365 Attempts (At Life)- The Group Project

by Natalie Karneef

My fellow bloggers have spent the week writing beautiful posts about the experience we’ve shared during this experiment over the last year. Thus, in my final - and the final - 365 Attempts post, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.

I didn’t realize it was a secret. I thought it was common knowledge. But after speaking to several friends, I learned the truth: very few of you know about the easy way to put a duvet cover on a duvet.

I hear more and more tales of people struggling upside down, grunting and swearing, emerging from the duvet cover without success but with a hairdo that could rival Russell Brand's and retreating to the kitchen for a large glass of wine while shouting at their partner to do it their goddamn selves. Not necessary! If you, too, struggle with this, the following instructions will help.

                                                personally, I love this hairdo and also Russell Brand is one of my   heroes, so I mean no offence by that statement

  Turn the duvet cover inside out.

Reach both hands inside the now inside-out duvet cover and take hold each of the far corners, that is to say the corners that belong to the top end of your duvet, with each hand. (At this point I also recommend you climb inside and make ghost noises, but this is not essential for the end result.)

Now grab the corners of the top end of the duvet itself with these same two hands, from inside the inside-out duvet cover.

Perform a swift flourish in which you shake the duvet cover so it inverts itself to be the right way out and falls over most of the duvet.

Deposit the duvet on the bed and pull the remainder of the cover over the remainder of the duvet.

Have a large glass of wine anyway. You deserve it.

You can also use the same method with pillows and pillowcases.

You’re welcome.

  Now, about blogging once a week for the past year.

When I was in my early twenties - as opposed to the very late twenties I’m in now - I spent a summer cleaning houses.

I actually liked the job. There was something soothing about scrubbing a tap until it shined, or vacuuming a carpet until it was fluffy and spotless. But I think the other reason I liked the job is that that was the summer my parents split up, and being in other people’s homes gave me a sense of hope.

I would walk through their living rooms and think about the family who lived here, all crowded around the TV together. I’d look upon their kitchen tables and master bedrooms and imagine them, parents and young children living under one roof, laughing and enjoying each other’s existence. The following year, back at university, I had the good fortune to live in (the rattiest building in) a beautiful old neighbourhood. Every night as I walked home, I would gaze into the big bay windows of the grand, Victorian houses I passed. The cosy living rooms and book-lined walls and big couches, the people sitting down to dinner, smiling as they put steaming platters of food on tables… I was certain these people were fulfilled and completely at peace, and that one day, I would be like that, too.  

I graduated and went traveling. I came back home and fell into the clutches of full-fledged depression. I recovered and left to travel a second time, and broke up a perfect-on-paper relationship with a guy I was by all accounts supposed to marry. Some shitty things happened, and some great things, and I finally came back to follow my dreams and become one of those people. But no matter how hard I tried, it just wouldn’t happen.

My life didn’t feel fulfilled or at peace. Sure, I had moments, but the goal isn’t moments, is it? It’s 100% A-okay. It’s true love and a wedding with lots of mason jars and a design-blog-worthy home interior and perfect children and a mantelpiece full of accolades from your Top 40 Under 40 career.

The fact that I wasn’t measuring up to this never hurt me more than the summer I got married. Tony and I were arguing night and day, and I was goggle-eyed with anxiety because this was supposed to be the happiest time of my life and instead I was terrified and angry and lost and not actually sure if I would make it down the aisle. I barely shared this with anyone, though, because I was sure I wasn’t “supposed” to have these types of feelings. Certainly not before getting married, but really, not ever.

And yet, I shared it on my blog. I guess it had to come out one way or another. I didn't relate the whole shebang, event for event, but just wrote a little bit about how scared I was, and how much pressure I felt to be bridey and happy. And some people said, “Yeah, I felt that way, too.” And each time they did, I felt a little bit less crazy.

I began to share more after that. Every time, I pushed the envelope just a bit more. I’d write a post, click “publish,” and then lie down on the floor and think, “I can’t believe I just admitted that. I’ve ruined my life.” And yet, those posts were the ones that got the most responses. The more I shared, the more people shared back, opening up about their own frustrations and family dramas and personal tragedies, or just saying, “Thanks. I needed that today.” And likewise, whenever I read someone else’s truth, I felt more at peace with my own. The more truth that floated around, the more I recognized that the perfect life I was pushing myself towards didn’t actually exist, and that all of this pushing was making me kind of crazy. And I wasn’t the only one.

That’s why I agreed to do this project. (Or rather, that’s why I strongly hinted to Tanya that she should open 365 up to multiple contributors and let me be one of them.) This world we live in is far too lonely and alienating as it is. I really believe that the more truth we share, the easier it is on all of us. 

