"They would not find me changed from [him] they knew / Only more sure of all I thought was true"
--Robert Frost--
Last night I was lying in bed, staring at my arm. Not so long ago it was bare. In the space of a couple of months it has been poked and prodded and outlined and colour-stained by ink. And today, I had my final appointment to complete my half-sleeve tattoo.
I was thinking about this shift inside of me in the last few years, from a place of drear and apathy, to a latitude of unlimited zeal and iridescence, and how this tattoo is really quite reflective of not just an obvious physical change, but a psychological metamorphosis also.
Let's wind the clock back. There was a time not so long ago that if you would have asked me if I would ever get a tattoo I would have responded emphatically in the negative. The reasons were wide and varied, from the implications it might have for my career, to how unattractive it would look once everything started to migrate south.
Sometimes I look back at the unyielding way I've thought about many different things in my life and cringe. In hindsight, I'd formed these views because it was the 'right thing to do', or because I was scared of failure; of making mistakes. I frequently decided to err on the side of caution rather than throwing caution to the wind.
The process of growing up is strange. There are very distinct parts of me that I know will never change: the importance of family and friends; entrenched core values like honesty and loyalty; and a constant pursuit for self-betterment. The other parts are more malleable than I'd originally thought - like the part that could not deal with the permanency of a tattoo.
I've been hatching my skin art plan for about a year. I had resolved in myself the fact that I obviously wanted to do it since it had been on my mind for so long. My logical brain kicked in several times to battle against my hipster tendencies, but ultimately it failed in its pursuits. Anyway, when I'm a lawyer I can wear long-sleeved shirts. And when I'm old and wrinkly sitting in my recliner in a nursing home somewhere am I really going to look down at my skin and regret what is staring back at me?
So if it's a mistake, then it's a welcome mistake. It's proof that I was willing to do what I wanted to do without regard for circumstance or popular opinion. It's a reminder that I've lived my life vicariously and fully, wherever the winding road has taken me. And when push comes to shove, who really fucking cares anyway?
Today I took a girl out on a date. She's 27. About five foot seven. Average build. Short blonde hair. Bit of a nerd. Not my usual type at all. But I gave it a crack anyway. We used to spend quite a bit of time together earlier in the year. I got to know her pretty well. Seems like she has a pretty good head on her shoulders, well most of the time. She can be a bit of a dickhead too.
Conversation was sparse. Well, non-existent actually. We sat in silence the entire time. It was marvellous. We had coffee and wrote in our journals. We revelled in the comfort of being surrounded by strangers.
I think I'll ask her out again next Monday.
The weather warms
the sun hits my back and breathes life into me
flowers in their beds begin to wake up
leaves clothe the once naked trees
the new season brings with it a new perspective
I'm grown now
I'm ready to move forward
but the pull of the past is still too strong
it holds me with its steadfast grip
it's not ready to let me move on
and neither am I
I haven't written for a while. I've conjured up excuses in my head as to why. I'm working more; full time hours now with Monday and Tuesday off. I've made more friends and I have a social life that I participate in perhaps too veraciously. I don't sleep much, especially not in this sub-tropical weather we're experiencing. The heat of Summer also means that there is so much more to do. Free festivals wherever you care to look. The city is vibrant and bustling and pulsing with life. It is a stark contrast to the sombre Tronts I met all those months ago in January. My city, my friend, has changed. As have I.
The more excuses I invent, the clearer it starts to become that the reason I haven't been writing is that I have a life now. A life here in Tronts. One totally separate and distinct from the one I have back in Brisbane. This isn't just a short-term adventure any more. This is a period of time that is going to have consequences for the rest of my life.
When I leave here in a few short months, I will leave not just a job or a house or a city. I'll be leaving behind people I've come to genuinely care about and feel very privileged to call my friends. In essence, I'll be leaving one life to return to another.
So I guess that's why I haven't been writing. To me this is just my life now. And maybe, just maybe, it would be a little egotistical of me to think anyone would want to read about it.
While I was working on Saturday I overheard two customers talking about altruism. It was the opinion of the man speaking that no human act is ever truly altruistic. And I tend to agree with him.
