inFormAL Lessons

I will not be starting school again this fall. For the moment, formal education will not dominate my life. This has not been the case for the past twenty years of my life.

For the past twenty years of my life, September has always been my New Year. September has afforded an opportunity to start fresh and new - New classes, new classmates, new projects, new books, new clothes, new routines, and a chance to turn over a new leaf. (A leaf that autumn supplies in abundance as the foiliage turns golden and falls to the ground preparing for winter.) This year, for the first time in a long time, there will be no new classes or classmates, no new projects or routines, to offer a symbolic New Year to inspire turning over a new leaf. Because the fall inevitably comes leading the way for winter to make it's cold appearance before the warmth of spring arrives, renewal is never a new part of living. So without the symbolism offered by new 'news' of a new school year, I, again, aim to turn over a new (but old and dying) autumn leaf.

Declaration of Autumn Leaves
1) Leave the past behind: Do not forget the past - but do not let the shame, pain, and anger of former follies haunt your presence. Learn the lessons your mistakes can teach you, but leave the past in the past and move toward a positive future.
2) Leave the bad and the ugly behind: Not everyone will love you. Not everyone will like you. Those who have decided they share no love for you are not needed or wanted. Leave them behind; They have already left you.
3) Leave space to grow into the man you want to be: Though you are no longer a school child and have found yourself facing the responsibility and circumstances of adulthood, do not forget that, unlike the autumn leaves that have expired and fallen from the trees, you still can grow. Grow from the past into the future.
4) Leave space for Hopes and Dreams: Do not let former failures kill your hopes and dreams for the future. Let those hopes and dreams live and soar as the leaves fall and die to prepare for the cold of winter.

This fall, like Alice in Wonderland as she fell down the Rabbit Hole, I will receive an informal education. No symbolic newness for the renewal offered by this New Year. This New Year is a new New Year - one that accompanies the fall because I have decided for renewal.

I have decided to Declare upon the Autumn Leaves.

New, fresh, and beautiful things can come from the dying leaves of autumn.

You Can Never Go Back

It isn't that he has stopped growing up. It is just he has now grown distant from this place.

This is where he went to elementary school. And high school too. He learned to drive on these streets. Everyday, in a large white car from the 70s, he drove back and forth to school. He never knew such nostalgic value the 1976 Grand LeMans - complete with an 8 track AM radio, valeur seats, and two heavy four foot long doors - would have for him ten years later. Retrospect affords useless insight.

This is no longer his home. He has grown not up, but away.
(Do distances matter when growing? Does it matter if we grow up or away from? No matter what, growth means distance.)
He had grown not up, but way. Away from here. Away from home.

He lives far away from here now. He no longer needs an old out-dated car to drive him back and forth. He has moved on. Now subways, trains, and airplanes move him from place to place.

He is here but he can't come home. Home is never just a place - but a relationship between a person and a place. And he has changed.

Time only seems cruel if we look back at the past.

But here, it is hard for him to look ahead.

The Best Policy

Let's face it. We are always looking out for ourselves. Even Mother Theresea was working for the promise of heaven. Love is no exception. That's why honesty, though rarely ever achieved, is the best policy.

The altruistic act in a relationship is in fact selfishness hidden under the guise of selflessness. Any 'altruistic' act is performed in order to secure or inspire the affections and pleasures provided by a lover. In a relationship, a person performs such acts in order to invest care and kindness for profitable returns of security and affection.

Exposing seemingly selfless altruistic acts for the selfish self-appeasing acts they truly are eliminates any space for deception that could exist in a relationship.Understanding that altruism is impossible removes the dishonest, insincere guise of selflessness; honest and pure motivation for action is all that's left. Exposing acts of altruism as selfishness confirms that one person continues to selfishly want and desire the affection and pleasure of another person. In other words, one person performs kind and caring acts to secure the affection and pleasure of another person. By performing acts of caring and kindness to selfishly secure the pleasure of affection from another person, consequentially reveals the value and importance one person has for another. And that's love baby. True love occurs when ones desires not only include, but prioritize, the happiness produced in oneself by making another person happy.

By accepting that all acts within a relationship are selfish implicitly opposes deception: Selfishness becomes honesty. It is at this juncture that honesty becomes the best policy. We could substitute selfishness as the best policy, but that has an air of cynicism. Honesty is the prefered euphemism.