So here are my parting words to you, dear 365 reader, aside from – shameless plug – I will still be writing at nataliekarneef.com so please come visit me there anytime:

As much as you can, please tell the truth.

Even if you’re not a blogger, or a writer, or even a talker. Even if the idea of it scares the motherloving pants off you, just try it once, as an experiment. Open up to a friend you don’t know well, but would like to. Share something with a colleague, or a neighbour, or an old friend you haven’t heard from in years, or a good friend you haven’t spoken in months, out of pride or hurt or anger. Reach out and say something from inside your heart. Sing the truth, or dance it, or put it on a cake. That’s what we were put on this earth to do, not to play it cool or pretend we’ve got it all together or keep it all in so as not to trouble anyone. Keeping it all in will kill you. That may be a strong statement, but I believe it with all of my heart.

Tell someone what you’re afraid of, what keeps you up at night, how you really feel about your mother. And then do it again. Hell, tell me! I’d love to know. No one has a squeaky clean life. No one. Okay, maybe a few people, but we won’t talk about them. The rest of us have messy, certifiably insane families, and are laden under the weight of addiction and jealousy, and are rife with indecision and co-dependencies and secrets we’re certain we’d be burned at the stake if people found out. But we wouldn’t. And if someone you tell is still so afraid that they judge you for telling the truth, there are 199 others who will hug you and pour you a cup of tea. I promise.

Stop airbrushing your life. That Instagrammed breakfast looks great, but it’s probably not an accurate representation of your morning. You are far more delicious and unique than the outfit you’re wearing today or the lunches you make your children or what you pin on Pinterest. We care way more about  how you got your stretch marks and scars and cracks, and how you survived them. Because we have them, too. We’re all on this boat together.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading us this year. It was an honour to tell you the truth every Saturday, and to read Tanya’s and Kenneth’s and Carlo’s and Courtney’s and Antz’s and Johnny’s and Nat’s truths throughout the rest of the week. You guys are seriously awesome.

  With love,

by Tanya Sa 

Well, lah dee dah. My LAST blog post for another installment of 365 Attempts (At Life). The experience this time around was completely different. Sharing the ‘word load’ with 7 other (super) talented individuals took a great deal of the pressure off. But it was far more difficult for me than the last run of writing every day for one whole year. The struggle this time was less about writer’s block and more about not really wanting to delve into my personal affairs in a public way anymore. So… I've decided no more blogs for me. I'm very happy to hear that my co-bloggers have found the experience enriching and have used this forum to write through feelings and realizations. I too, have experienced that at different points my first time around. But as I get older, and travel further down the path of my own life, I have realized a greater need for privacy and introspection. This time ahead, the attempt will be to get to know myself for myself. I would like to thank Natalie for conjuring up this group idea when I was toying with another year of daily writing solo. I do feel her gifted writing was the heart of 365 Attempts (At Life) this time around. She weaves words and thoughts together quite unlike anyone I know and all in all is a pretty remarkable person I'm blessed to call a friend. To Johnny, Anthony, N@t, Courtney, Pants/Kenneth and yes, even Carlo for your commitment to this project. Writing homework is not always fun when LIFE is happening to you and around you. But you did it and I commend you. (I'm doing the wave…all by myself, but still doing the wave nonetheless). You turned this blog into a colourful mosaic of personality and heart. I enjoyed the slices of life you offered up. Thank you!!!

By: N@ Lauzon 

Holy annum, Batman!  Heh, I totally wanted to use the word 'annum' because it's a word that sounds AND looks dirty!  ANNUM! ANNUM! ANNUM! Whee! But wow. How quickly a year passes! This is my final weekly post for the 365 Experiment.  Happy to say that aside from one helluva snow storm in which I had no innernets connection, I have posted every Thursday for an entire year.   Goal = accomplished! Starting out, my hope in pursuing this project was that it would keep my writing muscle limber. I used to blog my head off way back in the day - and I figured this would be good upkeep. What happened here turned out to be more for me. I had no idea at the outset of this, that my writing would become more of a catharsis than anything else.  In February, a scant 4 months into this project,  my 9 year relationship ended abruptly.  I know people go through break ups (and worse!) all the time.  My sitch is nuthin' special.  But I have to say, because of this forum, I was able to really push some things out that were very healing for me. It was a level of writing I've never been to before.  And when it resonated with you - it felt like another level, still. A certain kind of support or comradery, even.  When I look at me then versus now - I know I've come far.  Mostly because I'm not crying in random places like the Dollar Store and/or self-soothing with various forms of food and beverage. :)

I'm strong!  Mentally and physically.  I feel focussed.  I wake up grateful.  I try to recognize those awesome moments while I'm in them.  I've got my proverbial 'shit together' and I'm really excited for what comes next. 365 turned out to be 180.  What a year.  I'd like to thank Tanya Sa for asking me to be part of this project and thank my fellow bloggers for offering interesting, heartbreaking, creative and humourous reads over the past year.  I know they've each had similar poignant experiences resulting in pieces they are proud of. Deservedly so. So, what now?  I'll be posting about stupid stuff on Facebook. Continuing my voiceover business. Playin' on the radio machine.  Helping animals.  And most importantly, enjoying this front row seat in the story of my life.  Thank you so much for reading.  