I'd like to think of myself as being somewhat altruistic, but isn't that in itself just me being egotistic? If we think we're doing a good deed, are we just in reality servicing the needs of ourselves?
My eavesdropping triggered me to think about random acts of kindness and the relinquishment of selfishness for the betterment of others. I thought about people who give up their organs and blood donors, and foster parents, and volunteers. And I thought about the things I do to ensure that I'm leading a magnanimous existence.
The other day I held a door open for a lady at the store. It made me feel good. Today on the streetcar I gave up my seat for an elderly gentleman. It made me feel good. When I left the Green Grind cafe this afternoon I took my empty cup up to the dirty dish container and thanked the girl behind the counter. It made me feel good.
Let me controvert a seemingly innocent commission of altruism to further explain my point. There's a big party at your friend's house and the next day it looks like Kandahar. Although you'd rather be at home in bed, you put up your hand to help clean up the mess. Domestic chores while nursing a hangover surely equates to altruism, right?
Wrong. You're doing it because your friend helped you move house a few weeks ago, or because you feel guilty about sleeping with his girlfriend, or because if you help clean up this one time you won't have to help with anything else for the rest of the year. In fact, your friend might consider your help so altruistic that he might feel the exact same pressure you did, and in turn, offer to help you landscape your garden or some shit like that. Or maybe you're just doing it because your motivation, like mine, is the buzz you get from just simply helping people.
I know it's discouraging to think that despite our best intentions, our ego is always there to steal the limelight. I want to believe altruism exists in its purest form, but it's hard when the world is so cynical.
So anyway, there you go, I've informed you of the dangers of your subconscious mind. I guess that's my good deed for the day.
I finally joined the gym yesterday. The West End YMCA to be exact. In addition, I'm 14 days sober. I've also been for two jogs in the last week. And I ate steamed vegetables for dinner. I'm slowly piecing my way back to something that resembles fitness.
The sign-up process was relatively unscathing. Well except for the part where I think I was being chatted up by one of the guys behind the desk, and the part where they took my photo for my membership card on a webcam and I turned out looking like a distorted, douche-bag version of myself.
The more scathing part came when I decided to give myself a self-guided tour of the gym and its facilities. I thought a good place to start would be the women's locker room. I've never seen such an abundance of tits and box in my life. I was trying to orient myself in the room but I came face to face with genitalia at every turn. And then there were those moments that were made even more awkward when I made eye contact with women as they stood there naked. I don't think I've ever felt quite so overdressed in my whole life as I did in those few minutes.
So why put yourself through all of this uncomfortableness, did I hear you ask? Well there is in fact a very good reason. On Father's Day I plan to participate in the five kilometre 'Prostate Cancer Canada' run, in honour of my dad who is battling the disease as we speak. I'm sure he'll appreciate the horrific nature of the scenes I'm having to endure in order to support him and the cause.
If nothing else, I think my gym experience has given me added incentive to get fit. Hopefully in time I can liberate my muff enough to walk around starkers in the change rooms too.
Justice. It's a word that's slung around like a sack of potatoes. Verbalised with such verocity that anyone might believe it actually exists. Yesterday the mastermind of the September 11 terrorist attacks, Osama bin Laden, was 'brought to justice'; captured and killed by the United States Government.
Undoubtedly, the atrocities realised by bin Laden that autumn day in 2001 are unforgiveable. He took so much from so many innocent people. He played a hand in making the world colder and harder and less trusting. And he is responsible for so much hatred, not just directed at him or the perpetrators of the attacks, but an entire race of people who have suffered deeply as a consequence.
As a kid, both at home and at school, I remember always being taught that violence isn't the answer; that responding to violence with violence is just perpetuating a problem that can best be solved with words rather than fists. But these rules don't seem to apply when pride and ego is on the line.
Bin Laden's death is symbolic at best. And how many innocents have had to die in the meantime to achieve this little victory? Soldiers and civilians alike. I have no doubt that there is someone waiting in the wings to replace or mimic bin Laden. Someone fuelled by revenge just as millions of Americans were nearly a decade ago.
So is this what closure feels like? Because to me it just feels like we've started another war.
