BAH

I feel bad. I feel awful.

_________________

Justice is holding a grudge. Forgiveness is letting go of them.

The Pathology of Love

Is is not human to want to be wanted? Love is commonly listed as a need for humanity along with food and shelter. The Beatles even claim that "Love is all you need." Love is beautiful and should be freely shared. Desire, on the other hand, is sinful and forced into privacy. Desire seems to complicate ideas of love and its necessary role in human life. Desire can exist legitimately in society only accompanied by the guise of love. Love has two feet to stand on. Desire, if not held in love's embrace, seems to be lying ready on its back.

The worst possible scenario is one that involves an unequal exchange of affection: a lover loves and desires their lovee, but the lovee does not or can not match that love (if they love at all) and/or the lovee does not or can not match that desire or the lovee is only interested in being loved and desired with no interest in reciprocity. Is love and desire as economic as described above?
Do love and desire only function if their is equality of exchange?

I want to be wanted. I desire to be desired. I love to be loved. Yet, without adhering to the economy of love, my wants and desires seem unnecessarily complicated. It is not that I do not respect or enjoy the company I find myself in with my random romances. I am eager to acquaint myself with others and explore the complexity of their individual humanity - get to know them, their minds and bodies, their way of life, their social behaviour etc... But I do not find it necessary, in this process of acquainting and exploring, to reciprocally love or want them in return. (Desire is integral in order to pursue sexual intimacy, which is always a requirement in my romantic relationships.) Yet, under the hegemony of this economy of love, I am forced to consider if my need to be needed is not a human need, but something pathological. Am I psychologically or emotionally abnormal to need to be needed? Or is this only deemed abnormal by a society that is ruled by marriage and monogamy? Can not I, as a healthy and responsible human being, be wanted and desired and loved by another, even if I do not reciprocate the same feelings with the same passion and intensity? Is there not other people whom enjoy wanting and desiring and loving just as I enjoy being wanted and desired and loved? Is it pathological to continually be involved in economically unequal romantic relationships?

Maybe I have little interest in wanting or loving these persons, because I know I have someone whom I want and desire; unfortunately this person can not at present offer me the company that I need, so I look elsewhere for actual physical companionship. Maybe, as a homosexual, I refuse to live in the cage of monogamy established by the tyranny of Christian marriage... Maybe I am willing to express the plurality and fractured nature of human existence through my love life...
Maybe this IS really a psychological and emotional pathology...

Here I am. It takes two to tango, but my dancing partner isn't around to twirl me about the dance floor. So I am looking for other partners who'll dance with me for a short while. I don't want to dance with any one person too long. I want to take advantage of my opportunity to dance briefly with everyone who is willing to dance with me. Yet, if everyone is looking for a partner for life and I am just looking to dance for a song or two, am I, until that happy day when my beloved and I will be re-united, destined to being dancing with myself?

Dancing With Myself Or A Rose By Any Other Name...

I am dating myself. I am not dating myself in the ways of Skinny Rabbit (I am not that egotistical - Skinny Rabbit, you know you indulge in your egotistical ego! Yet here I am, singing a song of myself). I am dating someone with whom I share a name. That is not to say that I am dating another BedroomPrince. Bedroomprince is merely one of my many multifarious identities. The name I speak of refers to the non-virtual, "real life" version of BedroomPrince. From this adventure in dating identical autonyms, the multiplicity of the identity of human beings begins to appear with indefinite clarity.

For the purposes of this mere post, and in order to keep BedroomPrince's non-virtual "real life" title anonymous, I will take on the alias Sigmund. As of this weekend, Sigmund is dating Sigmund.

I should first describe the events of the evening in which I, Sigmund, met dear Sigmund. It was the Saturday following the last week of term, filled with multiple essays and papers to be written on a variety of, seemingly disparate, but ultimately related subjects. I had found myself with nothing to study nor read, and no particular errands to run. Online I found a dear friend, whom I had shared a number of intimate moments with, just as bored as I. This friend just happened to be named Sigmund as well (this is another Sigmund, not the Sigmund I am currently dating). Like most Saturday nights, I was particularly randy, and so I invited Sigmund over to watch movies, with the hope of us getting it on, as we are want to do. Sigmund arrives: we watch one movie in the living room, then watch another in my bedroom when my room mates arrive at home, and then, because of an upset stomach, he leaves. I still haven't gotten my rocks off, which takes me to the local chat room where I begin my hunt. After signing in, I almost immediately receive a message: it is Sigmund (the one in which I am currently dating). I know Sigmund from a long, long time ago. When I was a child of twelve years of age, I was in a musical play in my hometown (All the World's a Stage and Men and Women merely players!), and dearest Sigmund, as cute now as he was when I first fell for him, was the pianist accompanying me. Since that first moment of attraction, I have seen him at many seemingly random events throughout my life; once he played a concerto with our hometown's symphony orchestra, later I saw him on the street of the city I currently live in, then two weeks ago I saw him at the bar, and tonight, he is messaging me online. I couldn't be happier. I finally get to live out my childhood fantasies and kiss my first crush. That Saturday night at midnight, we meet for drinks, make our way back to his place for some more wine after last call, and the next morning I awoke next to him (I got to live out much more than my mere childhood fantasy. I didn't have those thoughts when I was twelve - not yet anyways). And now, after a night of watching the latest Woody Allen movie (Woody Allen seems to play the same role in every movie he directs), I am back in my apartment relating this all to you.

Despite how smitten I am with Sigmund, I am constantly forced to try to reconcile how we are the same person, we are both Sigmund, but so very different defined by the myriad of our subtle, and not so subtle, complexities. A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but if it smells different, we give it another name, don't we? Yes, I am Sigmund, but with so many people on this planet who share my name, my name doesn't seem sufficient in defining who I am. Yet if someone asked me who I was, who I am, the answer I would give would be my name. I have always felt that I connect, on some mystical level, with my own name. But here I am, writing not as Sigmund, but as BedroomPrince, readily accepting that one name is inadequate in defining who I am. Who am I? I am Sigmund. I am BedroomPrince. I am many things (I contain multitudes.) Sigmund refers to me, just like the letters c-h-a-i-r refer to a chair. Yet Sigmund refers to so many more identities than just my own. Language fails us once again.

So yes, I many ways I am dating myself. Sigmund is dating Sigmund. I am dating Sigmund. Sigmund is dating BedroomPrince. BedroomPrince is dating S------. I am sure if I desired to name all my multifarious identities, this list could go on forever. But not everything needs to be ruled by the tyranny of language.

What's in a name?
So much, but at the same time, nothing at all.

Self-Love

Love is born from idleness,
Masturbation from procrastination.

Today It Was My Birthday

I am older.

Beauty Is Not Freedom

There is something ineffably beautiful about the tyranny of the ballet aesthetic.

Body of Text

I know about your (homo)sexuality.

Doing It

The problem with sex is that it involves another person.

Brad from Thailand at Work

Me - Oh Brad! Thanks so much for taking my shift. You make me so happy I could go down on you.

Brad - What does "go down on you" mean?

Me - Give oral sex.

Brad - oh. Then what is go up on you.

Me - Nothing.

The Next Chapter

The Writer is coming.

Here.

Fragments Unrelated

I have cut caffeine out of my diet. Since I have cut caffeine out of my diet, I have been consuming much more Musical Theatre; I listen to Original Cast Recordings constantly. I have also been crying a lot lately as well. This does not bode well.

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The new Manager at MacDonalds is very beautiful. Deep blue eyes, full lips, high defined cheek bones, a strong masculine jaw line, broad shoulders and a slim waist.
Beauty within the MacDonlads corporation seems to be a Paradox.

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The people I hate will most likely be successful for the exact reasons why I hate them. This is why there is no justice in the world.

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Something always takes the place of missing pieces.
That does not mean that this puzzle is complete.
I can't make out the image the myriad of pieces attempt to show me.
Nothing is clear.

Crying at Lunch Time

There are tears in my Campbell's Mushroom Soup.
I added Rosemary too. It's better that way.

You Don't Really Like Beethoven

Grey's Anatomy, Crime and Punishment, a university class in Music Appreciation, following the NHL, and even some sexual relations. The list goes on I'm sure.

The list above refers to television I watch, books I've read, things I have learned, and even people I have slept with in order to increase my social capital.

Social Capital: that which gives an individual leverage in social interaction; outlets to create rapport through common interests or experiences; stories or anecdotes that are amusing, shocking, and/or outrageous in order to capture the attention of others in a given social situation.

I would argue, as I am sure it has been argued before, that most of what we do is motivated, either consciously or subconsciously, by the desire to increase one's social capital. The problem that follows is trying to distinguish what the value of these pursuits is beyond their social capital. Do I actually like Grey's Anatomy, or do I merely watch it and so my room mate and I have something to obsess over?

Most fear acknowledging that their love of Beethoven, at least where their love originated, is a product of wanting to seem cultural and artistic in the eyes of friends and colleagues. Admitting the universal motivating force of social capital makes one seem dishonest or insincere. If social capital does motivate all our pursuits, we are only hypocritical if we do not acknowledge it's influence. It is only dishonest if we DON'T concede to the influence of social capital.

It may seem cynical. It may take all the fun out of classical music and the literature of the canon. It may cause doubt and second guessing. But even this Blog is a product of paying with social capital.

Gay is Culture

"Do you even like Britney Spears?," he asks.
"She is annoying most of the time. Except when I am drunk on the dance floor."
"She is my guilty pleasure," he replies.

He is my dental hygenist. I see him about twice a year in which most of the time his hands are poking at the teeth inside my mouth. Conversation rarely occurrs.

