Hold me, somebody please hold me. Touch me. Kiss me. Let our hands, lips, bodies connect.
I need to be felt to feel alive.

When There's Nothing Left to be Done...

At my hometown gay bar...

A seemingly straight guy with a goatee and a straw hat with a beer logo on its face motions me to join him at his table. Despite the warning from my over-weight pet store employee acquaintance, I join him anyway.

"Do you drive?"
"I do."
We're interrupted. It's the rotund homo in his 'Pet-Smart' uniform.
"Don't do what he asks you. Or you're gonna suffer," he says.
"Do you in anyway do drugs?"
"I don't really..."
"Ok. Thanks. You're pretty cute, by the way".
The seemingly straight dude heads back to his possible girlfriend sitting across the bar.

If I had agreed to this drug run, what would have Mr. Pet Shop done to me. Made me "suffer"?
What the Hell does that mean?

When there is nothing to do, you make your own fun. Either that, or you make your own drama.

Only The Lonely

I am alone and I know you are not. When lonely, this is the worst.

Home Town Bar

It's Friday night. I can count the number of people in the bar on two hands. If I had come with friends we would have increased the number of patrons present by half. But I am alone. The bar still seems empty.

A rotund drunk thirty-something homo, still in his red 'Pet-smart' uniform, approaches me at the bar. "Let me introduce you to my friends," he slurs. "You look alone and shy. And I want to make sure you have a fun night." I am alone with nothing or no one better. I join him and his friends at their table.

Her name is Jamie and she is a lesbian. It is only stereotypical she is an accountant for C.A.A. She is friendly and non-threatening so I strike up a conversation. We are interrupted by a powerful forty-something prairie lesbian (short hair, dyed auburn, leather jacket and cowboy boots with striking maroon lipstick). "I really like the decorations", Dani mentions motioning to the Dollar-store "HAPPY NEW YEARS" signage and the meager spattering of balloons clumsily taped to the ceiling. "It really makes a difference", the power lesbian concurs. Their friendly demeanor makes up for their lack lustre decorating skills.

Only three people are grooving on the dance floor. Sean is one of them; a member of my rotund friend's circle of companions. He is a faggy bottom; you know the type. His shirt is undone to reveal a tight flat muscled stomach. He wears lip balms marketed toward women. No matter how awkward or inappropriate it is, he is bending over like an MTV booty dancer despite how there are obviously no cameras filming his small twinky ass. Though I would never be as outrageous as he is, we are not that different. I want to be the object of attention and affection and admiration as much as he does. I am just not as brave as he.

Here I am. Alone at the bar on a Friday night with only a fat petstore employee, tragically unstylish lesbians, and an attentioning seeking faggot for company. This is the gay bar in the city where I grew up. Am I home?

At times I am unaware of how much I need you. I am foolish, I know. One should be conscious of what one needs to survive.

The Plague of Social Existence

There are always more than two people present in any relationship. Be it friends, family, lovers, or even casual acquaintances, directly or indirectly we infect each other. What exists between you and your mom, or you and your room mate, or you and your best bud, or you and your boyfriend does not remain resistant to the myriad of relationships you are exposed to with everyone else in your life. What exists between you and your mom, is not immune to what you share with your boyfriend. Your casual conversation with your room mate is not quarantined from your drunken banter with your best bud.
We are contagious.

It is foolish to think that you're a singular organism that maintains isolated relationships with another isolated singular living organism.

We are all symbiotic.

We are not insusceptible to the actions of those around us. Like it or not we infect each others existence.

Don't Unassume Anything

He tells me I am "attractive in that unassuming way." What exactly does that mean? The first thought that comes to mind is that I would rather have people assume that I am attractive, rather than unassume I am. Phrasing this jargon of beauty in it's opposite still leaves me unsure of what exactly it means. I am left feeling like what was intended to be a compliment has subtly exposed a complicated judgement of my physical appearance. Added to what has inadvertently become a complicated instance of superficial judgement is the fact that the one man who has expressed this opinion is my lover. Five words have opened up Pandoras box of the discourse of beauty.