"I am somone who is looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. "

- Carrie Bradshaw

Closets and Alleyways

I turn down the back alley. The entrance to where I live exits onto a cobble stone lane running parallel to Toronto's major street.

A man walking casually down the lane says hello.

- Hello

- How's your night?

- Fine. I just heading home. Tired.

- Oh... Looking for some fun?

- Heading home.

- Not even for five minutes.

He motions to the dark area around the corner of my building.

- Sorry. You should head to Tango. It's fun.

Obviously a closet case. This guy needs some gentle prodding. Such a suggestion might help.

- I'm not gay. I just have never touched a dick before.

- Well, I'm not the guy to help you out. I have a boyfriend.

A lie.

- Just five mintues.

- Sorry.

- Ok. What's your name?

I give him my name.

- I'm Richard.

He offer his hand for a hand shake. He pulls me in. A kiss on the cheek is not objectionable.

- Good night.

He forces my head in order to kiss me on the lips.

- That was my first time. I mean, I'm not gay. I have just never done that before.

- Goodnight.

- What's your name?

- Goodnight.

- Five minutes.

- Goodnight.

I leave him to the alley way at two am in the morning.

Let us make meaning.

I Only Remember the Dead

I was suspicious of memory and history.

We carry the past with us at every moment. There is no need to give it the attention of photographs and journal entries. Even if we can not remember, the past is with us at the present.

My dog died last week.

Now I know why we remember.

I fear I will lose the memories. I wish I had a photo of my dog in my hands to hold.

Nothing To Be Done

When there is nothing to do, and the day is free for whatever you chose, nothing still seems to happen.

I spend my days waking up later than I should, checking email and casually surfing the net, then outside for the mere sake of being out of doors, then back to the computer in a vain effort to find some worthwhile employment, then to some reading, or writing, then masturbation just to pass the time, then back to reading or writing or the computer or whatever other empty activities I'm inclined to at that particular moment of that particular day.

There seems to be so much time available to me, but I seem to be the least productive and creative despite my freedom.

I hope, somehow this summer, I will escape from this emptiness.

I have to write this down before I forget.

I remember- What does it matter?

The future has more...

So bored.

I am starting to see the reason for mid afternoon Bingo at the local gay bar hosted by a community drag queen.

On Gay Pornography

Out of all the consumption determining and desire conforming media that exists, commercial pornographic films may be the worst. Porno flicks effectively reduce the acts of sex to the superficial surfaces of bodies. Any coherent or plausible glimmer of human personality has little to no influence on the sex acts that are at the center of these poorly constructed, superfluous narratives. For commercial pornographic films, sex is about only bodies and acts: Not people who engaged in the complexities of social existence.

Literary pornography allows for human interiority. Epecially if written in the first person, erotica (as the genre is so aptly named) inherently involves fictional persons with personality. Literary convention requires the logics of character and intelligible motivation. In erotica, desire is a product of personal need determined by the presence of human personality.

The image, almost always pornographic in nature, dominates gay culture; Pornographic films or photographs saturate gay bars and clubs; adult bookstores selling porno magazines and sex toys are a staple fixture in gay neighbourhoods. The reductive power of the pornographic image bleeds out from these dens of debauchery into the streets, infecting the gay community.

Dominant identity categories prevalent in the gay community privileges superficiality over personality. Sub cultural niches are articulated in strict coded detail: any homo can discern between a twink, a bear, and a muscle mary by physical appearance (or onlin dating profile) alone: No need for conversation. The need to get fucked is serviced by an aresenal of well honed strategies informed by the fantastical desire inspired by the pornographic image, which could be captured in a photo or a commercial sized video clip.

The gay community is plagued by watching, not reading. There is a fundamental difference between the two; watching is passive while reading requires active discourse; watching is satisfied with immediate effects while reading requires time and patience; watching maitains safe distance while reading requires determined engagement.

Desire isn't the problem: the pornography that informs gay desire is. Abandon the immediacy and superficiality that exists at the heart (or should I say cock?) of mindless porno flicks. Pick up an erotic novel that teases and arouses, both mind and cock, over the hours it takes to reach climax (pun intended). Stop watching. Start reading.

! . ? , *

An odd gift! A good idea? Memories...
Retrospect doesn't always offer clarity.