"I wish I had tickets to Barbara Streisand. God I love her!" I gush.
"I have never been a big fan. I mean, she is a great vocalist, but she is just not my style. I am more of a Madonna fan."

This is what always happens. I sit in the dentist's chair and he comments on whatever is on the tv. He prefers MuchMusic or MTV. In the moments his hands are not in mouth, I response to his pop music commentary.

"I went to see Madonna in New York." he tells me.
"Wasn't that during New York City Pride?" I ask.
"It was the week before I think. I can't remember."

I know very little about this man. The relationship between dental hygenist and patient remains elusive. Yet, his hands are in my mouth.

"Do you ever go to DanceCamp at Fly Nightclub?" he asks.
"I am more of Buddies man myself."

I know very little about this man. Yet, I know he is gay. I do not know if he sleeps with men. I assume he does, but that does not mean it is a fact. What I do know is that he loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. These facts do not tell the sexual preference of my dental hygenist. It is possible that many men whom engage sexually with women loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. What I do know is that my dental hygenist is gay. Not gay sexually, but gay culturally.

In an age of fluid sexuality, the homosexual is dead. Men who sleep with men at one moment are fucking and marrying women the next. But no matter who they are fucking at any given time, if they liked Madonna before they probably still do today.

Gay is not sex.
Gay is culture.

Professor: Mind And Body

I have always found him attracted. That is to say since I first saw him at the first day of classes two weeks ago. Not that it matters when I first found him attracted, what matters is that I found him and continue to find him attractive. Today, I notice he has a new haircut.

Professors are very particular creatures. Their purpose and appeal, for the most part, is cerebral. Their identity, from the perspective of the student, is a product of their intellect. They are academic animals. Being such cerebral creatures, it is an odd experience to confront the professor as a physical being.

He walked into class with a new haircut. He is not just an intellectual academic mind. He is more than "professor". He has hair and toe nails and blisters and is susceptible to the common cold and will have crows feet at the corner of his eyes in years to come and will show many other symptoms of being a living body. He is not just "professor". He is human being.

He is my professor. I have always found him attractive. Even with the new haircut.

Desire-less

I have no desire for desire. I only want company. Company like the stuff of Hollywood romances. McDreamy-You make me want to be a better man-Sleepless in Seattle-A writer in Paris, the city of love company. I do not have time for a relationship. Commitment takes work and I have other more pressing issues.

So here I sit.

Alone.

Blogging.

Your virtual online company is not adequate.

The Only Option

This will challenge every part of who I am.

This will challenge me emotionally, intellectually, physically, creatively and spiritually.

Survival is the only option.

Saturday Night

He tells me that we have to meet, seeing as he has failed to come to either of my parties. And seeing as he has no other gay friends, he wants to take advantage of my company and go to the strippers. I say "Why not!?! It is not something I would choose for myself and that makes it an adventure!" Off we go. The strippers are not sexy nor erotic. The atmosphere is old and depressing. We do not stay long (I have to meet another friend and he has to fly to NYC the following day).
We walk south to the subway station. We turn to go down the new stairs to the Subway at the North West corner of a civic Square. We turn to see a large man pulling at the purse of a young woman. She is pleading with him to stop and then turns to us and asks for us to call for help. He is stunned and freezes, and I run up to the top of the stairs and start to yell for Help!. The gentleman now decides he'd like to "discuss" the issue of this woman's purse with me. He approaches. I run into a group of 30-something adults standing under an awning (it is raining) to let them know what is happening. I ask them for their sanctuary (it is unlikely he will create violence amidst witnesses in which three are grown men). The attacker does come right into the centre of the group of adults where I am standing and pretends to be acquainted with me, trying to pull me out of the group in order to discuss the situation regarding the woman's purse. The adults are stunned and frozen, but luckily I hold my ground and he eventually runs to a bike gets on and pedals off. (You see - I am hardly a "man" in the eyes of the world around me).

My friend finally finds me and, being shocked, I decide to jump into the safety of a cab. My friend hands me an aromatherapy spray: "Here. Smell this. It will calm you down." I do. And it does. My friend sets his scarf on my lap. "That's for you. It's worth a grand. A client gave it to me." I now have a haute couture scarf (My friend works in the fashion industry) that is worth ten times more than any other piece of clothing I own. The scarf is long and flamboyant - it is definately not me. I am going to try to return it to him, but if he does not accept, I will give it you.
You would like it. It gave me no comfort, but maybe it will bring you happiness.

Virtual Machinations

We are cyborgs. In an age of cell phones, realtiy television, and the internet, we have become organisms that rely on technology in order to hear, to feel, to connect. I am fortunate enough to not require an electronic device to regulate the rhythm of my heart, nor an auditory system that aids my sense of hearing, but, like any other person who find themselves in the computer age, I not only require, but embrace technology as a means of connection. And so, with my binary coded arm, I reach out to those I love.

Today, I regained my internet capabilities. With my virtual limbs, I ache to touch you. Let me feel your combination of zeros and ones. After a two week hiatus, two weeks of feeling paralysed, I am back online.

I am whole again.

All Or Nothing At All

It is a logical truth that there is both too much and nothing at all to say at this present junction.

Redemption

"I dare you to!" she whispers to me. Being "dared to" confess is unusual motivation to seek redemption, but this is my last day in Paris, and how often does one frequent Notre Dame?
"Look! It says you can confess in English." she whispers again. Despite the hushed din of the swarm of tourists circling the church, her voice is remarkably, and eerily, clear. It seems like God is making this far too convenient - here I am in Notre Dame, a devout Catholic is rising from the seat in the Confessional, the Priest speaks English...
"Why not?"
The "confessional" is an enclosed alcove of the Cathedral cordoned off by a glass wall with a glass door in the center.
I indicate to the Priest that I am prefer to speak English. His English is bad he says, and so if I am able to, he would rather do this in French. Doing it in French would just add to the cultural experience of it all, so I agree.
"Je suis homosexual", I begin.
He understands he says. He then tells me that, unless I have a vocation (it was hard to understand this concept in French at first) in which I must remain celebate, then it is not sinful to love another man, but I must be faithful to one man only. "Does that mean I should marry?" I ask. He tells me that marriage is a sacrament and to marry another man is a sin. He implores me to find love and to be faithful. He then blesses me and sets me free, back into the circling mass of tourists touring the medieval Cathedral.
I am surprised by what I have been told in confession. I have been told that the church and God accept me for who I am, and that there is some discrepancy between the official word of the church and the practicing word of the church. Do not believe everything you hear, but believe everything you experience.
I leave Notre Dame feeling surprised, enlightened, content, and, to be honest, a little bit divine.
I have been redeemed. And so has the Catholic church.

Home

On a Clear Day
Rise and look around you
And you'll know who you are...

The European Experience # 101

The Prologue Or Epilogue. Depending on How You Read It...

So it is done. Countless journeys on planes, trains, and buses; countless days wandering foreign streets; countless hours in musuems and parks; counteless nights in bars and clubs; countless mornings in hostels and homes with friends and lovers; countless dollars on food and accomodation and transportation has produced 1001 photographs. These snapshots of the places and people I have seen will be printed off and lie orderly upon sticky sheets protected by transparent vellum and bound in a leather album.
The product of the European Experience is this: a possession.
And what do I possess? I possess a photo album.
But no.
There is something more.
There is something more personal and honest... More true and beautiful...
Yet this possession is something that only exists when shared. It's existence is based on an act of community. An act that connects people together in a shared experience. Not my experience in Europe, but an experience that is shared in the moment of the act of sharing. (My "European Experience" is in the past and can not be reclaimed). My European Experience is a solitary one in some respects (I travelled alone), but my European Experience has produced something that is communal.
What is the product of my European Experience?
What is this possession?
What do the 101 entries of my "European Experience" blog add up to?

Let me tell you a story...

The European Experience # 100

The Facts

- 10 weeks - 78 days
- 1001 Photos - 101 Blog Entries
- 5 Flights - 4 Train Trips - 5 Coach Trips
- 8 Cities - 5 Countries
- 4 Hostels - 5 Homes - 4 Sets of Keys
- 27 Museums/ Galleries - 13 Palaces/Chateaux
- 12 Parks - 16 Churches
- 110 Acquaintances Made (approx) - 24 Phone Numbers
- 1 Notebook

The Itinerary and Highlights

England
London May 16th to May 26th
- Tate Modern - National Gallery (Whistlers Grandmother)
- National Portrait Gallery - V & A Museum (Modernism Expo)
- St. Paul's Cathedral - Westminster Abbey
- Buckingham Palace - Big Ben
- Hayfever (starring Judi Dench) - Billy Eliot the Musical
- Sunday in the Park with George - Titus @ Shakespeare's Globe
- Harrods - G.A.Y.
- Royal Ballet 75th Anniversay Gala Rehearsal

Brighton May 26th to May 30th
- Royal Pavillion - Brighton Beach and Pier

London May 30th to June 1st
- Heaven - Ghetto
- Regent's Park - Hyde Park

Spain
Barcelona June 1st to June 5th
Gaudi Architecture
- Sagrada Familia - Casa Batlo
- Parc Guel
- Picasso Museum - Andy Warhol Expo
- Mies Van der Rohe Pavillion
- The Beach and the Mediterraenean

Madrid June 5th to June 7th
- The Prado
(including both Velaquez's and Picasso's Las Meninas)
- Reina Sofia Museum
(including Guernica, The Great Masturbator, and Before Awakening)
- Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza
( Sisley, Degas, Monet, and other Great Impressionists)

Holland
Amsterdam June 7th to June 14th
- Van Gogh Musuem - Stedlyk Musuem
- The Canals - Red Light District
- Biking

Belgium
Antwerp June 14th to June 16th
- Chocolate - Beer

France
Paris June 16th to June 19th
- Musee D'Orsay - Eiffel Tower
- Notre Dame - Centre Pompidou

Angers June 19th to June 31st
- Francoise Morrellet and the Musee des Beaux Arts
- Musee David D'Angers - Cointreau Tour
- Chateaus - Golf

Paris June 31st to July 29th
- Louvre - Musee D'Orangerie
- Paris Opera - Musee Rodin
- St Chappelle - St Sulplice
- La Madeline - Sacre Coeur
- St Eustache - St Germain des Pres
- Cemetery Pere La Chaise - Cemetery Montparnasse
- Musee Picasso - Musee d'Art Modern
- Luxembourg Gardens - Tuileries
- Champs Elysees - Champs du Mars
- Arc de Triomphe - La Marais
- Tennis
- France beats Brazil in the World Cup

England
London June 29th to August 1st
- Soho Pride - Abbey Road
- Tate Britain - Goodenough College
- National Gallery: Rebels and Martyrs Expo
(Schiele, Van Gough, Courbet, Picasso, etc...)

