofty heights so much more obtainable, while keeping me grounded in my reactions to people. We’re all just doing a thing.

I love music. Looking back over the past week, the moments that stand out as beacons of contentedness and fully embodied satisfaction are those moments when I was just listening to music. I’ve commented on this before, but having a song speak to your state of mind or the way you’re feeling has to be one of the most enjoyable experiences there is. Any work of art has the potential to resonate, sure, but given the multiple levels present in music, I think it has a better than average chance of doing so. Whether it be the lyrics, the tune underneath everything, or just the overall feeling of the song, finding music that lines up with your present mind is so very nice, very near completion. I would almost call it empathy, finding something that echoes your sentiments but projects them in a unique way. I’m in the middle of composing a mix CD of songs that represent who and where I am at this point in my life, which is essentially finding others’ words to describe myself. Damn if they ain’t articulate. Whenever I stumble upon something that clicks, I wish I’d said it that way. Clearly I need to become a musician. And write more. And read more. Bloody Dragon Age; why do you have to be so compelling right now?

beard lyfe

This beard of mine, my constant companion over the last four months, has reached its final days. I have been reflecting on this and thus have prepared a retrospective.

When I began to grow this beard, it developed primarily out of laziness. I don’t like shaving and tend to put it off as long as I can. After a particularly lengthy bout of procrastination, I realized I had the beginnings of a beard. On the very day I was about to shave it off, Nikki Naners commented that she thought it looked good. So I stayed my berazored hand for a day. Then another. And another. And so on until I began to think, “Hey, maybe that does look good!” Ha ha, fool Berkley of the past. Anyways, I held off shaving long enough to discover the TECHNO VIKING. And it was upon discovering the TECHNO VIKING that I discovered the true purpose of my beard. Not only is he a god to be emulated, but he and I share a similar facial structure, as well as the ability to grow facial hair and dance like we’re killing the air. So my goal was clear: do everything I could to become him by Halloween. It’s been going pretty well; I’ll probably post about that after it hits. But this is a post about my beard. So I return to the subject under discussion.

Having found the TECHNO VIKING, there was now not even the smallest possibility that I could shave off my beard. Nay, I was even loathe to trim it. So I’ve been living with this chin tribble for a while now. Beard hair is a strange sort of hair, quite similar in texture and thickness to pubic hair. In my case, being blessed with curly facial hair, the two sorts are nearly indistinguishable. For this reason, I apologize to those around me for the inordinate amount of beard hair scattered about my office and home. I have not become a sex pervert, only one of the bearded.

Somewhere in recent history, beards became fashionable amongst the indie crowd. What!? As bizarre as this sounds, I think it helped me to blend in, appearing less as a hobo and more as a hipster. Still, I kind of felt a little bit less special, knowing my beard might be seen as an attempt at becoming hip to the times (which I take great pride in not being). However, on the topic of blending in, I found I could now avoid many of the people I didn’t want to see! Huzzah! Their eyes would just pass over me, not recognizing my smug face beneath its ginger shroud.

But a beard is always hanging off of one’s face, and eating becomes much more of an ordeal. Yogurt and soup are among the foods most easily transferred to a beard, where they will stay until I look in a mirror. Any sort of sandwich with an excess of sauce makes sure to deposit leftovers within easy reach of my mouth. Oh! And flossing my teeth! Sometimes, working my way to the back of my mouth, one of the hairs on the edge of my moustache would get pushed by the floss in between two molars, twisting my face with no small amount of discomfort until I could figure out what was going on and free the hair from my teeth. Also, the increasing length of my moustache hairs meant that, when not sufficiently tamped down, they would sometimes make their way into my nose, causing me to sneeze. Bastards.

It struck me recently that people I met for the first time over the summer or in more recent months have never known a Berkley without a beard. In their minds, that is what Berkley looks like! I have great difficulty reconciling this as my mental picture of myself still doesn’t have a beard. BeardoBerk looks like an imposter. To those who met me in the last four months: do not trust this man; he has been lying to you consistently from the moment you saw him. It would serve you best if you severed all ties immediately. In the future, however, you may meet a man who looks like he might have had he not that beard. Trust this man implicitly and give him all the benefits you would a trusted friend. He is the messiah.

At least three times in September I had beard loss anxiety dreams. They usually involved me being a little absent-minded during a trim and ending up shaving off the whole thing. This was most dismaying, as growing a beard you don’t really like for three months and then losing it before its purpose is realized is a bit of a pisser. Fortunately, this has not happened in reality. I am consciously avoiding any trims this week to maintain this success.