I suppose that being "attractive in that unassuming way" can be read as "You aren't ever going to be a model, but that doesn't mean you're ugly." Or even, if I was feeling more positive than I am, it can be read as "You aren't ever going to be a model, but I still find you hot." If that is the case then, why can't I be a model? Why can't I be 'model hot'? If my lover still finds me 'hot", then why wouldn't he concede that I could be a model. Are we so influenced by the media that we on one hand buy into their model of beauty (represented in their beautiful models), and on the other hand, have an opinion of beauty that is constructed by our autonomous ideals of tastes and desires?

I believe that we are socialized to divide our objects of desire into those who would have social currency in beauty, and those who we believe we are one of few people who find beautiful. If this is indeed the case, then how am I supposed to feel about being a member of the latter group? Furthermore, how am I suppose to feel about the fact that, though my lover does find me attractive, he apparently believes (or assumes) that I am not am object of desire for many others. Maybe that is where this phrasology originates: somone people are attractive enough that it is assumed that the general population would also find them attractive. But according to my lover, I am not one of those people.

Through all this rhetoric that does not seem to point to any conclusion but instead merely opening up a discourse about the socio-cultural construction of beauty, I will end with three concessions:

I wish I felt attractive (I don't at present because I am sick. I think I usually do though)

I want to be beautiful/physically attractive/hot/model hot/sexy/cute/handsome/etc...

I do not want to be "attractive in that unassuming way": Rather, I would like to be "attractive in that assuming way".

A Failure at Capitalism

I have money to spend. So I have been shopping. There are always so many things to buy. There are always so many things you can convince yourself you need. With some disposable cash in your pocket it seems that there are infinite possibilities. Shopping soon kills these infinite possiblities. Five minutes in any store soon proves how limited my resources are.

There are so many things I want. There are so many things I want to convince myself I need. But I can't. I am forced to be selective. I have to carefully choose the items that I want inspire my act of self-persuasion. Do I want a new bag or new shoes? I really don't need either, but I want to need both. No matter what, I will ultimately end up not getting what I want, and only buying what I need.

Shopping isn't fun. Shopping only shows me how much I don't have and can't afford to buy.

I have money to spend. But never enough. I hate shopping.

Haiku #2 Work?

Waiting is boring.
Tick Tock Tick... Time goes by...
Haiku keep me sane.

Progress

I could never go back.

But somewhere else instead.

I owe everything and nothing to all of you.

Currency Concerto

Music is the social capital of the hip, young, & beautiful. As with all forms of capital, I live below the ledger-line of poverty.

Haiku: The First

The first of many
So clean, clear, succinct. Ah... Zen.
Haiku is like that.

Airport Security

The wheelchair sits casually folded off to the side, merely placed as to be not in anyones way. The bridge to the aircraft slopes downward. Something inside me yearns to calmly unfold the wheelchair, sit down, and, like a cheap ride at the fair, roll down the bridge to the entrance of the aircraft, then, just as casually as I had unfolded the wheelchair, stand up, fold the wheelchair, and set it off to the side, as to not be in anyones way.

Something inside me yearns to take a wild ride on a wheelchair; a triumphant entrance to my domestic flight from Regina Saskatchewan to Edmonton Alberta.

Something inside me places on foot in front of the other, without any conscious effort, guiding these thoughts free floating in the comfort and safety of my mind, to seat 11a, on flight 215.

I Know Where I Belong

I know where I belong. And it isn't here. I no longer belong in this place. This place I once called home.

It has been ten days since I left Toronto. Ten days of meeting old friends for drinks and living in my parents basement. I know these faces, I know these walls, almost better than I know anything else. Or at least I know them in memory.

We are different now. Things have changed as things do. We still share a bond, something special that is a part of my present because it is entrenched in my past. Yet the past is past, and I've grown so much since when we went separate ways.
The love is still in my memory, still in my heart...

I am different now. I know where I come from now that I have left. But I have left. I no longer belong here. I belong in Toronto.

I belong home.

Godzilla and Ballet

"You have to think of golf like ballet; graceful and smooth. You can't just come at the ball and hit it like you're Godzilla".

He wants me to love golf as much as he does. So he tries to appeal to my taste.

This is how my father thinks. This is how my father loves.