I gave them each a T-shirt with an iron-on punctuation mark amateurly emblazoned on the chest. The sleek, minimalist design of a Times New Roman question mark or exclamation point had an aesthetic quality that catered to my sense of style; clean lines, clear and definite, and with a clever reference to the linguistic. (Roland Barthes taught us that fashion could be read. Maybe this was an effort to provide some punctuation for the text clothes offered to us for our reading enjoyment.) Misguided teenage creativity may be an excuse for the poorly made, badly designed, Christmas gifts I gave to my closest friends that year.

I wonder if they wear them? I doubt it. I wonder if they ever wore them? Maybe to bed. If they were sleeping alone. I wonder if they have kept them as a keepsake? (Not that I would want them to remember my pathetic gesture) I doubt that too. These white tees are probably strewn across the country hanging amidst the other second-hand store items that still remain too ugly even for the thriftiest of shoppers to buy.

Some people write bad poetry or are forever doodling in the margins of their much under-used math notebooks. I made bad t-shirts as Christmas gifts for my close friends as an outlet for my cliche need for teenage self-expression.

I still love the subtle pleasing shape of a Times New Roman question mark.

I'm Not There

I was depressed.

Why did I choose "to cry out as the quasi-anonymous Bedroom Prince alone from the privacy of his bedroom into the vast virtual abyss of cyber space"?

Why blog about such deep and dark thoughts and feelings?

Because I was too ashamed and embarassed to come to you in person.

This public forum was the only way to speak to someone behind a veil of quasi- anonymity.

Stop Making Sense

"Such drama," you will say.

"This is over the top and excessive," you will think.



The logic of depression and the emotions that it produces may seem incredible and ridiculous, especially if articulated in a public forum.



But these thoughts, these feelings, were very real to me. No matter how much they may not have made sense to you. They barely make sense to me, if it is possible that they make sense at all.



So please. Abandon judgement for a moment and find understanding in admitting that you can not grasp the pain and ache I have gone through. I wish I could make sense of it. For you. For myself. But the logic of depression is immuse to reason.

It's Over

Feeling better. Or at least less paralyzed. Maybe even nihilistic now.

There is nothing I can do about it. There is no way to escape. Might as well keep going.

Don't think about it. Don't talk about it. Push it down so far into the depths that it becomes buried and forgotten.

Don't Cry in Public Part Two

Not only do expressions of sadness and despair undo themselves in a public forum, but they are discredited as either being foolish or transient.

"Why do you feel so sad? There is so much to be happy about!" they say.

"Come off it! Soon you will figure things out and it will all be ok. This is just a stage you have to pass through." they say.

Sadness and despair have no place in this world.

I am sad. I have no place in this world.

Three Days

and then he'd move on.

Feeding my friends cat, student loan debt that would be left for my parents to pay, furniture left for my room mates to dispose of, the shifts at work I'm scheduled for, might as well finish my Undergrad, wouldn't want to emotionally destroy my parents, my new room mates would have to find someone else to sublet the room I agreed to sublet, the people whom are excited about the short movie I decided to organize would be disappointed, the cost of a flight for my parents to come here and deal with the mess, people who care about me would be sad, someone would have to close my Rogers account and cancel my cell phone.
I think that's all.

Don't Cry In Public

Sadness is not permissible in public.

Writing about personal sadness and despair in a public forum undoes itself: If I truly feel as inadequate as I do, if I truly feel that I have no pride nor dignity left, if I truly feel as mediocre as I do, how can I expect anyone to read what I write and to care about it?

And so, in a final act of sadness and despair of such a degree that it has become saturated in selfish, over indulgent, self loathing, I concede that I can not expect you to care, nor even to continue reading these words.

The sadness I feel sits like a Sisyphean boulder that I couldn't care to push an inch more weighing down on my crushed and hollowed being. With no pride nor dignity and a numbing self loathing, I can not bring my self to express myself even in the social privacy of my most intimate relations with friends and family. The only thing I can think to do to ease the pressure of the incredible weight pulling me down and down is to cry out as the quasi-anonymous Bedroom Prince alone from the privacy of his bedroom into the vast virtual abyss of cyber space .

I do not care to consider if I am or am not the person whom you think I am.
Whatever I am is not enough.

What do I want to see?

Struggling to choose a film at the local video rental place exacerbates the problem. Comedy? Tragedy? Hollywood? Foreign? Something I've seen before? Or something new? I never seem to know what I want.

from "The Last Kiss"

Stop talking about love. Every asshole in the world says he loves somebody. It means nothing. It still doesn't mean anything. What you feel only matters to you. It's what you do to the people you say you love, that's what matters. It's the only thing that counts.