And now it’s almost over. After I trim it into the appropriate shape and add a braid to my chin, it will have a scant two days to enjoy its new shape before I scrape it from my visage with zeal. Does anyone know where beards go when they no longer have a face to live on? I’m not very good at imagining, but here is a try:

Goodbye, my beard. I can’t say I will miss you but you were certainly an interesting experiment.

Toronto pt. 3 – Bros

Having now met the entire Frange clan and spent a good deal of time with the bros, I have to say that good bros are one of the finest things in life. In saying this, I make it painfully obvious that I am either a terrible sexist or have not yet encountered a similar example of good sisses.

Assume whichever you like; I am going to talk about bros. *Additionally, this is “bros” as in “awesome brothers” and not as in “bro culture.”

Since its inception, I have held my relationship with my brother in very high regard. We’ve had our conflicts and disagreements, sure, but there is something unique about our shared headspace and understanding of one another that makes us a very good match. We relate very well to each other and are in a good position to challenge or question the other without it being looked upon as an attack. He’s the sort of person I would like to face the zombie apocalypse with, not only because it’s nice to have covering fire, but because we would keep each other focused and in check, all while making the whole thing a grand adventure.

I don’t come across this sort of relationship between siblings very often and, I would argue, had not seen anything quite as meaningful outside of my own experience… until I saw the Frange clan in action. A/B/CJ were like the lions that make up Voltron… effective and awesome on their own, but rebounding off of each other to maximum effect when combined. I enjoyed spending time with each of them on their own and, frequently, in units of two, but when all three were together, I could hardly penetrate the forcefield of shared and happy bro-dom that was created. Too awesome.

There must be something about the combination of shared genetics, overlapping upbringing, and the eventual (though not necessary) development of agreeable perspectives that makes this sort of bond so strong. The level of comfort, confidence, and compatibility (in tandem) enabled by this sort of relationship would seem unlikely enough to require some ridiculous dice rolls… am I just incredibly lucky?

ancestors realized

Okay. Remember the poem I wrote about my ovary-punching ancestors? The delightful Stephabee has found my artist. Oh yes. Oh very yes.

Very NSFW, so be warned. “Making Love to Kundalini” and “Destrudo Libido” best embody the sort of terrible shoddy rough painting that I had envisioned for my bestial kin.

Ha ha ha ha haaaa. The universe again bends to my will.

Toronto pt. 2 – Not my family

I stayed with Frange’s brother and his girlfriend in what is probably the most excellent house in the world. Looking down the length of an alleyway in Little Italy, the parallel rows of garages suddenly part to make way for an enormous cinderblock cube. Bars over the windows, multiple doors bolted shut, and various less-than savoury garbages strewn about. Inside, however, is a beautiful apartment, a vantage point from which to survey this alleyway kingdom. Oh, and of course, there’s an enormous workshop on the nautically-themed ground floor.

Staying with AJ and tarpark was one of the warmest accommodations I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying. Not only are they awesome and interesting people and a load of fun to spend time with, they are among the most positive and easygoing folk I know. It is absolute joy to be around them.  I do not make jokes. The cherry on top of all of their hospitality, however, was that I was invited to three separate Thanksgiving dinners, one each with both of their families and one with their choir group. And lo and behold, everyone there was pretty damn great, too.

Being welcomed into the fold so readily made me think two things: “wow, these people are fantastic!” and, secondly, “I cannot believe how well I get along with them.” Good people gravitate together, it seems, and having just as much of a sense of family when I am far away from my own is certainly an ideal of company to be striven for.

I’ve thought many times about the differences in thresholds and judgments when assessing family, friendly, and romantic relationships and I’m finding more and more overlap between them as time goes on. Yes, each is complicated by its own unique framing, but the fundamental roots of a happy relationship in each of them seem very much the same.

I may be criticized for this, but I would not spend nearly as much time with my family if I didn’t honestly enjoy and wasn’t enriched by their company. It’s the same standard that I would hold potential friends to, choosing to let things slowly dissolve if the relationship wasn’t a good one. As far as romantic partners go (if I can dig back into the deepest annals of my past), there is the additional consideration of sex/physical benefits. For some, this seems to be given a higher priority and much more weight in the cost/benefit analysis. As much as yes, all that can be very nice, I don’t think it’s at all worth any compromise around the other core elements of a healthy and mutually satisfying relationship.

I would like to say that my base standard for all relationships is universal; I wonder, however, what exactly my contextual constructions are and if they are a greater force than I will acknowledge right now.