Anti-Blog

There are things that I can not tell you. I have secrets.
Even in these words as I read/write them.
The world binds me to secrecy.

Fortune's Fool

Life has been good to me. Almost too good of late.

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"It sucks to be me. It sucks to me be."
- from "Avenue Q"

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Last week I booked and shot a commercial for Ikea. To be an actor and do what an actor does instead of just auditioning over and over and over again without any success. Sure, it was a ten second spot, without much character development nor plot, but it was still in front of a camera, it was still a challenge, it was still acting. Now I am an actor because I act. I no longer feel ashamed calling myself something that I am not by virtue of the fact I did not do what is necessary part of that which I call myself. More than being able to be justified in calling myself an actor, I am happier to have acted. Hopefully I will land another commercial soon.

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The Fringe festival happens every July in Toronto. This year, I decided I would buy a five play pass to force myself to watch some shows. I saw a show that happened in a pool on a raft, one about the foils of workings, another about Betrayal (called Betrayal), one about what it means to be a man, and another musical that featured the Cabaret music and Burlesque. My favorite moment in recent memory, was the feeling of anxious, happy anticipation as the lights go down before the curtain goes up.
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The City of Toronto holds a festival in both the summer and winter in which restaurants offer their haute cuisine for very reasonable prix fixe prices. My dear friend and I went for lunch the other afternoon. He had the mixed greens, Pork Tenderloin, and I had the Gazpaucho, and Chicken crepe in Djion jus. We shared a carafe of wine, glasses of champagne, and Chocolate torte. All for under fifty dollars. Good food. Good friends. Good time.

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"What a wonderful feeling! I'm happy again. Just singing, singing in the rain"
- from "Singing in the Rain"

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I love musicals. Even when life isn't good, they still find some reason for music. No matter what it is that is keeping them down, it's still living, and they still feel so alive they have no other option to let go and sing.

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It didn't go well, but who knows. You never know with these things, it's a real crap shoot. With auditions for commercials, you can't let them get to you, you just got to keep moving on. So off I went, for the rest of my day. I walked to the exit. Shit. It's raining. I decide to brave it. It is only a block to the transit shelter. A little water didn't hurt anybody. I put my headphones in my ears and I turn on the music. I open the door and step out. I can't stay where I am.
It's wet. It's raining harder than I thought. But it's warm. It's almost nice. No. It is nice. I thought, it's rain, and being wet from the rain isn't nice, but that's not true. And my music. It moves me. So I move. No one is on the street so there is plenty of room to dance. So I dance. The rain is refreshing. Dancing on the street is liberating.
Keep going. Move forward. Even if it's raining. You may enjoy it.

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"Each time you smile, it will only last awhile."
- from "Avenue Q"

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I feel that it is only a matter of time before I become fortune's fool. My life is so good as of late. I have so much to look forward.
Deep down, some how, I think something has to go wrong. It can't be good like this for much longer. Life doesn't work that way.
But even when it rains, even when something doesn't go your way, just keep singing.

If I had a million dollars...

He is middle aged without children nor spouse. He lives in a boarding house and has very little privacy. He has an unspecified illness and lives off of disability insurance. He recently won the largest single jackpot in Canadian History. He does not have much going for him. His life will undoubtably drastically change.

I want to win the lottery. I'm not going to lie. I would like not to have to worry about paying rent and my phone bill. I would like to not have to order the cheapier options off the menu because I can't afford the really expensive stuff. I would like to have the luxury of shopping without having to look at the price tag. It would be lovely if I could travel, if I had the time. But that's the thing, even if I won the lottery, I wouldn't have the time.

Money can't buy you everything.

So unlike the most recent winner of the 6/49, my life would not necessarily change all that drastically. Having more money wouldn't make me smarter or a better academic. Winning the lottery wouldn't make me more talented or a better singer/actor/dancer. Being the richest man in the world wouldn't make me more creative or a better artist. In fact, being wealthy may hinder my artistic process. Sure, maybe I could afford more time to study by quitting my job, or afford singing and dancing lessons to help my career as a performer, but that doesn't guarentee success. Having money to afford the time or the classes to improve myself still relies on me as a person primarily: just paying for the classes, or having the time for studying will not insure improvement. So, I must conclude that, even if I won the lottery, I would still be doing everything I can do to get into grad school and would still be practicing before every audition. What matters most in life, what is important to me, money will never be able to purchase.