Future Tense

No Pride. No Dignity. No Success. No Prospects.

Is this what they call freedom?

I woud rather have the constraints of a promising future, then be left with the freedom of having nothing at all.

Don't worry. My self indulgent, self important, self expression will soon end.

The Snare of Preparation

There is never time for learning.
There is never time for life.

Only time to exhibit a remarkable ability to achieve greatness in all our endeavours.

Woe Is Me

Why settle for anything less than the best?

I have dreamed too big. I have wanted what is beyond me.

There was never a guarantee. I was foolish to hope. Now I feel the harsh stings of failure.

Maybe I could have succeeded if I had aimed at a more attainable goal...

Why should I accept mediocrity as a worthy attainable goal?

A Scene In Time

Go.

I am running, almost out of breath. Don't want to miss my flight. Running. Keep running.
Out of breath.
Stop.
I read the screen listing arrivals, departures. Gone.
I missed my departure.

No where to go. Now where to go? Now. Here.

"Stephen! Stephen!". I hear a voice from across the airport. My lover.

I cringe. Exhale.

"Stephen."

I turn to see a bright face. The face of my lover happy not to have missed me: Happy to see me before I go.

"Stephen! Happy Birthday!"

"It was yesterday," I say with an echo of empty disappointment.

The way regret reflected in his sad eyes.

I shake my head. "No. I don't love you anymore."

Now there is nothing left.

A force hits his lover in the back of the knees, knocking him back, into the air. His lover is flying. "I am flying", his lover thinks to himself in the instant before he makes the discovery of an inevitable result of his flight. "This is going to hurt."

There is a crash. Something is broken.

He still has nothing left but to go.

I Feel. You Feel.

You feel things, often beyond your control. Why would we choose sadness if we could choose to feel happy? (I Don't Do Sadness - Or I wouldn't if I could choose not to...) To feel is inevitable: The beauty of an integral experience of being human.

I feel things, often extreme things. Such extreme feelings loose their potency quickly. In retrospect, extreme feelings seem irrational and unreasonably silly. But those feelings were true. Those feelings were provoked by real circumstance. Those feelings were not drama. Or at least not for me.

So I must claim ownership over what I feel. I will not be ashamed, no matter how irrational or unreasonably silly. I will not be ashamed, I will claim ownership and responsibility, but how can I deal with extreme feelings? Is it enough just to let time pass?

The Worst

I want to go to Grad school. I really do.

The worst is to have only one chance left.

So I got into the Tisch School of the Arts at New York University. Sounds good? No. Not that good. I got in. They "recommend" me to pursue a Masters of Fine Arts at their institution. But I can't afford to go.

The worst is to get in and not be able to afford to go.

The worst is to doubt your achievement because they can't provide funding, like universities do for other programs.

I got rejected. A lot. From Standford, Duke, Berkeley, Brown, and Northwestern. Rejection is never easy. Another university says that my application is not complete. Not the same as the other rejections, but still a rejection. So only one chance left. That's the worst. Especially when the other option is just not possible. To be accepted but not be able to enroll. That's the worst.

The worst is to know that an eager audience will find satisfaction in my failure.

The worst is to fail in public.

You will say that it is fate I am forced to stay in Toronto (I don't know if I can afford to be here even). You will say that it was just bad luck and I should try again next year. You will shower me with flattery to brighten my spirits. Your words do not change the fact I fail.

The worst is to feel, in the depths of who you are, that you will not be able to endure this failure.

So I wait. With only the smallest glimmer of foolish hope for that one chance left. Waiting for the predicted final failure. A failure that stings like the cruelest of tragic fates: Not a complete failure, I did get into NYU after all, but rather a failure at the mercy of circumstance of my life and my condition; not merely a failure of lack lustre grades, test scores, recommendation letters and other application materials, but a failure born of my poverty as well as my academics and intellectual achievement. No matter what kind of failure it is, complete or partial (Can there really be a difference?), it is failure nonetheless.

My only salvation is the smallest glimmer of foolish hope.

The worst is being a fool.

The worst is failure.

Enough

It is inadequate to be good. You must be good enough.
It is inadequate to be smart. You must be smart enough.
It is inadequate to be attractive. You much be attractive enough.
It is inadequate to be interesting. You must be interesting enough.
It is inadequate to be sensitive. You must be sensitive enough.
It is inadequate to be talented. You must be talented enough.
It is inadequate to be engaging. You must be engaging enough.