Right, huge derail. Thank you to tarpark and AJ and my temporary families in Toronto. I will see you again soon.

Toronto pt. 1 – Mike Doughty

In chronicling this trip, I’m going to jump around all over the place, so if you are the sort of person who does not like a chronological shuffle, please vibrate your eyes so that the text blurs and make up what you think it should say.

Sunday night I visited the Drake Hotel to see Mike Doughty play. I found the Drake to be a most trendy, with-it place without being too over-the-top and therefore hostile. I would hang out there, perhaps. They had some really nice art, including one piece that I figured was by Ron Mueck, which is a definite win in my book. Anyways, this is not what I want to write about.

The show was held in a rather small room for an audience of maaaybe 25 people. This blew my mind. Any event in Saskatoon is an event and warrants a crowd. Apparently this is not the same in Toronto where there is such a glut of culture and opportunity that people would pass up a Doughty show (Okay, and it was on Thanksgiving Sunday). Before the show, a “Question Jar” was placed at the front of the stage, which served exactly the purpose you would think. It was filled quite handily by the audience by the time Mike took the stage.

Immediately I saw a man who had before only been a nebulous idea in my head, an incomplete image formed from his partially obscured face on the cover of Skittish/Rockity Roll. He was older than I thought and bigger than I thought and tougher looking than I thought. No longer the idealized image of who I imagined would sing his songs, here before me (about 8 feet away) was just an aging man trying to carve out a niche for himself after Soul Coughing. He fumbled with his chords, having to be corrected by his accompanist on multiple occasions, but sang out with the same brilliant lyrics I knew. It was clear he was less a guitar player and more a poet. The questions in the question jar were answered in very blunt fashion, but were honest nonetheless. The encore was preceded by an explanation of how he would pretend to play the last song, then turn around and be done, but then play two more songs. He was not a polished, jaded star cashing in on his fame but a guy who likes to write songs sharing them with a crowd who likes what he does. He is doing what he does the best that he can, expectations be damned.

Reading his blog reinforces this for me further. Thank you, Mike Doughty, for showing me that there is a place for real people in this world.

wild things

I saw the movie adaptation of “Where the Wild Things Are” last night, which was not at all what I expected.

Lots of spoilers here.

From the trailer, I had anticipated a playful and rose-coloured romp through the wonder of childhood, accompanied by Sendak’s fantastic yet familiar beasties. What I witnessed, however, was a dark meditation on the inconsistencies of this world and human emotion as experienced by a child.

The monsters were familiar, yes, and looked exactly as I’d remembered them, but I could not let go of the vague sense of danger present whenever they were around. Not once was I able to let my guard down and accept them as non-threatening because, at all times, they held within them the potential of harm. There were moments when this reached a heightened pitch, at one point holding what felt like the threat of rape over Max (To be fair, they were threatening to eat him, but there was a very weighty undertone). At the height of a play-”war”, one of the monsters has his arm torn off (in a puff of feathers and dust), an action that was so jarring and terrible that I was sure this would be the end of things.

There were good times as well, of course, built largely around Max’s claim to be their King and his providing direction to their otherwise aimless lives. In between conflicts, joy was shared and dreams were sought after in a simplistic, childish way. Each of the monsters seemed to embody some aspect of Max’s personality, from his relationship with his sister to his own inner swing from excessive energy to pensive reflection, and, just as these have their high and low points, so did the monsters and so did their group dynamic as a whole.

Paralleling real life, the world appears so simple but is so much more complex than Max can hope to grasp. I almost teared up when the camera panned by a globe inscribed with “To Max, the owner of this world. Love, Dad.” The experience of being simultaneously told that you can be anything you want to be but at the same time are governed by seemingly meaningless rules and limitations can be incredibly frustrating. This is paired with the slow realization that not only is everything and everyone around us incredibly complex, so are we.

Hadge often criticizes my choice of words when I reserve the labels “person” or “people” for only those individuals who have reached a certain age or level of maturity, lumping those below that threshold as “less-than” or “developing.” This movie gives me pause on this thought, as children undeniably have a complex mix of emotions, further complicated by a less complete understanding of the world. Nobody understands the world completely; we’re all at different places in our quest and children don’t deserve to be excluded from this scale. I feel now that use of the term “adult” or “mature” would make a much clearer distinction than “person,” as it is these complexities and contradictions that really make us human.