Money can change a life, but it can't buy you skills, smarts, or talent.

That doesn't mean that I don't want to win the lottery.
I have my ticket in my pocket.

Beauty and Desire Has No Gender

No matter what you pronoun you use, they are beautiful.

Sitting on the subway, I watched as the young -person- got onto the train. They were at least six feet tall. Well muscled. They had alabaster smooth skin. Deep big eyes. A ball cap circled their head. A white tank top, covered in black grease stains, held tightly to their torso, accentuating either developed pectoral muscles or small breasts, I couldn't tell which. The tank top revealed toned muscled biceps though. From their hips draped a pair of cargo pants, highlighting a small but round ass. A hammer hung from their belt loop, almost seeming stereotypical. I stared as they stood. Just stood. But with an air of confidence to the point of machissmo, maybe even arrogance. He was definitely masculine.

It took a moment of staring for me to entertain the idea that this beautiful body maybe a she, not a he. If I see a body that inspires desire, I immediately assume it must be male. This was an exception. Then it occurred to me that this person maybe transgendered, in between being a he and she. What parts did they have?

I was definitely attracted to this body, but could I have sex with that body if that body had a vagina? Still enamoured with this beauty in the underground, I easily convinced myself that I could indeed have sex with them, even if they are a woman. They were definitely masculine enough, and apparently, that's what matters. At least to me.

I was definitely attracted to this body, but would I be attracted to their personality? How much would their gender influence my perception of who they are as a person? Maybe it isn't the female body that I don't sexually desire, but the female personality, if there is such a thing.
Is it cultural or biological?

No matter if it is cultural or biological. That body, the body on the subway, was beautiful.
It still haunts me.

The Perils of Writing OR That's Not What I Meant

Even though the words of my latest blog, "Not Corporately Recognized", were my own. Even though I apparently clearly laid out certain circumstances of my own life accurately through language. Even though I shared my disappointment with not having my relationship recognized by a corporation, that last blog didn't seem to communicate what I really met.

Of course there is a special bond between mother and son, one that I hope will never be disrupted between my mother and I, and one I hope I will never disrupt between anyone and their mother. I just wanted to note how, in our uber capitalist and consumer world, corporate recognition matters along with other more personal forms of relationship recognition, such as committments and acts of affection.

Yet, no one who has responded to my blog seemed to have interpreted it that way. I thought it was clear: I didn't finish the post with a comment about his mother, but about my (non-existent) presence on his corporate phone account. Yet, that was not enough to communicate the intended meaning.

Do you get what I'm trying to say here? If you don't, just call me, and we can get together and I can explain it to you in person. It's easier that way.

So, I hope that I have been succesfull in communicating the meaning of this blog to you. That meaning being that it is difficult to communicate meaning through the written word, because the written word is open to interpretation.

Not Corporately Recognized

He's back. He has been out of the country for almost two years and he is finally back.

Home. To stay.

So he has to get a new cell phone. The weird thing about getting a new cell phone is you have to give the Corporate company that is selling you your mobile service a different phone number just in case you decide to stop paying your bill and they shut off your service and they need to hunt you down for their money.

So he's back. He's back so he can be with me. He's back for other reasons but mostly so he can be with me. Yet, when giving the Corporate company an alternate phone number he gives them his mothers phone number and not mine. But I thought he was back to be with me! He is not here so he can be with his mother!

So, unofficially, through word and deed only, but not financially or legally documented, he is back. For me. Not for his mother.

Maybe according to facebook we are in a relationship. But according to Telus, I am nobody to him.

I Left You But Never Went Anywhere At All

I have been away. That's not to say that I have not been where I usually am. I have not been on vacation or out of the country on business. I just have not been blogging. And for you, my readers, that means I have been away. In the abstract and non-phenomological terms of cyber space, I have been away.

But here I am. Writing to you. For you. To me. For myself. I am back.
Changed but the same. Different.