The European Experience # 99

I have accomplished everything, and so much more, that I set out to do on this adventure.

And now...

I am coming home.

The European Experience # 98

The writer has invited me for a "dirty Berlin weekend in his dirty Berlin flat" where "we will do dirty things." I wonder if Rick gets invited to Berlin with these intentions. I hope not. Rick is the writer's boyfriend.
I hope Rick is never invited to Berlin. I hope that I have inspired such divine desire, such lingering lust, such love in my writer that Rick and the "love" he shows is insufficient, inadequate, and ultimately unpleasureable. I hope that I have touched my writer so deeply in his heart and soul that he ends his foolish love affair with Rick bcause he can not live without me and must drown me in his love and affection. I hope that, no matter what I can have what I want and I can and will be happy. I am selfish, uncaring, and insensitive.
True love, or at least this love, is not moral.

The European Experience # 97

The myths of Greece, Rome, and Egypt informed all aspects of their great civilization from religion, to art, to science and agriculture, to all aspects of domestic, political, social, and creative life. Europe, is influenced and inspired by these great ancient civilizations. The artchitecture, art, and science of these great civilizations have been the motivating force behind the most admirable achievements of this place. The most recent 'great' human achievements of the past century, such as nuclear power, the automobile, and the computer, only seem to succeed in causing harm to this earth or humanity itself, through violence or alienation. The truly great and beautiful achievements in humanity's recent history seem to be born from the Renaissance in Europe. The renaissance was in essence the re-birth of the ideas and practices of these ancient civilizations. How can ideas and practices of a virtually extinct ancient civilization be able to lead humanity's in its greatest endeavours? Has all our great innovations of the reason past merely be leading us to our self-destructive doom? Was civilization perfected over two thousand years ago? Is progress the motivating force of our time? Has this progress been ineffective in producing new and innovative human achievements that have a positive impact on humanity? Is progress merely a myth?
Examining the fruits of humanity's progressive innovation in recent history, one can draw undeniably negative conclusions. Progress has brought us great advances in technology, but this technology is being used as weapons of war, tools that destory the environment, products that harm the human body, and modes of communication that alienated us from one another. If we can imagine a world without these double-edged innovations, we are left with a world, inspired by the Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians, that was re-born during the Renaissance.
No matter if our current ideal of progress, mired in greedy capitalism, is failing at making the world a better place without getting its hands bloody, humanity is caught in the inevitable passing of time. We will never truly know if these great ancient societies were the pinnacle of human civilization: We can never go back. A return to the ideals of these ancient civilizations would not help us escape the influence of all that has happened in the past two thousand years or so. Progress may be a myth, but because the clock is ticking and always will be, it is a myth we must believe in. And unlike the myths of ancient civilization, maybe this myth will reveal itself to be true.

The European Experience # 96

You do it to yourself. Or at least I do it to myself.
My love affair with the writer has come to it's expected end.
This could be love, but I don't know what love is. Instead of capturing 'love' to put it in the straight jacket of 'definition' in order to ever-so conveniently place it between 'like' and 'lust' in the dictionary, I would rather do as the poets do and drown in possibilities of the word's manifest presence in this wide wide world. If this is love, it is not the love of marriage or commitment, but the love that lives and dies within the metaphorical life span of a gasp for breath: quick, short, intense, and a necessary act of life.
It is not an external force that exists in this wide wide world that, upon coming across the shimmer in the corner of an eye in a night club or the warmth of lips curled into a smile from across a class room, shakes a person to their core. It is a product of an inner ineffable need. It is an innate idea born in the darkest, most hidden recesses of a soul with no reason or logic to substantiate it's existence: It is a product of the imagination. "Every kind of love, or at least my kind of love, is an imaginary love to start with..." (Some may argue for Darwin or Freud, but science and psychotherapy only aim to kill the beautiful mysteries of life such as the 'true' nature of love.) Mr. Humbert Humbert, the world's greatest lover (and being so he, of course, is a work of art) enveloped himself in a completely selfish love affair. Our greatest romantic hero loves the perfection of the idea of his Lolita but not the flawed, but human Dolores Haze herself. Mr. Humbert Humbert a puts it aptly: "mirage and reality merge in love". He loves the imagined idea of Lolita as he sees her in the real and present Dolores. Such is the case with all 'true love'; it is a need that gives birth to an idea that we project onto an unknowing victim. Yes, some random stranger that smiles at you as you saunter past a cafe in some European capital may inspire love. But, as this wide wide world has the power to inspire, it is a need within which arouses the artist to create something beautiful. The creative construction of a lover is an art.
My love affair with the writer has come to it's expected end.
Did I tell the writer how I felt? How I "love" him? Of course not! Saying the word would destory the poetry of my reality. And love, or at least this love, is utterly self-indulgent and selfish. It matters not if our feelings are reciprocal, only that they are requited. And even if he did not shower me with his affection, I would still revel in the existence of my imagined love, which reveals its mysterious to me, manifest in this wide wide world.
I am sad to completely understand the true nature of our temporary tryst.
But, alas, I have done this to myself.
And though such experiences can never be reproduced,
I would do this to myself over and over again and again.

The European Experience # 95

"Sorrow, betrayal, jealousy, and hate are what we think will kill our love, but it is Hope that kills it in the end," he quotes from a short story he has read. (I am paraphrasing of course. It is not the words, but the idea, that cuts me to my core.) I am not sure why this has come up in our conversation. In my amorous euphoria, the details of my dream like experience is his overwhelingly intoxicating presence are hard to conjure. Yet, this quote from an obscure short story only a writer could have ever read seems apropos to describe my current fast-and-hard love-lorn once-in-a-life-time experience. Maybe these words have that universal power that applies to all moments of life...
"Hope is what kills it in the end." It would be foolish to hope for more than what is offered: He must return to Berlin, and I must return to Canada. He has a life with a boyfriend and a career, and dreams and goals he must pursue, and I have a life with friends and family, and dreams and goals, I know I must return to. It is foolish to hope for anything more than the next breath.
I shouldn't aim for anyone to bend their life in order to merge it with my own. To hope for that is selfish. To hope for that is not an act of love. I can not hope for the future, I can only hope for the present. And if that present includes a breath shared between us as our lips meet in a kiss, I shall treasure that moment for what it is in the present, and refrain from projecting an impossible future upon the simple beauty of such a loving act. All I should hope for is my next breath, and with that, I only hope for life.

The European Experience # 94

My hands are frozen above the key board. I can not write this story because it isn't a story at all. He was sitting at a cafe eating lunch. I walked by him and our eyes connected. I smile. He smile back. I sat down for a beer. We continue looking, and smiling back and forth. I order another beer. He gets up to leave. I get up to leave. We meet in the street. We go to buy cigarettes, return to the cafe for another drink, get up and go for a walk along the river, and we end up gratuitously making out on a riverside bench. That's the story. Nothing new.
He is new: He is something I have never experienced before. Dark, and masculine, with olive skin and soft penetrating eyes. He is a published writer (a book of short stories) and is an associate editor of an Art Lit magazine in Montreal. He speaks French. He has had articles published by the CBC, NOW, Maisonneuve, and The Toronto Star. He currently lives in Berlin: he received a grant from the government of Quebec to finish a novel. He loves Woody Allen movies (we both love "Bullets Over Broadway" the best). He has interviewed Margaret Atwood and tells me she is a cunt (She does look like a Cuntish woman, doesn't she?) He loves "The Hours" (as I do) and knows about the directing career of Stephen Daldry (an Artist who's career I would die for). He knows and loves Elaine Stritch: He saw her one woman show, and Bea Arthur's one woman show, in the same week while he was living in New York City getting a Masters in Creative Writing. He is applying to be a professor at a university here (A erotic professor fantasy is just as hot as a sexy T.A. fantasy) He has an incredible body: just enough defined and tone muscle, just enough dark hair on his manly chest, a round small ass, and soft kissable lips. He knows how to kiss my neck and run his fingers across my back. He is an incredible kisser. He makes me want to do dirty things. He is going to call later tonight and we are going to go out dancing.
I can not stop smiling. I can barely catch my breath. I feel like I am going to vomit. The thought that my experience here, including my experience with this man, is transient and far too temporary makes me want to cry. I exist both between and simultaneously in the world of amorous Eurphoria and love-lorn despair.
My fingers froze over the key board with good reason. I have written nothing. None of this adequately captures this man, nor the way he makes me feel. I fell fast and hard. To say I am living the Romantic Cliche European Love affair is true but insufficient in expressing this experience. You know mere facts, and not even all of the facts that I could tell you. I could go on and on about the weather near the river, or the dirt that covered the white toes of his black Converse runners, or recite our conversation regarding Shakespeare and the theatre, but there is little point.
This is something... Something... This is. And, damn, does it feel good.

