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.

A Way to Make A Fool Of Yourself

It serves me right for getting drunk and singing a song at Karaoke far to hard for me to sing

Wisdom From Bill #1

[Bedroomprince] sometimes you shouldn't ask questions. Sometimes you should wait till the question asks you.

As Time Goes By

As time goes by they inevitably move on. It is futile to hope that, though you find new lovers, their heart will remain pining for you. It is egotistical to ever wish for anyone that they will forever desire you and only you. It is selfish to wish love that is forever unreturned on anyone. I am seflish and egotistical and hope for what can not be.

My first boyfriend called me. He is in town. He has been seeing someone for over a year now.
I melt at his touch, but not because how I feel about who he is as a human being, but it's because someone whom cared for me very much at one time is touching me again.

I just want to be loved. I must learn how to love in order to be loved. At one time, I thought I could love him because it felt so good that he loved me.

A Social Butterfly in the Urban Jungle

When one is a social butterfly in the urban jungle, eager to meet new people and go to new places to do new things, life can be a river that sweeps you away. You are no longer in control, swimming across, but the current keeps you afloat (barely) and leads you down stream.

I find myself in such circumstances of late.

I am haunted by the guilt that my excess of social activity is wasting away time that can be spent on more productive activity. I am fortunate in the fact that, unlike many other lost souls, I know what more I can be doing with my life than wasting it away . I am no longer in control of my time it seems as I drown in an over-abundance of social obligations that I have willing took on.

In a recent dialogue I've shared with an intimate acquaintance, the value of solitude was at issue. I will be the first to argue the case for human as social animal. I will be the first to argue the value of social interaction with loved ones and strangers alike. I will be the first to argue ideas of self as a product of action in relation to others and not a single solitary state of being. Yet, solitude seems like a solution for my current circumstance.

Yes, solitude is a solution. I romanticize the role of the recluse. The enigmatic artist locked away in their room, as their brilliant work flow from their finger tips late into the night... But like all things, solitude is only truly beneficial in moderation, even for the artist.

To put my life and the current circumstances I find myself in in perspective, balance is key. I need to find solitude for myself in order to achieve my personal goals. Yet, such artistic goals I have set out for myself are dependent on being social in order to achieve a greater understanding of humanity and the world we live in; such achievements mean little unless I can share it with those whom I love dearly. In the jungle, no one is alone.

To be alone or not to be alone, that is not the question.

When and how to be alone, or when and how not to be alone is the question.

Once I've mastered that, my life will be considerably more satisfying. Once I've mastered that, this social butterfly will be king of the urban jungle.

A Weekend in the City

A card falls into the book I am reading on the subway. I look up to see who has dropped up only to watch a young man scurry off the train and up the stairs from the platform. "You're really attractive. I would like to take you for a coffee sometime - no expectations, just conversation" the card reads on the back side. The front shows the name Arthur and a phone number with an email address.
I eventually call him and we go for several dates. He is cute, but not my type, despite having studied English at univeristy and currently working in publishing. I tell him that he won't work out and we remain the most casual of friends.
Today I received an email from him titled "Boyfriend for a Week". Arthur is house sitting for a couple of lesbians at a posh house in the trendy Queen West neighbourhood near the very popular stylish Gladstone Hotel. I am invited to spend the week with him in a house we'd treat as a hotel of sorts. He casually alludes to his attraction to me (he calls me cute as hell!) and he mentions our one night of sexual intmatacy. He confesses to be more than interested in my conversation.
To have a holiday in your own city is an enticing domestic adventure. To escape the responsibilities and routine of your own home would be a welcome respite. Yet, the (in)decent proposal on the table comes with certain conditions, even if they are subtly implicit.
What to do...
What to do...

Meditations on Desire

At least I feel something. At least I know that I'm alive.

Desire is ultimately a painful emotion. Desire exists only when it is not satisfied. To desire is to want what you don't have. Once you have it, your desire is satisfied. Or, you still feel desire but only because you want it more. We do not desire what we have only what we think we want.

The worst desire of all is the desire for the unknown. Recognizing that you feel you need something that you currently lack, but being completely unaware of what that may be. Afterall, if you can only truly know what you want once you've got what you want. Desire is merely speculation: You think you have recognized what you is missing in your life: You think you have recognized that which will satisfy.

I desire love. I desire sex. I desire passion. I desire to be desired.
Yet, no one seems to satisfy these desires.

To desire is human. To want what is lacking is human. It is what keeps us alive.

Maybe...

Drunken Revelation?

Last night I got very inebriated. I did some things, I acted in a fashion, that I am doubting is something I should be proud of.

What is it, deep within my subconscious, that plagues me so that I act so inappropriately when drunk?

That may be an unfair assessment. There has been only one occurrence. I immediately attribute such behaviour to my parents stay in my apartment for ten days. Familial relationships can strain anyone young person, consciously or subconsciouly.

Nonetheless, along with losing my voice, my subconscious is making itself known. There is more to me than there is to me, it seems. But the question that haunts along with my subconscious is:
Can the source of such neurosis ever be known and understood?

Will there always be something deep in my soul that even I am aware of?

Paralysed By Freedom

My parents are gone. I have my life back. FREEDOM! I can now do all the things that have piled up during their stay. But what to do first? There seems to be so much I can do, I don't know where to start. My list of things to do is so daunting that I am overwhelmed. Yesterday I was caged by having to host and attend to my parents: Yesterday I was completely under the control of my parents and their needs. Today I am free and have all the time in the world to do what I need to do. Yet there is so much I could do, I am paralysed. I have no desire to waste my time in front of the T.V.. I want to get these things done. But I don't seem to have the motivation to actually get started. Cause once I get started, I don't know when I am going to feel like I have such freedom of time again.