It has not been that I am without ideas. Ideas are the source, the point of departure, for all creative activity. I can think of in this moment many times in which I have been out and about living my life and an idea struck me. I have just been lazy. I have just been lazy and cowardly. I just have not put these ideas out there in cyber space. What good is an idea it is not shared?

So I have mustered the energy and the time to make time and energy to share my ideas with you, my dearest blogger friends. I have been neglecting you and I don't want to be that guy. You are important to me, both in your blogger cyberspace manifestations of your unique personalities, and you as people, as friends. So I reach out through non-spatial cyberspace with an idea to touch the lives and hearts of my online friends. I reach out with one single idea.

To be friends. To reach out. To share. To say something. Anything.
It is not the content. It is not the thought that counts either. It is the action that means the world. Or in this case, it is the action that means all of cyber space.

Irreplaceable

I am in an open relationship. My boyfriend and I agreed that we both have needs, sexual needs, we will want satisfied. And seeing as the distance between us prevents us from being able to satsify each others needs, we are free to find temporary replacements.

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This replacement was sexy I guess. Physically not the hottest man I have ever seen, but there was something about him I couldn't seem to put into words. He is in med school for psychiatry. That in itself sparked my interest. I have always been reluctant to see a shrink, but this time the circumstances are different.
We agreed to meet at the club. Meeting at a crowded social space is always a good idea. If we don't click, we can go on our way and find someone else to fuck that evening. I think I am pretty set on fooling around with the psychiatrist though. I won't need to go on the prowl for another lover. It is time to see my shrink.

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"You've slept with him as well?", I ask Jacob.
"Your writer fuck buddy is the same guy as my writer fuck buddy?", Jacob asks back. We are putting together the pieces. We shouldn't be surprised. The gay world is small. It is statistically probable my friends and I will have fucked the same people.
"I guess so."
"I guess he's find someone else to fool around with since I have cut him loose. Ouch. It stings to be so quickly replaced."

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The line to the club is long. Jacob and I thought we arrived early, but it will be one a.m. before we get in and check our coats and make our way to the dance floor. I am getting anxious. I am excited to have my first session with my shrink.
Who happens to meet us in line? Our writer fuck buddy. The guy that both Jacob and I have fooled around with. The writer fuck buddy blushes when he figures out that we all know that we all have, in different permutations, all had sex with each other. The gay world is small.

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We finally get into the club, check our coats, and get to the dance floor.
The writer fuck buddy and Jacob are hitting it off. Again. Ouch. It stings to be so quickly replaced. Again. In front of your own eyes.
I go on my hunt for my psychiatrist. He is what I came for anyway.
There he is. His lips are locked with a boy who looks eerily similar to me. It is 1:15. I am too late. He has found another lover. Ouch. It stings to be replaced with someone who is your younger, cuter, gayer doppelganger.

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Weeks later. At another club on another Saturday night. Nothing seems to change. Everything seems to stay the same. Only slightly altered.
I have seen him before. He is that boy from my poli sci class. Cute. Quiet. Academic. The type of university boy I could have a last fling with before the return of my boyfriend. Just the type of guy I am looking for. We smile. We flirt. This is going well.
Who else do I find at the club? My shrink. Or the shrink that was to be but never happened. I have to decide. I can't pass up my shrink again. This is my chance. I was too late before. Better late than never I always say. We smile. We flirt. This is going well.

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I am about to leave the club. My academic cutie runs up to me before I can leave. The shrink is waiting outside. I can't stay any longer. I don't want to be too late this time and have the shrink leave me again.
The academic cuties asks if he can give me his number. "Sure" I say. I won't call him. I am about to have my first of many sessiosn with my shrink. But it's nice to say that you got someone's number. I quickly jot his number into my phone and run out to meet my shrink.

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The psychiatrist is beige in the most boring possible way. His apartment is beige. Decorated in that false style that is IKEA chic. His sense of humour is beige. His life or going to Med School and getting drunk at a gay bar on the weekend is beige. Worst of all, the sex is beige.
He is uncaring. He is insensitive. We don't kiss. He does not hold me. He barely touches me, which is a feat in the act of having sex.
HE invited me back to his place. If HE didn't want me, why did he ask if I wanted to see his new beige IKEA patio furniture?
He comes. I don't. He rolls over and curls up into a private little ball and passes out.
I lay on my back. Why did I think that I was missing out? Why did I think that this shrink was hot? There is something about him I can't put into words, but that something isn't a good thing.