The European Experience # 93

Here I feel I can hardly understand the language.

Ignorance doesn't breed bliss.

Ignorance breeds suspicion.

The European Experience # 92

Some Museums are Graveyards.

Some Graveyards are Museums.

The dead are History.

History is dead.

The European Experience # 91

This is a place of memories.
Not Memories of a Grand Historical Past, but my own memories.
All those horrid embarassing memories of the follies of my adolescent.
All those depressing memories of the mistakes of moments of stupidity.
All those ghosts of people and projects I have left behind.
"The Good Ole Days Weren't Always That Good, and Tomorrow Isn't As Bad As It Semms."

The European Experience # 90

I am sad.
In Europe...
So I played Moonlight Sonata on the Antique Piano in the Salon.
Oh! How Romantic am I?
Oh! How Melodramatic am I?

The European Experience # 89

You never think it is going to happen. Or at least I never think it's going to happen. I was walking along the street in this beautiful foreign city, the last city on my European itinerary, and I swear I see a friend whom I met in a previous European capital walking toward me. I stop and watch her pass. It couldn't be! Why would SHE be HERE? I consider yelling out her name in hopes that she will turn, but I don't risk the embarrassment if it isn't her, but just one of those "I swear I saw your exact double" episodes. I decide I will email her and ask her if she happens to be here. A much less risky option.
She resonds quickly and lets me know that I am not crazy, I did not see her exact double, and yes, she is in town for a couple weeks. You never think it is going to happen. She is staying with a friend of her family named Eddie. Eddie is here doing reserach for some Ph. D. he is working on. We quickly makes planes to meet for a drink at her (well, actually Eddie's) place later in the week.
She is waiting downstairs outside of her apartment with her two lesbian friends. I am feeling bad because I am unfortunately late. She leads me up the winding stairs and up to her (well, actually Eddie's) apartment.
Eddie is beautiful. He is tall, with broad shoulders, and strong legs. He is wearing plaid shorts that hang low on his waist to reveal the waist band of a pair of sexy, masculine, blue cotton boxers. He wears his shorts and shirt and glasses, as well as his hair, in that haphazazrd academic way that says "I am too busy being smart to care about what I look like". Such casual confidence and aloofness is incredibly sexy. His shrt just happens to have the words "Mr. Perfect" written in big red letters across his manly muscled chest.
I begin to make converstation about the nature of Academic social life with my friend and her guests in order to keep my self from staring at the Post-Graduate hunk sitting at the computer in the next room (he has a pen dangling from his mouth in that oh-so tittilating way that the intellectual elite do when they are lost in thought). Trying to keep the conversation moving in order to keep my attention diverted from my new found crush, I tell a story about a lesbian I knew at University who, without my glasses on, looked like a gorgeous boy.
"Well, you see, as a gay man with glasses", I begin.
"I'm a gay man with glasses", my T.A. fantasy of a academic casually remarks as he walks by on the way to the kitchen.
(What! How perfect for me, Mr. Perfect) This can not get any better, hot, smart, academic, and a FAGGOT. You never think it's going to happen!
My friend, the two lesbians, and the homo intellectual and I leave the apartment to go get ice cream. The academic and I make conversation as our group makes our way down the street. The ladies get some ice cream, but the two fags refrain from fatty deserts. We stop off at a bridge to enjoy the view. My conversation with the intellectual is awkward, but not painful. I am afraid of saying something stupid, and the fact he is so intelligent makes me very cautious. I don't want to come on too strong, but am afraid of not coming on strong enough.
The ladies have to go back to the apartment for a second to pee. The Academic and I are left alone. On a bridge. In a beautiful European City. (Kiss me!) He doesn't. The Ladies return.
The academic suggests we make our way back to the apartment. He has to call his mother in the states who is out of the hospital today.
On our way to back to the apartment, I mention to the lesbians that I am smitten. They laugh. Appartently it is obvious...
The night has come to an end. The lesbians leave. I start to leave but am desperately hoping I will be asked to stay awhile longer. No such luck...
"Nice meeting you", he says as he shakes my hand (Why does he not embrace the cultural practice and kiss me on both cheeks?), "We should wander the gay neighbourhood sometime if you are interested." (Of Course I am!)
You never think it's going to happen. And it doesn't. Not like how you want it to, and not how like you expect it to. But what is important is not that it doesn't happen like you expect, but that something unexpected does happen. If everything turned out like our dreams, fantasies, and fairy tales, the world would be boring. So what! he didn't kiss me on the bridge that moment we were alone? So what! he didn't aske me to stay longer and so we could spend time together? These are the fairytales of Hollywood romances. These are fairytales of the past. You never think it's going to happen and it didn't. At least not like the fairytales of the past. But who know what comes next in this fairy's tale that is being told in the present... Possibility.

The European Experience # 88

I hadn't noticed him at first. I had walked by him and his friend before sitting down. After glancing them over thoroughly, I quickly concluded his friend had mediocre features and an uninspiring physique while, on the opposing end of the spectrum, he was beautiful. He was an adolescent Adonis; he lived at the moment before loosing innocence, but still exuded the charm of youthful confidence living life laissez-faire. The moment I saw him was the moment I saw him see me: We both smiled.
I had come to sit near the fountain in the park to enjoy Oscar Wilde's "The Artist as Critic", or is is called "Criticism as Art", I can't remember,I was finding it difficult to concentrate at that moment. The fountain came out of a large wall and poured into a wading pool that ran a length of about twenty five meters. There was a small path with chairs running along each side of the wading pool. The attractive youth and I happened to be sitting along the same side of the wading pool, ten meters apart.
I attempted to read, but my eyes kept on wandering over to my Personal Adonis and his eyes seem to meet mine as I stared. Neither of us having the courage to do anything about our unspoken desires, this continued for some time.
Finally, to my dismay, he and his friend got up to leave. As he passed, our eyes made the most intense contact they had thus far: We stared eye to eye for a breathless moment that seemed to both last forever and for only a mere instant at the same time. But all good things must end no matter how long or short they seem, and my muse passed me by.
But he and his friend soon returned. They sat down at two chairs right next to mine before I could see them coming. His friend sat with his back next to me and Adonis sat facing his friend directly. This allowed for Adonis to look directly at me, over his friends shoulder, as they were conversing. Without appearing downright rude, Adonis and I stared back and forth while he seemed to be deeply and sincerely engaged in the ramblings of his friend.
Again, neither of us had the courage to make the first move. Adonis was trapped in the conversation with his friend, and I didn't want to rudely interrupt. We both were cowards.
The time had come again, and they got up to leave. Adonis kept looking over his shoulder at me as he walked away.
Seeing that I had refrained from eating while keeping very distant company with Adonis, I got up to grab a bite shortly after they left.
After lunch, I had returned to the fountain to read (maybe this time I would be able to get through that first sentenced I had read over and over again). This time I sat on the opposite side of the wading pool. Again, Adonis walked by where I was formerly sitting, but because I had chosen a new local to sit and read, five feet of water separated us. Instead of very inconspicuously walking down one side of the wading pool, to walk up the other side of the wading pool only to not-so-subtlely sit right next to me again, they walked down the side of the wading pool, crossed the width of the water at the opposing end of fountain, and sat themselves ten meters directly behind me in the park.
I adjusted my chair so I could easily turn my head to make eye contact. It was mid-afternoon, the sun was high, and it was hot, yet I continued my warm-waiting-watching game. Now that he was not so close, he was boldly staring at me and making his intentions known. I still did nothing.
How long could this go on?
Finally, I do something. I reach into my bag, pull out a pen and my notebook where I write dates, phone numbers, and any other little bit of information I don't want to forget. I turn my head to look at him, turn back, and then... I begin to write.
He is currently sitting behind me as I write this. Occasionally, I look over my shoulder and our eyes meet. I do not have the courage to act, only the courage to write, and that is not much courage at all. But now that I have recorded the events (or lack there of) in the immortal realm of the written word, there is nothing left to do but do. My life will not be a life of words, but a life of action ( that is, 'action' in both senses of the word). Words are dead. Action is living.

The European Experience # 87

I want to have five children. Two in which are twins.

The European Experience # 86

I always treasure being a part of something good and bigger than myself.
From family, to past lovers, to a cirlce of friends, to sport, to theatre...
Give yourself over to something good.
Be a part of something.

The European Experience # 85

They are twins. Identical. They are the same height. They have the same hair and eye colour. They are physically identical. Yet, when F______ is interested, when he is engaged, when he is excited, his eyes light up. No, "light up" is misleading because that would suggest that they illuminate something. No, when he is excited, you can see something within his eyes. You can see him see, not only the world, but something about the world that is beautiful and new and inspiring. Maybe his eyes do "light up" and illuminate; they illuminate the possiblity of something extraordinary in this world. Yet, when his eyes light, I would rather forsake this world and watch only him, because in that moment, he is beautiful and new and inspiring. His eyes reveal depths so mysterious that he does not even know their truths. Such mysteries piques the curiousity of my soul. The way his eyes reveal the unknown recesses of his person evoke awe and wonder. I could watch him 'see' forever. But only him, not his twin. They look the same, but they don't look the same.

The European Experience # 84

Go!
I am tired.
Go!
The pressure to accomplish is overwhelming.
Go!
I am tired.
Go!
Go!
The body can not be ignored.
Go!
Can pleasure not be derrived from just being?
Go!
The culture of achieving is overwhelming.
Go!
Go!
Does this have to be called being lazy?
Go!
I am tired.
Go!
Go!
GO!
If it wasn't for all this going, I wouldn't be so tired.