It doesn't matter what I am. I just have to be enough.

Bio/Graphy

Always thinking about how I will be written into biography.

Fictional Truths

"The difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to make sense"

We all write our own stories to explain to ourselves who we are, what we are, and what happens in our own lives.

I. I. I. I. I.

He has nothing to hold on to. He is cold and poor and uncertain. And happy. At least for now...

Holding a fork in his freezing hand, stabbing romaine lettuce of a Caesar salad he stole from work, he speeds down the dark street. He has no time to enjoy the comforts of sitting and eating at a table.

His room mate hates him. His room mate has told him so. Casually, without much thought, accomplishing the menial tasks of living a student life in an urban apartment, he has found a way, unknowingly, to offend. Trying to navigate his way through minor (and not so minor) transgressions, trying to 'talk it out' (though he may not be as good at communicating as he would like to think), trying to adapt to new living mates (if he only knew what they were thinking!), has proved itself to be much more complicated than previously thought. He wants something positive to experience within the walls of his home. He doesn't always get what he wants.

He was dumped. He has found new lovers. He has learned he can not trust what's old and familiar. He knows he can not trust what is new and unknown. He has someone to hold, but no one to hold on to.

Change happens. Tragedy and hope are always found when the inevitability of change is embraced. People (friends, lovers, room mates) come and go. So does he. Will he move to New York City? Or Chicago? Or Texas? Or to the far too familiar home he finds in his parents basement? And what awaits him at these potential destinations? What next?

He has nothing to hold to. He is cold and poor. And happy. He sees beyond the incidental disappointments to the hope of something fulfilling, satisfying, and positive ahead of him.

The world is always new again.

The Blog Paradox

I want to express myself through this anonymous online forum.
I don't want to bore the reader.

I want to access the human, the universal (if that's even possible), through my own experience.
I don't want to seem self indulgent.

I want the freedom to express myself without fear of judgement.
I know so many are far too happy and eager to express negative and frankly mean criticisms of my blog and my person.

Does it have to be one or the other?
Isn't there a way to negotiate these opposing forces?

You.

If only I could tell you what I think I of you. I am sure you would smile and blush. How could you not smile and blush? If you only knew what I think of you... I wish I could tell you.



But.
I can't.

Not Enough Sunlight

Maybe it's because I didn't have coffee yet today... Maybe it's because I didn't have sex last night... Maybe it's because I didn't shower till noon... Maybe it's because I lack vitamin D because there is less hours of sunlight during the months of January and February... Maybe it's because I lack vitamins I am not even aware I am lacking... Maybe it's because when I look at you I feel compelled to find joy by holding your hand... Maybe it's because its cold out... Maybe it's because I haven't talked to my mother in over a week... Maybe it's because I'm poor... Maybe it's because it is a month since Christmas (which means another eleven months to do)... Maybe it's because deep down I really don't like Christmas... Maybe it's because I find most men I see today very attractive... Maybe it's because I'm stressed... Maybe it's because I have no reason to be stressed... Maybe it's because I'm tired... Maybe it's because I sleep too much... Maybe there's no reason to feel this way... Maybe there are too many reasons to feel this way...

There is no word for the nothing I feel. Indifference is inadequate. Blase is too descriptive. I can not think of any representation form in language to tell you how I feel.
Maybe that's the problem to begin with...

In an effort to get to understand this despair (even that word is misleading - I am not sad per se, but not happy neither), I fear the untold secrets of my subconscious. There are infinite possibilities that determine how and why I feel and think the way I do: The mingling of the psychological, biological, sexual, and social are too complex to de-code. Discovering how and why I feel and think the way I do may not provide the solution, but rather, add to the problem. What if the secrets of my subconscious reveal a shallow, insecure, petty self?
What if, the catalyst for my thoughts and feelings, my entire being, is less than admirable?

I fear self-understanding. My subconscious is a black mysterious place without limits or boundaries. If I dare venture into this unknown, I would feel so lost and alone.
But I do feel lost and alone... I fear the extremities of being lost and alone. Who knows what depths of loneliness are hidden in my subconscious?

So, where does this rumination leave me?
In the dark...
I'm scared of the dark.
But I can't help thinking that I'd be happier with the light on.

Crush

My heart aches.

I am no masochist, and though it never satisfies, this pain feels so good.