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I love my boyfriend. I can get off masturbating. Why do I figure I need another body around when I need to come?
A replacement is just that. A replacement. Not the original. Not what I really want. Just a substitution. A inadequate similarity. An unsatisfying temporary solution to a problem that doesn't really exist. A replacement is just that. Not the real thing.
But a boy gets lonely...
Should I call my academic cutie?

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a la gauche, a la gauche.

Toute des chose tu a dans un boite a la gauche.....

On Beauty, Desire, and The Effects of Time

He has large vibrant green eyes. He is tall with broad shoulders and olive skin. Curly hair tumbles off his head, seeming as if it might fall to the grown but floats magically framing his face. Two days of stubble highlights his strong jaw line (I wonder what he looks like when shaven...). His clothes both hide and hint at his lean muscled frame underneath. Though seeming effortless, his muscled frame, that of Adonis of Greek myth, is a product of hours at the gym.

He is 21 or 22... all I know is that he is younger than I.

He is young. He is beautiful. He will get older.

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"Do I attract you? Do I repluse you? With my queasy smile.

Am I too flirty? Am I too dirty? Do you like what I like?

I can be wholesome, I can be loathsome, I'm just a little bit shy.

Why don't you like me? Why don't you like me without making me try?"

-from Grace Kelly by Mika

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"Beauty fades", he tells me.

I look at him. He is beautiful.

"Beauty does not fade. Beauty changes." I reply.

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I have a crush on Mika.

He is a British pop star. I have never met him. I am obsessively in love with his music.

I think he is beautiful.

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The body is inescapable: it is necessary for existence. We are our bodies. Yet to rise above that superficiality of surfaces that permeates dominant cultural idea(ls) of love, the body must mean nothing. What matters is not their eyes, teeth, biceps, fingers, breasts, or cock but who they are.

Lest we forget that they would not be "who they are" without the body we so desperately try,

but fail, to ignore.

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"Now take a look at a boy like me.

Who's never stood on his own two feet.

Now I'm blue as I can be.

Love come and got me down"

- from Lollipop by Mika

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The world changes. People change. What people want changes.

We are slaves to the fear of change. We would rather that things stay the same, for fear that instead of getting better that they will get worse.

Though beauty does change, and desire may fail us, beauty is never lost.

Beauty changes, but never fades away.

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With time his perfect olive skin will show natural signs of aging. The curly hair that tumbles from his head may fall out and thin. His shoulders will droop from the pressure of years. To say that he will shrink would be inaccurate, but he will not seem as attractively tall. He may not find the time to continue going to the gym five times a week and his leaned muscled frame will become a memory for fantasies.

Yes, he will change over time.

Those who found his boyish youth attractive will move onto a new generation of young men to fawn over. New men will fall for his more handsome manly features. There will be those who do not find him attractive until they have known him for an hour, a week, a month, a year, a decade. There will be those, blinded by his ever changing physical body, find him unattractive after knowing him for an hour, a week, a month, a year, a decade.

This is life. Tick tock tick tock. Time happens.

Yes, he will change over time.

But his large vibrant green eyes will be the same forever.

A Natural Low

I feel bad. I think I am depressed. There is that feeling in my stomach, heavy, like a stone pulling me down.

They say that it is most common for people to get depressed in February. It's the middle of winter. People don't get out as much. There is statistically less sunlight. People do not get sufficient Vitamin E. That makes them depressed.

I am wary of medicine's tendency to make every physical, emotional, or mental ache pathological. There is medication for everything. Attention Deficit Disorder is a perfect example: this drug is given to children who are hyper-active, limited concentration, and the need to constantly be in motion. Those "symptoms" don't seem pathological to me. Those "symptoms" describe what it is like to be a child. Aren't children supposed to be full of energy and verve?