The European Experience # 83

They are twins. Identical. The same, but different.

I met them three days ago.

They both wore sneakers, jeans, and t-shirts. The t-shirts were exactly the same, with a white lining around neck and sleeves. Except, one was red and the other was blue. Their sneaker were white, except one pair were Puma and the other Converse. They are the same, but different.

I have a difficult time telling them apart. The following morning they had changed colours: One wore a red shirt (different from the day before) and the other a blue shirt(also a different shirt from the day before). I think they also swapped sneakers, but having difficulty telling them apart, they might not have exchanged shoes. Yesterday the one wearing red was wearing puma runners, the other wore blue and converse sneakers. Today the one wearing blue was the one who was wearing red and he is presently wearing the puma runners. Ok. They did not switch footwear. They are the same, but different.

They both enjoy shwarmas. They both eat their french fries before they eat anything else on their plate. They both prefer ketchup over mayo. Except one doesn't eat onions and the other doesn't eat tomatoes. They are the same, different.

They both are very active and do well in school. Though, one wins essay prizes while the other is on the national youth football team. The football player carries a wee bit more muscle then the other, but the other has a better grasp of language. You can hardly tell the difference between them physically, only if you look very closely. They are the same, but different.

Today the twins taught me how to play tennis (again, a new sport in a different language). Tennis and golf are the same, but different. Both require using a specific implement to hit a ball in order to win. The ball of one game is hard and the ball of another is flexible. The implement of one game is a long stick with a small surface for contact with the ball, the other is short with a large surface for contact the ball. One game is won by the player with the lowest score, the other is won by the player with the highest score. The are the same, but different.

Between here and there, and then and now, I have discovered that I have grown. I now play golf and tennis. I am a twin of my former self. I am the same, but different.

A Note From My Life At Home

The Philosopher and I met, for the first time, exactly four years ago today.

He was the primary influence for the birth of my blog.
He has also been an inspiration for me in a great many of my other endeavours.

The Philosopher is a good man. No. The Philosopher is a great man.

My thoughts turn to you today Philosopher. More than usual.

Thank you.

The European Experience # 81

I have stayed for exactly how long it takes to finsih a box of cereal if you eat one bowl each and every morning.

The European Experience # 80

I think, because of the circumstances of my travels and their effect on my diet, I am gaining weight. I have discovered a layer of fat over my abdomen. This is not what I wanted to gain from my time abroad.

The European Experience # 79

I am literally and figuratively expanding my tastes.

The European Experience # 78

He calls me "His Canadian".

The European Experience # 77

I have never drunk so much champagne. I am talking about both over an extended period of time and all at once: Last night I participated in being one of fourteen people who drank fourteen bottles of top notch champagne in a matter of four hours, and I have probably drank a similar amount with another good friend of mine since I arrived ten days ago.

I also drank a bottle of wine that was old enough to be my mother (thats over fifty years old!)

Life is good. That seems to be the case somehow whereever I go.

'Life is good' is universal.

The European Experience # 76

Golf again today.

Maybe I don't like golf.

If I really wanted that ball in that hole, I would pick it up and put it there myself. This swinging at it business is not very efficient.

The European Experience # 75

The food here has an interesting consistency. It consistently has an interesting consistency. It is consistent in consistently having an interesting consistency.

The European Experience # 74

Golf again today.

Like many things in life, the goal of golf is simple. You aim to hit the ball with the club in such a fashion that the force of the club transfers with the least resistance to the ball forcing the ball to fly the greatest possible distance supplied by said force.

But like many things in life, somehow, something makes this simple goal infinately more complicated.

There are two ways to approach learning golf (as far as I can tell): constructive and deconstructive. The constructive approach consists of 'building a swing'; that is to say, teaching the particular parts of your body to produce a motion that will result in the goal of golf mentioned above. The deconstructive approach consists of altering, shifting, or manipulating the natural tendencies of the golfer in order to produce a motion that will result in the goal of golf mentioned above. The deconstructive approach effectively aims to remove the golfer, with his particular bodily tensions, strengths, weaknesses, and movement inclinations, and leave behind the 'perfect swing'.

Although I continue to deconstruct my swing, there have been fluke moments when, my club effortlessly descends and hits the white ball at that divine angle and the ball soars.

In this zen moment, pure physics, in all its simple beauty, is revealed unto me.

The European Experience # 73

Most of the time I have know idea what is happening around here.

This is a product of having a rudimentary ability to comprehend and speak the language.

Being in an environment in which there is a 'language barrier' I find myself in a similar position as an infant. I know what I want to communicate to others, but I do not have the capacity to express my needs in a language that will be understood by my intended audience. It would be false to assert that I am achieving the status of a pre-linguistic self. I have acquired a 'language', just not language that functions where I currently reside. I do though experience the frustration of not being understood, which, I imagine is similar to that of a baby.

Nonetheless, there are benefits to the aforementioned 'language barrier'.

When you don't know what is happening, it is amazing to discover what does.

The European Experience # 72

Religion does have it's benefits.

The European Experience # 71

They have a day here to celebrate cinema (as well as music).

Tell me a good story.

Tell me things I didn't know.

Tell me about people I haven't met.

Tell me about love, hate, betrayl, family, friends, loss, laughter, and life.

Tell me about far away places and the place that I think I know too well.

Tell me about politics, and social problems, and what it's like to be rich or poor.

Tell me relationships.

Tell me about culture.

Tell me all the things that are good and bad in the world.

Tell me a good story.

Or in the case of film.

Show me.

They have a day here to celebrate cinema.

What a grand idea?

The European Experience # 70

I am too quick to define.

I am too quick to conclude.

The European Experience # 69

The people here are stylish.

They wear their clothes as if they were wearing their bodies.

The European Experience # 68

The Paradox of Change

I am different, yet the same.

The European Experience # 67

I drove in a car that has a Global Position System.

You do not know where I am, but a satellite in the sky does.

A GPS System has the capacity to map out and identify the entire planet.

I may be discovering this continent for the first time, but it has already been map and charted by someone else.

The World is no longer innocent.

The European Experience # 66

Golf again today. Who knew I liked golf?

I play piano a lot here. I knew I liked playing piano.

Golf is like piano. You practice and practice. Repetition is key. You fix your mistakes and try again. Over and over. You begin to improve.

The following day, you try again, and begin to see, ever so subtly, that the corrections and repetition of the previous day, is effortlessly present, at least in the smallest detail.

The satisfaction of progress.

The European Experience # 65

Today I played golf in a different language.

With my new friend. She is old enough to be my mother.

The world continues to reveal it's mysteries to me.

The European Experience # 64

Before I left, I knew the Eiffel Tower was here, and the Canals, and the hot beaches and Gaudi Architecture, and Buckingham Palace, and the Colliseum.

What I didn't know about this place is the astounding diversity of thought?

Different people from different places think different things.

Diversity is universal.

The European Experience # 63

They have a special day set aside to Celebrate Music here. That day is today.

I have heard Liszt on a pipe organ and pop/rock in the streets. I have heard a choir of twenty young girls sing as angels and then, moments later, rap. I have heard progressive music around the corner from ska. I have heard Norah Jones, "Come On Eileen", Maroon Five, and "Makin' Whoopee" all sung in different languages, or in bad bad Anglophone accents. I have seen line dancing (in Europe!), swing dancing, and rave dancing and even Capoeira.

Today they set aside time and money to celebrate music. Come one, come all, come old, come young, come rich, come poor, it is all for you, free of charge, let your soul take flight, just listen and your heart will fly.

This is the day that they celebrate music.

What a Grand Idea?

The European Experience # 62

Thursday morning. It is raining. I am far from home. The bartender tells me so. Hearing it from someone else reminds me it is true. It is odd to drink beer before noon, but I am on holiday. These are the facts.
There is a different kind of lonely when so far from home. When at home friends are close but unavailable for company. Here, friends are so far removed (rather you are so far removed from them) that there is no other possibility than to be on your own. I am on my own. The woman on the train told me so yesterday. Hearing it from someone else reminds me it is true.
I am free. From any obligation. "The World is my oyster" Except I don't like oysters, even though they are an aphrodisiac. The world is mine to discover. Except that Christopher Columbus already finished that deed a long time ago. There is no innocent place left in the world. I still love the world. Oh world! offer me everything but ask nothing in return.
The longer I am away from home, the more I believe the world has already offered it's greatest gift. "Nothing unknown is knowable." So why go on searching? There is a difference between thinking something is true and knowing something is true. Why go on searching? Experiencing it reminds me it is true.

The European Experience # 61

Driving here is like being in a video game.

The European Experience # 60

It is after moments like this that I feel closer to death.

The European Experience # 59

Just being here is an experience.

Just being here is enough.

Just being is enough.

The European Experience # 58

It is comforting to know that it is not in the nature of any particular place to disappear.
There is always time to return to this place or any other.
There is always time.

The European Experience # 57

Too much is taken for granted.

The European Experience # 56

Being so far away from home brings me so much closer to those I love.

The European Experience # 55

I do not understand how some believe that the world can be alienating.

The world offers so much to love.

The European Experience # 54

Where are the art works that are a product of here and now?

Where are the art works that are a product of someone who lives and know this world?

Wheer are the art works that represent life here and now?

The art work of the canon are beautiful. Stunning. They have achieved this timeless for a reason...

But...

Museums are graveyards and the canoncial works of art are tombstones.

The European Experience # 53

To figure out where you need to go, you must get lost first.

The European Experience # 52

"To get to know someone who is ______________ well, and intimately, and as a true friend, you must speak _____________.", he tells me. He has lived here for sometime, but was not born here. He should know.