I did not leave the theatre feeling good and would not call this a children’s movie by any means. No, this was made for those of my generation, who grew up on Sendak’s book and are now being asked to reexamine childhood from a more adult perspective. All in all, a poignant reflection and a movie worth seeing for those who don’t mind their fond nostalgia being destabilized just a little bit.

*For a thoughtful review that I enjoyed thoroughly, read here.

reberkth

Whoa, hey! I guess I have a blog here.

If you’ve been following Frangibility’s blog, you will have seen that I was recently in Toronto. I had hoped, in planning this little getaway, that it would jar me out of the post-Fringe slump I’d been wallowing in for the last few months. No drive, no ambition, and, clearly, no blogging. However, even when I’m a little bit below optimal functioning, I still think a lot. And, over time, these thoughts add up to very nearly become the impetus to do/change things. At times in the previous months, I had thought, “I’ll just move to Toronto! Everything seems great there!”, this conclusion being based on my impression of the culture and people living there, gleaned from my Fringe experience. Of course, as time passed and this trip drew nearer, I realized with progressive clarity that location has very little to do with happiness and that what I ought to do is focus on my home life. Still, despite this conclusion, I lacked the will to seek out these improvements.

As the dates of this trip drew nearer, I found that I was kind of ho-hum about the whole idea. “Why run from the problems I need to sort out here?” I asked myself, feeling more and more as if skipping to Toronto for a few days would be a complete waste of time. Still, I had booked tickets and made plans with a few people there, so I was more or less committed. Fine; I guess I’ll go.

Ha ha ha, idiot Berkley of a week ago! I laugh in your face and at the naïvete of your perspective!

My trip to Toronto turned out to be everything I could have wanted (more on this in subsequent posts) and I presently feel more energized than I have in a very long time. Yes, Toronto is awesome and I may move there someday. But right now, I have two great jobs with a great deal of personal and creative freedom in each, some very close friends, and, of course, my family. And, to be terribly clichéd, wherever I go, there I am.

So here I am, back in Saskatoon, turning my life around. For reasons hidden behind the curtain of my subconscious, anything that isn’t great for me feels like a waste of time and I can’t bring myself to do it. Bizarre! So I continue to prepare for my halloween costume by growing my beard, eating in excess of 100g of protein daily, and engaging in a bizarre and extreme weight-training routine (you will see the results in 14 short days). I will continue to blog, for I do have so many things to say right now. I am working harder and more efficiently than ever at both of my jobs and have no shortage of good ideas to improve them further. And apparently I am going to write a novel in November. It will be about everything.

I will talk to you soon.

________________________________________________________

Right on this body of glorious, incomparable power!

debrief

And so the Fringe, the mighty Fringe, the Fringe that looms ever over me, blanketing me in its towering shadow for 355 days out of the year, has ended. There’s a rush of relief, sure, but to reduce the waves of emotion and thought and the experiences I’ve had in the last month to a simple exhalation would be selling it all short. So I begin:

Working on the festival from a management position was thrilling. I’d never had my fingers in so many different pots and being able to switch from one set of shoes to another at the drop of a hat was really energizing. Being centred in the office hub of the Fringe meant that almost all inquiries/problems of any sort found their way to me, and I really appreciated being able to answer/solve them (or, failing that, at least set the cogs of resolution in motion). I think the word I’m looking for is efficacious. That is how I felt. It was a position of some responsibility that allowed me a great deal of personal discretion and it was quite empowering.

Pulling things out of the office side of the Fringe and into its seedy underbelly, I made a concentrated attempt as well to socialize with some of the touring Fringe performers. When Frange and I only made it out to the closing party of last year’s Fringe, we both agreed we wished we’d done that sooner, and this year provided me that chance. I wore my Captain Hammer shirt out to one of the early Fringe events and was recognized by no less than four performers! This sounds so trivial but really it’s not! At most, I’ve had only a single person at any one function call me out on my reference, with an average of one recognition every three months. So to find such a concentration in one place was a big pile of treasure. Spending time with these folk reaffirmed my thoughts that I need to stay involved in the world of drama; there were just so many points of compatibility that it blew my mind. The highlight of the week socially was a short-notice dinner party hosted by Frange and myself. If you get the chance to try out raclette grilling, do so. I cannot stress this enough. You can see it in the centre of these pictures, which in my opinion, have a little too much beard.