What to do? What to do?

Well... So far, I've written this blog post.

Wisdom From Lucia #4

Me: Did you just open the door to the walk in fridge so you can look at my cute bum?
Lucia: I am not attracted to little boy like you, so you can go to hell! You're Crazy.

Fine Dining

A Friend from work came over to my apartment to prepare a meal in honour of my parents during their stay in Toronto. This is what he prepared:

Course #1
Salmon wrapped in Sole sprikled with Dill and Drizzled with a Chilli Oil
Served with A Cauliflower Curry Mousse

Course #2
Israeli Couscous with Salted Peas Served With a Red Wine Vinegar Reduction

Course #3
Walnut Crusted Tofu with Red Wine Candied Plums in a Wine Reduction

Course #4
Round Eye Steak Served with A Dijon Jus
Served with Wild Rice with Rosemary Flakes

So Good? No Good?
So GOOD!

Bedroom Prince's Lament

"These Psycho-somatic symptoms, basically insecure, due to some long frustration may react..."

I have lost my voice. I am angry, anxious, and agitated. My insecurities have made their way out.

There is no explicable cause for such lamenting. I love my parents. My parents love me. What is the problem? Am I merely dillusional? Is it not a question of who (my parents) but a question of what (the responsibility of hosting such important foreigners in my own apartment)?

Whatever the cause, my presence state is frustrating irrational and inexplicable!

I need a psycho-analysis.

Stressed By My Stressed

In an effort to "know thyself" following the wise words of Socrates, I eventually come to terms with the limit of what I can know about how and why I function. The subconcious, which arguably exists in every human being, is that which is always out of reach; that which can not be explained (at least through language). Only in particular circumstances does our subconscious make itself known consciously. It seems that these days, between school, work, teaching, hosting my parents, while balancing my social life, my subconscious processes are making themselves known. Yet, by revealing it's presence, my subconscious is evading explaining itself on conscious (linguistic) terms.

My voice is psycho-somatically absent. My mother contends that the presence of her and my father has caused stress in my life that is making itself known, subconsciously, through the loss of my voice. Similar to the case of Dora and her hysteria, I propose that, because of my parents presence in my life, I have in some way become censored. This metaphorical "loss of voice" is making itself known in my physiology through an actual loss of voice. The subconsciouis makes itself known through a "reading" of the biological behaviour of my body.

What is there to be done? My subconscious has made it self adequately known, but has not explained the meaning of it's presence. There must be some cause for my psycho-somatic symptoms. Is my self-diagnosis sufficient? Could these be the real cause, or merely the cause I wish upon myself for my loss of voice? Are there other factors at play?

Can the mysteries of the subconsicous ever be answered in any detail?

The stress of my stress makes me want to up and vomit.

The paradoxical product of the psyco-somatic symptoms of the subconsious is that they add to the problem, they increase the level of stress in one's life, rather than help diminish it.

It Doesn't All Fit

I love My Parents. Not merely in that Ihavetolovethembecausetheyaremyparent sorta way. I think they are interesting people and lead interesting lives. I am not sure that I can manage both my Toronto life and a life that includes hosting my parents for ten days in Toronto.

I miss my friends. I miss having sex.
I miss the social life I pushed aside and so I could spend time with my loving mother and father.
Is it possible that I have a capacity of love?
I can only love and be loved by a certain number of people?
If my parents are here, no room for my friends, and vice versa?

It is only four days in (out of Eleven). Friends, I know I made mention that I may be out of commission for the stay of my parents, but I was wrong. CALL. VISIT. TEXT. EMAIL.

I need you now more than ever.

(I think the question of Measuring love in any fashion (be it "amount" of love or the number of sources of love, is superficial and shallow.)

My Parents Have Arrived

They are here.

The day my parents arrive also happens to be the last day my dearest friend is in town. My dearest friend leaves on tour tomorrow for two and a half months. It was of the utmost importance that my parents met my dearest friend (and his boyfriend) as these two fine gentlemen are a very dear and important part of my life. So, off the three of us go, through the gay village of Toronto, to a very hip, stylish, and young shin dig.

Awkward. There my parents meet Scott. I barely recognize Scott, and Scott barely recognizes me. We drunkenly made out at a dance club about a month earlier. Scott gave me his number. I thought I saved his digits in my phone, but two days later, when I went to call him, I discovered, in my drunken reverie, I did not succeed in saving Scott's phone number into my cell. (I will get his number from My dearest friend later). Scott and I both become aware of our dirty secret. My parents are blissfully ignorant.

The party is hot. Many hot homos and fabulous femmes are in attendance. My parents are privy to my personal party life. They talk about their back packing trip in Europe with interested hot homos. They easily make conversation with the young, hip, and stylish fabulous femmes. Parents seem to be the New Black: They go with whatever you wear: You can take them to any party.

I am a fortunate son. I am neither ashamed of what my personal acquaintances will think about my parents, nor am I ashamed of what my parents will think of my social circle. Of course, there are details that no parent needs to be aware of, but everything else in my life is an open book for all to see (Hence this blog).

I am proud of who I am,
which includes being proud of my parents
as well as
being proud of the company I keep.