The European Experience # 51

At home, I am a participant of culture. Here, I am a consumer of culture.

The European Experience # 50

It has been an awful day. Maybe the worst day of my life (but I am always wary of such grand over-arcing statements)

I call my mother.

I cry.

A mother's love is universal.

The European Experience # 49

The idiot box. The boob tube.

"It rots your brain"

Many people spend countless hours with their eyes aglaze when they could be in the theatre, at the museum, or reading a book.

If you are an addict or not...
If you are a surfer or not...
If you have it on just for the noise...

Television is a definate representation of a nations cultural landscape.

Television is universal...
(At least in the places I have been)

The European Experience # 48

I am sweaty. I have spent the day wandering the streets in the hot hot hot sun. Still...

He is wearing a suit. He has long hair which is very popular with young men here in Europe.
His eyes pierce me with the razor of desire. I have seen that look before.

The look of love is universal.

The European Experience # 47

'' I didn't see the Mona Lisa. You can't even take pictures of it, so what's the point?'', says the fat American.

Photos capture experience in a form that is possessable. It is true that we 'have experiences', but in today's world of consumerism and capitalism, to have an experience that is relegated to the depths of memory once its temporal existence has terminated is not enough. It is popular as a tourist to record every moment of an experience away from home by capturing in photography. These efforts transform an experience into an object- something that can be held and displayed. It is not enough to 'have' an experience, we must 'possess' an experience, we must 'own' an experience, by transforming that experience into a photo that we can frame and put on our mantle piece.

Such an examination of the purpose of photography in tourism calls into question the connection between livng (the accumulation of experience over time) and society's current paradigm of consumer culture. Are we at an age in which living is only valid or valuable if it can be reduced into an object? Consider all the junk that they sell at the mega-musicals? Is not the art enough? Why do we need a 'thing' in order to validate our experiences?

Over the past three and a half weeks I have taken 555 photos in Europe. I do not think that I am in anyway attempting to capture my experience here. I feel that my experience, here in Europe, and at home, is not able to be reduced into a mere photo, at least a photo taken by such a layman as myself (maybe a true artist could manage to capture a moment of my experience in a photo, but not me). My photos are often a mere exercise in my own attempt to make art out of what I see - not connected to my experience, but rather connected to the geometry of my surroundings. Often my photos provide evidence for a particular scenario or story I wish to share with friends and family on my return home. But these stories exist outside of my own personal experience, and are stories that belong to the places and people I come across on my journey.

Unlike my fat American acquaintance, the Mona Lisa was a part of my journey here, despite the fact they will not like me take a picture.

The European Experience # 46

I buy groceries. I sleep in a room with five other people. I spent most of my time alone. I do not speak the national language. I rarely eat fast food. I am unshaven. I go to Tourist destinations. I have no place to be at any particular time.

I will not attempt to capture what is foreign about this place in mere words. I do not believe I am entitled to reduce a whole nation of people and their culture into a mere blog post. Nor will I bore you with the inane little details that are slightly different here than where I come from.

What I can tell you is that here,

my life is foreign.

It is not like my life at home.

The European Experience #45

is it polite to pass gas in Front of ART?

The European Experience # 44

"Picasso is like a cover band" the girl says to her fried as a crowd examines one of his 'Masterpieces'.

Nothing is Original.

Is that universal?

The European Experience #44

It is Saturday night. I don´t know where to go or what to do.
´Hello´
I did´t see him sneak up behind me. He is older, far too tanned, and wears his hair slicked back. He is wearing a poshblazer so I figure he might be interested/capable in/of buying me drinks all night like that British bloke who entertained me two nights ago (who begrudingly, but respectfully, left me on my own toward the end of the night so I could find other more suitable company). I am foreign and I suspect he is not.
´Hello,´ I respond. I am saved.
He takes me around the corner to a busy bar.
His name is Juan and he is from Argentina.
The more time I spend with him, the more I think I was better off alone and lost. He is cheap. He buys beer from a corner store, hides them in his pockets, and sneaks them into the bar. His tactic to appeal to things we have in commonis too aggressive (he actually says Ít´s perfect we have so much in common). Even though he apparently has great appreciation of theatre (he has seen Judi Dench in Hay Fever, Kathleen Turner in Who´s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and Alan Cumming in Cabaret), using theatre as a pick up tactic doesn´t interest me when employed insincerely. He was apparently on a reality tv show called Í m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here. I am not surprised he was the first one voted off. And he gets far too close to me whenever he leans in to talk.
Two attractive boys have noticed Juan leeching the enjoyment of my Saturday night out of me. I roll my eyes at them. I excuse myself from Juan, pretend to go to the toilet, and on my way back, stop to talk to the two attractive boys. I have escaped. I am saved.
They tell me they were hatching a plan to swoop in and rescue me from the Argentinian. I am flattered.
At first glance (when rolling my eyes to them whilst in Juans evil clutches). I figured Roberto (the Italian version of my father's name) was the pretty one. Yes, Robert has an incredible body, a great jaw line, and blonde hair, but Stephano (the Italian version of my name) who oozes personality and sexuality.
Robert and Stephano invite me to a club called Salvation.
After spending time walking with Roberto and Stephano to the club, and especially on the dance floor, I become completely smitten with Stephano. I can not keep my eyes off him. Masculinity (but not misogyny or chauvinism), confidence (but not arrogance), sex (but not sleaze), style (but not effort), fun (but not hedonism), seep from his mere being. He wears a white linen shirt that hangs from his torso, the cuffs are undone, and it is unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing fraction of his smooth chest. He has been able to achieve the miraculous feat of being both manly and boyish. His dancing is energetic (but not wild or out of control), masculine (but refined), and sexy (but not erotic). I can´t stop watching him. He takes off his shirt to reveal a lean muscled torso. Young. Masculine. Sexy. I can´t keep my eyes off him.
He swoons as a butch muscle mary walks by. He is into bigger men. Exactly who I am not.
My desire is painful.
Ít´s late, I tell them. I have to go. And I do.
I´m saved.
Sartre was right ¨Hell is Other People´. In more ways than one.
Strangers, lovers, friends (some times it is difficult to tell the three apart) are both solutions to some problems and the cause of others. Salvation isn´t just a club. People are both my salvation and my hell.
Humanity is and is not my salvation.

The European Experience #43

What to do when there is nothing better to do?

The European Experience #42

I never believed that I ´had it all right´, but what if I actually have it all wrong.

The European Experience # 41

I suspect that travel before the ´Global Village´ was very different.

The European Experience # 40

´´ I didn´t go to the Louvre. You can´t even take a picture of the Mona Lisa! What´s the point?´´, says the Fat American.

Good question.

What is the point?

The European Experience # 39

´´ Nothing unknown is knowable.´´ from Angels in America by Tony Kushnir

That which is foreign is not the same as that which is unknown.

That which is foreign is what exists within ourselves, our realm of knowledge and experience, but that which we have not yet reached an adequate understanding of.

Think of a foreign language. We know it is language to begin with, we know that the sounds have a meaning a group of people have an agreed meaning upon, what is unclear is the content. That which is foreign is that which has a familiar form, but unclear content and meaning.

Love is ultimately foreign.

The European Experience # 38

I think I am experiencing something that most people commonly call a HOLIDAY.

The European Experience # 37

I sit drinking another beer. Alone. I wish I was drinking with you.

The European Experience

I want a foreign lover who speaks only a foreign language and so I will not be able to understand his lies.

The European Experience # 36

No matter where I go, it seems I find solace and salvation in art.

The European Experience # 35

Sometimes I don't eat so I can afford to go to the theatre: I feel it feeds me better.

The European Experience # 34

The GREATEST TRAGEDY that has occurred in Europe is not World War II, but the fact they do not yet have RENT: The Movie Musical, either in cinemas nor on DVD.

'' The Opposite of War isn't Peace, It's Creation!''

The Eurpean Experience # 33

We are saying goodbye. He invited me into his apartment for tea. This time he did not kiss me on each cheek like is the custom. Instead, he pulled me close and hugged me tightly. He lingered.

Could he feel the beating of my heart?

The European Experience # 33

'' Eastern European's are odd.''

'' Polish men have incredible bodies.''

'' Brazilians are hot lovers.''

'' The French are rude and cold.''

'' Canadians are nice.''

'' British people speak the best English.''

Everyone feels they are entitled to judge and generalize. Everyone feels they are entitled to reduce thousands and millions of people who share a nation into four or five word sentences that completely sum up every individual who belongs to that community.

Ethnography is universal.

Entitlement is universal.

The European Experience # 32

'' My name is Kris. With a K, '' he yells to me over the loud music at the club. Kris with a K makes me smile. He is an Opera singer who grooves to Old Skool Green Day.
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Every Friday afternoon at the Opera House, there is a '' tea dance ''. All the old timers get fancied up and come and dance the chacha or the Merange to a live band. There is an aged couple dancing together; the gentlemen is chacha-ing with a cane. Kris and I laugh at the beauty of the tea dance.
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Kris has snuck us into the theatre to watch a rehearsal for the ballet. The beauty takes our breath away.
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'' I will be good in this life to be reincarnated as a ballet dancer in the next, '' I said.
'' You want to live a life in pain, '' he replies.
'' Pain is part of what it is to be beautiful, '' I answer.
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'' Dancers in rehearsal wear these tattered clothes only held together by mere threads. These strategically worn vestments frame their bodies so, in their minds, the dancers say to themselves ' I am wearing these god-forsaken rags and you still want me!' ,'' Kris tells me.
I agree. I know the pain of desire.
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Pain is beautiful. Beauty is painful.
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The dancers krush my heart with their beautiful movement that it causes such pain in my soul.
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I have a krush on Kris with a K.
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I want our hands to touch, our eyes to meet, our lips to curve into a smile.
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My desire is painful.