I hit a bit of a low at spoof night when the Fringe admin caught a bit of flak and I took it all far too personally. I don’t think my reaction was warranted, given the gentle mocking nature of spoof night, but it became clear to me how invested I was in this festival. The Fringe was my baby and nobody touches my baby. Ha ha, that sounds dumb. Regardless, the experience pitched me down pretty low for a day and just sapped my steam. That is, until two fabulous people brought me ice cream. The joying nature of ice cream plus impromptu deck jams and good theatre put me back on top again. Thinking about it all after the fact, I can’t hold a grudge. Everybody’s entitled to their opinion, spoof night or no. And with ice cream (read: friends) I can handle anything.

To top off the whole experience, I met a mermaid. At a time in my life when I was almost certain mermaids were little more than childish fantasy, there she was. My hope is restored. Now the more important question: should I rejoice in the fact that mermaids do exist or lament that she might be the only one? Ha ha ha. Thinly veiled metaphor FTL.

Having now had a week to recover, I’m feeling more and more like I need to get out and run around in the big city for a little while. Toronto smells like a hotbed of culture and opportunity and I’m feeling a little low in my art department. And with such a rich sample provided me by the Fringe, I think I’d be a fool not to at least try it out. Tap into the vein rather than sifting along the riverbank, perhaps? We’ll see. I’m always up for another life.

To us and those like us; damn few left.

regarding a fictional Austrian

I recently caught Sacha Baron Cohen’s latest sociological experiment at the theatre and have to say I was left rather unsatisfied. Where the character of Borat seemed geared to evoke xenophobic and racist response, Bruno is similarly constructed to provoke homophobia. Flamboyant, intrusive, and always overtly sexual, Bruno is a tool designed to push people over the edge and provoke their harshest and most reflexive reactions, exposing their ignorance and prejudice. Compared to Borat, however, this movie seemed to focus less on clever social manipulation and more on playing up the gay stereotype for comedic purposes. The number of jokes involving some sort of penis, be it synthetic combat dildos or Baron Cohen’s own whispering “Bruno” through a flexing meatus, seem to indicate a shift away from satire and over to slapstick. Not to mention the bevy of anal insertion jokes. The unfortunate part of all of this is that very little of it was supported with the infinitely more satisfying exposé of the public mindset. Sure, he sought out homophobes who reacted predictably, but none of the interactions stuck with me as being particularly poignant. Putting an incredibly polite Ron Paul in a hotel bedroom with an increasingly naked Bruno unsurprisingly resulted in the former presidential candidate leaving the room. The scene was based not on the reaction of the public (in this case, Ron Paul), but on Bruno’s antics, repeated attempts to cash in on homosexual stereotypes for laughs. Staging “Straight Dave’s Man-Slamming MAXOUT” in a highly conservative locale, then sliding it into a man-on-man lovefest produces a response that is really neither edgy or surprising. The audience, having come to see a wrestling match, become angry when their expectations are defied. On the whole, the film seemed to have been sampled from a much smaller and less rich pool of footage, leaving me wholly unsatisfied with the experience.

Watching Bruno, however, led me to the following question: where does the line fall between making fun of public opinion and reaction to a stereotype and simply perpetuating an unhealthy stereotype by parading it about? I’ve heard it said that anyone of intelligence could easiliy see that Bruno is a grotesque designed for satire and that those who don’t recognize this are beyond help anyways. My problem with this is that I think Western culture, on the whole, is not particularly intelligent. By beating people about the head with an irritating stereotype, the reaction is far less often a shift in perspective and more frequently the reinforcement of said stereotype. We have the tendency to lock ourselves into our own little paradigm and stick to what is habitual or requires the least effort. When we’re in this state, we’re much more likely to rely on heuristics and less likely to digest new and divergent information, leading us to further label and lump stereotypical behaviour in with a potentially faulty paradigm. Furthermore, if this stereotypical behaviour is irritating or inconveniences someone, they are more likely to push the subject of the stereotype further into a place of disdain. Yes, I think these habits are a failure of humanity and that we should strive to break free from them. However, I don’t think beating people about the head with ideological clubs is the best way to win them over to a better way of thinking.

I’ve always had a problem with protests because of this. I’ve found that those protesting are invariably looked down upon by those they are protesting against and, in some situations, the general public as well. Getting in people’s way and disrupting their routine typically has a polarizing effect rather than a worldview-widening one. Change takes time and change takes thought. I certainly applaud the efforts of do-gooders the world over, but wonder if their is a better way to faciliate change. Could we perhaps use a scalpel rather than a club, carefully excising these carcinomas rather than simply inflaming them?

Admittedly, I don’t have a solution for you right now, but I think it’s a direction worth thinking in. Work smarter, not harder, right? What is the most efficient way to change the world?