So here I sit. Depressed. Blogging. Trying to figure out what is the cause of this feeling, this stone in my stomach, that is making me sad. Maybe it is just natural. No one seems to question the pathology of feeling good, why should we treat feeling bad any different? I doubt that this feeling will last forever. I have felt this way before and it pasted with time. Just like the times I am, for no apparent reason, feeling really good passed with time. Maybe it isn't pathological, maybe feeling low is a natural and healthy part of being alive.

Or maybe I just haven't got enough Vitamin E...

Putting It Together

I steal. Bits of choreography. I watch music videos, reality tv dance competitions, Broadway shows and I steal. Maybe that's too harsh. I borrow.

"Do you feel like less of an artist when you steal," he asks me. He isn't afraid to be critical. He loves me.

I work at a pizza place. At this independent delivery joint we serve pasta and sandwhiches and salads as well. My boss has always maintained that we do not "cook". We are not "chefs". We assemble. We compile different ingredients on a bed of spinach or arugula, or spelt crusts, or whole wheat wraps. We mix and match different flavours to wow the taste buds and satisfy the appetite. I feel I have a similar approach to art.

The novelist does not make up new words. All language is learned by borrowing, or should I say "stealing", words that we hear as children. The novelist, the poet even, makes their art by mixing and matching different words to wow the read and satisfy their ned for literature.

The musician uses an instrument used by thousands of people for many many years. They play notes and chords that are a part of an established repetoire. The ballet dancer has set positions that have been establish for centuries. My art is no different.

If then all creative works are built upon "stolen" pieces. What is creativity?

Creativity is not the pieces, but the manner in which they are put together.
Creativity is not the what, but the how.

This Is An Outlet of Expression

There is no reason for me to write this. I find no need.

Over the past months I have been privileged with other means of artistic expression. My thoughts manifest themselves in the world through other outlets.

Is it not the medium that matters, but the act? The act of art? The act of creating?

Is the medium merely the craft? The craft being an act that requires a certain skill set to accomplish. I am competent at the craft of writing - the craft of sequencing words in order to communicate thoughts and ideas. I am also competent at the craft of theatre - the craft of telling a story through dialogue, movement, music, sets, and costumes upon a stage. Is art that which exceeds craft? Is art the act of expression, regardless of the medium?

Yet this lonely Friday night the only company I have is words. No theatre. No dance. And I don't know how to paint.

There is no need for me to write this. Other outlets of expression await me tomorrow. The day after. If I am patient...

The honest truth is that I am not patient. So I write.

There is a need for this. I have found it.

Franco-clone

Advertising does not escape the multicultural paradigm that rules this country.

The commercial I shot today was shot in both french and english. The four principle actors had francophone doubles (or maybe we were there anglophone doubles...), while the rest of the actors were silent and need not speak french nor english.

My francophone double and I shared a jacket. Between takes we handed a green H and M fall coat back and forth.

It was odd to look upon my Francophone advertising double.

By the end of the day, I grew to despise him.

He was MY double. I was not HIS double.
He would not out perform me in this thirty second advertisement.

My Coded Closet

I am trying on many different jackets. Each one slightly similar to the one before, maybe just a different shade of a non-descript grey-green. They have crafted this ensemble with careful attention. Nothing "too much". It must look "real" or "natural". They are aiming for "Canadian", but not "too much" to seem stereotypical, but not too subtle to seem ambigiuous. These clothes in this carefully chosen combination are masculine, but young, stylish, but not chic or trendy, striking, but not offensive. The blue jeans are not too blue. The sweat shirt is new, but not too crisp. They have yet to chose the jacket.

I have been cast in a commercial. Wardobe for these things is very particular.

After selecting several options (pretty much leaving them at the place where they started), I change back into my own clothes. I sit and wait for them to let me know that I have nothing else to try on.

"Is that what you wore here today," the director asks me.
"Yes," I answer.
"I like that. It looks more real," he muses. "Try this jacket with what you wore in."
I try the jacket on. They agree this should be another option.
"When you come in to shoot on Monday, bring these clothes with you. We might want to use them."

Am I masculine, but young, stylish, but not chic or trendy, striking, but not offensive?
Or are these just the clothes that I wear?

I live in a coded world. Advertising has permeated every pore of this urban existence. Even, without me knowing it, my own closet.