The European Experience # 31

Life is like travelling in a foreign country: In order to get where you're going you have to follow the signs. At times it is difficult (if not impossible) to read and understand the signs, at times you'll find there are apparently no visible signs and you'll get lost, at times you need other people to tell you the way, but if you just keep going, moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, you will get where you're going and learn about where you are and who you are on the way.

The European Experience # 30

'' Paris is dead '', he says to me.

I think that this is odd, considering he is french.

Everyone wants to be somewhere else. No one wants the obligations of home.

Escape is universal.

What I Know About Love.

Love is both a personal and shared experience. Love is a personal feeling that is the result of a relationship between two people. Love therefore is dependent, it exists within a person, and co-dependent, it is the product of a relationship between two people..

Love is more than a feeling.

Love seems to encompass all the emotional experiences of life: (un)happiness, (dis)satisfaction, anger, jealousy, fucking and fighting, loneliness and loss (when your lover is gone), it appeals to all the senses (your lovers voice, touch, taste, etc...)

Love is a feeling that is shared directly between two people. Two people can share happiness, but that feeling is the product not of the individuals involved, but from a common reaction to something outside of the individuals involved. No other emotion is identically shared between two people.

The scary thing about love is that it is dependent on someone else. Love is out of your control. Everyone is afraid of that which is beyond control.

In many ways love is like all other human emotions: Love is dependent on things outside of the self and in the world.

Most people fear love because they fear being hurt. Being hurt is inevitable: Embrace it.
Love is a just reward.

The European Experience # 29

My blog is becoming less and less about what is universal and more and more about me.

Where ever I go, there I will be.

OR

The individual is universal.

The European Experience # 28

To be in love is not to be co-dependent.

Love is also a very selfish act. Love, like all feelings, is something that is personal. No one can feel what another feels and that is true with love.

Love is the product of a relationship. The cliche is true '' It takes two to tango''.

To reduce love the only co-dependent feeling is false. Anger, jealousy, happiness etc... all require a relationship between an individual and something in the world. Human beings do not just spontaneously feel - Emotion is inspired within us from the stuff of the real world. Love, though, is particular to a relationship between people.

Yes. I want to be in love. No. I do not need someone else to be happy. I am happy now.

I just want to feel that ineffable euphoria, that feeling that is mine and mine alone, that accompanies being in love.

I must think more on this topic.

The European Experience # 27

Yes. I have a lot of (too much?) sex.
I am chasing the dragon. Yes, sex does get me off and that feels good. But I am searching for that mind-blowing, passionate, sweaty, animal, tender, body shaking sex, lick me everywhere, kiss me softly, fuck me deeply, timed perfectly, multiple location, multiple position, hot, loud, caring, memorable, sex.

That kind of sex only comes when in love.

I want to be in love.

But not just for the sex, for all that other stuff too...

The European Experience # 26

'' You always have a lover waiting at home for you, '' the Slovakian says to me (the same boy who coined the term ' spicy ')

I don't have a lover waiting for me. Anywhere...

I just have fabulous friends who are willing to share their lives with me whenever I reach out to them. And I am making new friends everyday...

The European Experience # 25

'' Philosophy has no other aim that tailoring a tight jacket to fit what exists - a mathematical straight jacket '' - Geoerge Batailles

I like this quote.

The European Experience # 24

You can't escape the world.

The World is universal.

The European Experience # 23

They sit in tall grass in the park. They nuzzle; he kisses her neck and she coos with delight. They look into each others eyes on a warm Wednesday afternoon in the park. They are in love.

Romance in universal.

The European Experience # 22

It is a coincidence. Or maybe not... The World is small.

The asshole who left me with a pen in my hand and no phone number is at the bar. For whatever reason, he feels compelled to talk to me again.

'' That boy is spicy '', he tells me randomly during our conversation. He is pointing to a blonde shirtless Adonis youth. The boy has that rare quality to be both beautiful, desireable, and erotic all at once.

'' Yes. '' I agree out loud. ''Spicy'' means hot I think to myself.

Miscommunication is universal.

The European Experience # 21

'' My best friend and I have the same voice teacherf, except my best friend has had five lessons in the past month and my voice teacher won't return my texts or calls. So if I go to this good bye dinner, I refuse to sit next to my voice teacher or I will leave.''

'' Oh '', is all I can muster for a reply.

Drama is universal.

The European Experience # 20

Where ever I go...

I am universal.

The European Experience # 19

He tells me I am too ''spicy''. He asks if he can give me his number. I go to grab a pen.
When I return he is gone...

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She writes ''Your universal theme is universal''(or something like that)

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I smile at him. I have no intentions of going home with him, talking to him, or even getting to know him on any level.

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Assholes are universal.

The European Experience # 18

I Am Just Someone Looking For Love.
I maintain we are all just people looking for love.
That's what I see, everywhere... People looking for love. Whether they know it or not.
Unlike some people in this world, I acknowledge and accept that it is love that I am looking for.
I Am Just Someone Looking For Love.

Love is Universal.

The European Experience # 17

It is odd to be somewhere for no particular reason at all.

The European Experience # 16

It is called 'Red Velvet'. It is the most delicious cupcake I have ever had in my life.

(The bed is hard. He uses too much teeth and not enough lube. He looked better with his clothes on. I am tired and this is boring. and not pleasureable. He has a small penis. He has one of those awful 'sex faces'. I keep thinking 'When will this be over?' I wish I was eating another delicious cupcake.)

(Dis) satisfaction is universal.

The European Experience # 16

A sea of (mostly) gay men grooving and singing to 'What a Feeling!' (even if English isn't their first language, for most of them, grooving to pop music isn't their first language either)

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La Fille Mal Gardee is a beautiful comic Ballet.

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Dancing is universal.

The European Experience # 15

Who am I to say what is or what is not universal?

Here I am: I have travelled to a total of four different countries in my life.

Is that enough to make these grand statements?

All I know is that I won't stop searching...

Searching for answers to unknown questions is universal.

The European Experience # 14

I miss my friends. I miss the sun. I miss not feeling hungry. I miss Maurice.

Missing what is left behind is universal.

The European Experience # 13

'' You have everyone after you tonight'', he says to me before he gives me his phone number.

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I smile at him. He is beautiful. Shoulder length rock star hair. Pretty Blue Eyes. Broad shoulders hidden under his tee shirt. He smiles back.
Next time I see him he is making out with someone else.

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''Do you want to be a contestant of PORN IDOL?''

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'' I want to fuck you.''

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There are pornographic pictures in the free magazines here. Hot.

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Desire is universal.

The European Experience # 12

I cry everytime I go to the theatre.
Even if I don't know what they're saying...
Not because the story strikes a cord in my heart, but for the sheer act of theatre.
Oh! The Theatrical Experience!

My love for the theatre is universal.

The European Experience # 11

Dan is on a rant: '' That's the government for you...''

Politics is universal.

The European Experience # 10

'' You don't have to tear down monuments to make way for the future,'' Dan tells me.

The Future is universal.

The European Experience # 9

A Nation lives in the homes of a Nation. Not is hotels or hostels, or museums or monuments, or in cafes or clubs, but in the places where it's people live.

Home is universal.

The European Experience # 8

This place, like every place, is not what it once was.

There is a common cry for a better time.

The Past is universal.

The European Experience # 7

Their names are Dan and Dushan. They were not born here but have been here for over eight years. Dan is from Romania and Dushan is from Yugoslavia. Dan is a nurse and Dushan is a stylist. I went to their place last night to watch the football match (Arsenal lost to Barcelona). Dan showed me around town today.

Dan and Dushan are my friends.

Friendship is universal.

The European Experience #6

His name is Austin. He is not from here, but from Krakow Poland. He has one of the best (if not the best) body of a man I have ever been with.

Sex is universal.

Be it where I am, where I came from, or apparently, even in Poland.

P.S. I found the number sign.

The European Experience 5

The Opera singer sang in the public square.

Art is universal.

(even if it is an Italian aria).

Tonight I go to the theatre. I hope I can understand what they're saying.

(P.S. I can't find the number sign on this keyboard)

The European Experience #4

"It's not to make you happier, it's just to make you... more," she tells me.

Faith will get me through.

The European Experience #3

I am scared.

There is no reason for me to go.

Look at all I have right here.

I couldn't be happier?

Could I?

I guess thats the question...

The European Experience #2

I am going to disappear into the world and not owe it anything, but have the world owe me everything in return.

The European Experience #1

"Don't go to find yourself. BAH! Go to loose yourself," the woman said to me.

This is the only advice I will take with me to Europe.

Love Defined (By Not Being Defined At All)

"I do."

These are the (in)famous words that formally seal two people into the contract of marriage. Considering these words out of the question that gives them context (Do you take this person to be your lawfully wedded husband/wife?), I believe I've found what I would consider the true nature of love.

Consider the (lengthy and involved) definition of "do":
do¹ ( P ) Pronunciation Key (d)
v. did, (dd) done, (dn) do·ing, does (dz)
v. tr.