Left Behind

I miss you. You are missing. I wish I was with you.

Things seem so simple sitting in your living room. Or drinking a pint at a local pub. Or listening to music driving down Albert St. in your dad's car.

I wish I could go back.

Things seem so much easier...

In retrospect

At times I feel I need to find God.
But where do I start looking?

See Me See You

To see and be seen dominates my thinking. You see? I see.
To see provides access to who and what we are.

It's Not About You

"It's not about them. It's about me," he tells me.

I have always followed the rule that in order to engagessexual activity with a person one must find that person sexually attractive. I thought everyone followed that rule. Apparently not.

"So... Were they hot?" I ask.

"Not really," he casually replies.

"How can you have sex with someone who you find less than attractive," I inquire.

"It's not about them. It's about me," he tells me.

What does this say about me?

If he is my boyfriend (and he is), and if we have sex (which we do), then it is possible that he finds me less than attractive. I could be anybody. I can be any body.

I am many things. I am heart. I am soul. I mind. I am body.

But am I just any body?

Does he love me? Yes. There is no doubt.
Does he desire me? Maybe... This is where doubt begins.

Male Gaze

There is something about him. At first glance, you inevitably miss it. You have to take a closer look.

His being exists on the border between natural disposition and keen talent. A subtle crossing of the legs, hands resting on the small of the back, a slight inflection of the voice...
Is it performance? Or is it just the way he is?
Is there a difference?

He traverses, he transgresses, he transcends sexuality. Neither homo nor hetero. Both gay and straight. Never and always bisexual. His sexual appeal appeals to all. He is desire incarnate. He is adored without ever being conscious of adoration.

There is nothing between us. Only my gaze. My gaze constructs a man. My gaze imagines a person. My gaze,God-like, moulds a being from the clay of nothingingness.
Gazing is pleasure. Gazing is thrilling. Gazing is sex.

I am subject. You are object.

I am a voyeur.

Resolve and Achieve

This New Year, I resolve to be
1) more active
2) more sensitive
3) academically rigourous

In this New Year, I hope to
1) Graduate University with High Distinction
2) Get into Graduate school
3) Travel (to Pittsburgh, New York, Berlin, Prague, and Rome)

I will resolve.
I will achieve.

Photo-Representation

I never look good in photographs. This provides a real problem.

Do I really look like how I am represented in a photo?

What is the discrepancy between reality and how that reality is represented in a photo?

The photograph was thought to destroy painting as a mode of representation. The photograph is able to accurately represent reality with more precision and detail than a human hand ever could. If this is indeed true, what does that say about me? Am I really as awkward and odd as most (almost every) photograph makes me out to be.? Maybe I would've been more attractive if I lived in an age when a painting was the most common mode of visual representation...

Every possible way to see oneself, either through a mirror, a photograph, or video (a moving photograph), is representation. I will never be able to know what I look like. I will only know what representations of me look like. But what if these representations of me, especially the photograph as representation, are identical to the real thing... What if I am what the photograph shows me?

Do I really look like that?

I hope not.

onLInES

His message:
hey sexy im 19 years old from brampton im a swimmer with a hott 9 inch dick

His profile:
i live in brampton i have an 11 inch dick that needs sex,

No grammar. Bad spelling.

Nothing is true in cyberspace.

Help!

"Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help! I need somebody. Please!"

Masses

They all knew their lines. They all knew their parts.

Stand up. Bow Head. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sing (Know the words. Know the tune) Sit down. Cross Yourself. Stand up. Shakes hands. Sing. Sit down. Stand Up. Cross Yourself. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sit down. Stand up. Bow Head. Silence. Say the Lords Prayer. Sit down. Stand up. Sing. Eat Christ. Drink Christ. Sit down. Stand up. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sit down. Repeat.

It is rare for me to appear in such a performance so absolutely unrehearsed.

I want to Catholic Mass today (even though I'm not Catholic, nor a church going man). I didn't know the first of January was a Holy Day of Obligation (Isn't everyday a day of obligation when you're Catholic?). "Ponder. Treasure the gifts of God," the Priest told the meagre congregation who gathered at St Thomas Moore Chapel early this bitter cold Tuesday morning (Should I treasure the biting cold of a prairie winter - at least it brings beautiful hoar frost). Ponder. Treasure. No matter the context, these are words of wisdom appropos to the first day of a new year.

Sometimes the bravest thing to do is hold on. Sometimes it is braver to let go.