1. 1. To perform or execute: do one's assigned task; do a series of business deals.
   2. To fulfill the requirements of: did my duty at all times.
   3. To carry out; commit: a crime that had been done on purpose.
2. 1. To produce, especially by creative effort: do a play on Broadway.
   2. To play the part or role of in a creative production: did Elizabeth I in the film.
   3. To mimic: “doing the Southern voice, improvising it inventively as he goes along” (William H. Pritchard).
3. 1. To bring about; effect: Crying won't do any good now.
   2. To render; give: do equal justice to the opposing sides; do honor to one's family.
4. To put forth; exert: Do the best you can.
5. 1. To attend to in such a way as to take care of or put in order: did the bedrooms before the guests arrived.
   2. To prepare for further use especially by washing: did the dishes.
6. 1. To set or style (the hair).
   2. To apply cosmetics to: did her face.
7. To have as an occupation or profession: Have you decided what you will do after college?
8. To work out by studying: do a homework assignment.
9. Used as a substitute for an antecedent verb: He can play the piano, and I can do that, too.
10. Informal.
    1. To travel (a specified distance): do a mile in four minutes.
    2. To make a tour of; visit: “ [He] did 15 countries of Western Europe in only a few days” (R.W. Apple, Jr.).
11. 1. To be sufficient in meeting the needs of; serve: This room will do us very nicely.
    2. Informal. To serve (a prison term): did time in jail; did five years for tax fraud.
12. Slang. To cheat; swindle: do a relative out of an inheritance.
13. Slang. To take (drugs) illegally: “If you do drugs you are going to be in continual trouble” (Jimmy Breslin).
14. Slang. To kill; murder.
15. Vulgar Slang. To have sex with; bring to orgasm.

v. intr.

1. To behave or conduct oneself; act: Do as I say and you won't get into trouble.
2. 1. To get along; fare: students who do well at school.
   2. To carry on; manage: I could do without your interference.
   3. To make good use of something because of need: I could do with a hot bath.
3. 1. To serve a specified purpose: This coat will do for another season.
   2. To be proper or fitting: Such behavior just won't do.
4. To take place; happen: What's doing in London this time of year?
5. Used as a substitute for an antecedent verb: worked as hard as everyone else did.
6. Used after another verb for emphasis: Run quickly, do!

v. aux.

1. Used with the infinitive without to in questions, negative statements, and inverted phrases: Do you understand? I did not sleep well. Little did we know what was in store for us.
2. Used as a means of emphasis: I do want to be sure.

To "do" is the ultimate verb. To "do" is the ultimate word of action. It, in itself, implies action in the most varied and general form.

Combined with the self identifier "I", the phrase "I do" can be read as "The person who I am will perform/execute/fullfill the requirments of/committ/produce/play the part or role of/ bring about/render/ bring forth/ attend to/ prepare for/ to have sex with/ etc... in order to express my love for you, my spouse."

In these terms, marriage, as the sanctity that is a formal representation of the love between two people, is defined by action, not language. The words "I do" exist as an opened ended indicator of the potential and required action that is integral to the contract of marriage. The words "I do" imply a committment to action in order to express love.

If we consider marriage as the ultimate act that two people perform to express their love for each other, Love is not defined by merely telling someone "I love you", but is truly expressed through the words "I do", and these words only have meaning in the fact that they imply action. Following this argument, we can conclude that love is ultimately about action, and not about words.

For me personally, such an examination has led me to the following:

Love as a word is meaningless. Love as an action means so very very much.

Love can not be defined by other words. Love can only be defined by action.

All Things Go. All Things Go.

The Journalist. The Philosopher. The Lover. The Lawyer

The men of my life have gone. They are part of the past now.

An Era Has Ended.

I fell in love again. All Things Go. All Things Go.

Time to Move On.

The Lone Ranger

8 pm: Every Now and Then: The Helix Project Dance Retrospective
10 pm: Ms. Wilson's Birthday Party
12 am: Buddies in Bad Times Dance Party
1:30 am: Big Primpin'

Tonight I was the LONE RANGER. I traversed from event to event like the social butterfly I am all on my own. I had no one to keep track of. I had no one to coordinate with. I had no one I was attached to. The night was young and the night was mine and mine alone. FREEDOM!

I barely had an good time for the five hours I was out being my social self.

Yes there are benefits to being a LONE RANGER. But all those benefits really don't add up to much when you don't have someone around you can share the good times with.

This LONE RANGER is LONELY.
And my Freedom won't hold me as I fall asleep on Saturday night.

Looking Back Into A Blurry Mirror

Another school year ends, and for a student, the school year is the guiding temporal structure. So, with the school year ending, I look back on the past year to evaluate my time and experience.

There is one problem though...

As I consider my romantic/sex life over the past year, I can't seem to remember specific instances or even people. I have date many men and slept with even more this past year, more this year than I ever have before, but I can't seem to recall more than a quarter of my lover's names, faces, or even the experiences we share.

I am left wondering if these encounters had any meaning that impacted my life. If we as human beings remember the important and meaningful moments of our lives, does the fact that I seem to have forgotten most of the specifics of my romantic life over the past year mean that my collection of lovers and the experiences we shared do not have meaning?

I contend that our memories do record in the depths of our psyches the meaningful experiences of our lives. So therefore, I am forced to come to terms with my excessive romantic and sexual activity as ultimately unfulfilling, unsatisfying, and not meaningful events in my life.

So how do I proceed?

Less sex. Less dating. Less men.

I won't settle for a mere body just to help me get off.

I will settle for nothing less than butterflies.

I will trust my gut.

I will aim for love and settle for nothing less.

(Methinks this will be easier said than done...)

Will Has No Grace (But he's had my room mate)

"I think that Will, from Will and Grace, is very attractive"

"Oh yeah. Did I tell you that I kissed him and he munched [Mary's] box? He was staying at the Windsor Arms Hotel and I demanded that we get room service."

True Story

My room mates have fooled around with Eric McCormack. I always thought that they were the closest thing to gay men women could ever get. Sleeping with Television's favorite gay man, Will Truman, brings them even closer to be Female Fags.

Choose Choice

I maintain that once you have the confidence to realize that you can get it when you want it, there are a hell of a lot of people who are willing to give it. If you reek of desperation when coming across an attractive mate at a club, at a bar, at a coffee shop, or on the subway, chances are slim that they will return you gaze and smile back. Of course, alcohol does facilitate initial contact, the touch of hands before they hold, that first "hello", or even the look and smile that gets the ball rolling, but alcohol is not necessary (or it shouldn't be - your confidence then is ultimately false). And you must realize that there is a pragmatism that influences picking up: there are always boyfriends or girl friends and the pressure of monogamy, or work to go to early the next morning, or playing the role of the designated driver, or friends (God Forbid!) that a far too loyal person is unwilling to ditch. If such travesties occurr in the process of picking up, take them at face value, and believe that if they weren't into you, they wouldn't have returned that look and smile or that "Hello" in the first place. It is true that desire is part of the human condition, everyone wants to get off and everyone can be the person to help someone out there to do that, but, at the same time, we live in a world of monogamy, careers, and other such institutions that require strict responsbility.

If you know what you want, then you go, and you find it and you get it.

The problem is how do you gain the confidence to not jump onto the first person who offers love and/or sex (which ever option it seems will do it for you). I maintain that if you acknowledge that you aren't into every person who is into you, how can you expect that hottie you are cruising to be always into you. Sometimes you just aren't the right type. You are someone's right type, just not necessarily the type of the person you wish wanted you back. So don't take it personally, because you probably break as many hearts as your heart gets broken. Once you believe that, you're golden.

So where does that leave me?

I have the confidence to know that I can get it when I want it, and lots of people have offered to give it, and some would really like to if they didn't have a boyfriend or work the next morning. For me personally, I have to learn to be satisfied with the look and the smile, and know that I am worthy of desire (I have enough proof anyway), instead of wasting my time with too many sexual episodes with guys I want only because it seems they want me back. I want to be wanted so bad, I love to love so bad, I desire desire so badly, I often am in situations that are ultimately unsatisfying. It is not that I sleep with ugly people, but there is a lot to be said for that intuitively chemistry that exists between two people who really hit it off - It that isn't there, it is a sure sign that I should move on and leave it at a look and a smile. Beggars can't be chooser, but now that I've stopped begging and everyone is will to give what they've got, I have to learn how to be more of a chooser.

The Stuff Of Growing Up

In our capitalist consumer society, it is inevitable that our stuff somehow reflects who we are and where we are in life. In a world where money rules, the things we choose to spend our money on, the clothes we wear, the furniture that we decorate our homes with, the music we listen to, ultimately reflects our personal identity. Included in an accurate picture of our personal identity, our stuff often reflects the stage a life we currently are travelling through. For instance, if someone has a lot of nice expensive furniture, they are more likely to be settled than someone who has merely acquired the minimal furnishings for IKEA or off the street (like I have). If we want to get a glimpse of who we are and where we are in the scheme of things, examining the stuff we've accumulated through the cash we've earned and spent is a good place to start.

We Are What We Own

Yesterday, I helped my good friend Paul move. As we hauled his furniture from his clean and simple apartment to another well decorate locale where he will be living with two others in similar situations to himself, I got to to thinking about growing up. Paul at age 27 is in the early stages of being a true grown up. He is an articling lawyer at a law firm; he is currently happy being single (but still has an active sex life); he seems to have all things of modern life (relationships, finances, career, etc..) under control. His successful lifestyle was manifest in his stuff, and especially in his furniture. His chic glass kitchen table, well complimented by minimalist clean metal/leather chairs, matching the sofa (not oppressive, but not fragile) and so on... In comparison to my own drab decor, compiled of pieces I've acquired by shopping the streets littered with other peoples furniture they decide to leave behind on moving day, I realize, that in comparing our stuff, Paul and I are at very different stages in our lives.

I have been seduced by Paul's stuff. At one time, I enjoyed the freedom of having very little. I could move at a whim and didn't need a cargo truck to do so (Like Paul does). But now, I would rather give up that freedom for a well decorated apartment with chic expensive furniture. I would rather have less of higher quality, then more of what can easily be ruined or easily thrown away. But these things do not come by mere want, they are a product of the other stuff of life; career, hard work, sacrifice, time, and of course, money.