____

What...?

More? 

If you'll indulge me, here are a few more of my favourite personal blogs this year: 

Bedtime Haikus 

Reverie 

Hearing Loss 

Boil Water Advisory 

The End of the World (as written by a cockroach) 

Myography

French Words 

Aftershocked 

-------

[email protected] 

___

By: Johnny Sa

Happy full year Wednesday readers!

  Thank you for opening the little door at the back of your closet and taking a peak inside the mind of Johnny Sa.

  I've had a very difficult year and to tell you the truth I could use a couple more posts to help me get through the rest of it, but hey that's someone else's journey now.

  My overall experience with this blog was very personal. 

Every week I wrote an original piece whether it was journal style / fiction / venting or poetry.

I gazed upon my monitor and re-wrote post after post until I felt I had something in front of me worthy of submitting.

  Yes, there were times where censorship got the better of me and I couldn't cry out to the world the way I liked but for the most part I realized something amazing. My sister told me that you have to write like “everyone else is dead". I disagree. The one thing I learned after a years worth of weekly posts is you have to write for yourself. Find the inner fan and write for them. Make a point and stick to it. Finish that thought and run with it and when you start to chicken out, go a bit further.

  Writing every week gave me a better concept on how time passes, I would finish writing and then wake the next morning only to discover it was my turn again. Routine is not a word you generally associate with Johnny Sa but it became so and it was a positive change. I looked forward to writing. I dreaded the lack of creativity that I had sometimes and would sometimes wake Wednesday mornings 10 minutes before my alarm and think about possible topics. Why?

I'm not a writer, I can try to be, I can pretend to be, I can probably tell you a good story and make you laugh or put my twist on something but a word smith I am not.

  I agreed to do this because my sister Tanya asked me to and I am not nearly as close to my family and siblings as I would like. I agreed and was honored and excited to be part of something that excited my sister. It would be the equivalent of your daughter or son asking you to take part in their hobby fulltime; it’s a straight up honor. When the scope of the exercise came to fruition and the cogs in the machine came to life I widened my eyes in fear and said a quiet "What the fuck now?" to myself.

  Imagine yourself; seriously picture it, writing every Wednesday for a fucking year! Whether you're sick, at work, angry, having sex, breaking up or drunk as hell...you gotta write! Its tough!

  Tracking software told us at one point we had over a thousand unique page views a week! 1000 possible readers a week! That's amazing, incredible and unbelievable to me. I remember one morning I sat in front of my computer for 6 hours writing, yes I took it that serious, 6 hours! How my sister did this everyday for an entire year I do not know. I was blown away and intimidated by my fellow bloggers and to be honest sometimes disappointed by varying commitment levels.

  I saw writing as so many different things. It became a catalyst for change. It became a place to make a statement, a shout to the heavens or an echo-less cry off a cliff. It was a forum for proclamation:

I WANT TO BE GOOD!

I WANT TO SUCCEED!

I WANT TO BE HAPPIER!

I MISS THOSE IVE LOST!

When you speak to your friends you do just that, speak. When you talk to your parents and family you vent or listen. When you write to the unknown masses, you proclaim.

  When you take part in something like this, especially as a group, your words have weight.

And oh how heavy the weight can sometimes be.....

  One negative side effect of writing, which I admittedly should have seen coming, was the open forum debates my posts would have in friend and family settings. I would enter a room and hear things quoted back to me. Friends would tease me with my most personal of lines and finally I would get chastised by those closest to me about revealing too much. My in person debates would be easily nullified with "So what are you gonna blog about this now?" and to top it all off I even had a business meeting completely turned on its head by someone commenting on my relationship problems which they found on my blog.

  How did I deal with this? I didn't!

  I would listen and disarm.  Usually later via various messaging services I would respond as "the writer". The voice I used was that of a vessel for “in the moment expression”. If I did anything other than what was alive in me at that exact moment then I lied. And what worth holds the words of a liar?

  What's next?

  My last post is being done in tandem with the finishing touches of my short film, which will hopefully be in a short film festival near you soon. My teaching career is new and exciting, I am a Fine Arts Focus Specialist at Heritage High School on the south shore. I love my students and I could not have asked for a better job in the entire world. I wake up happy, excited and afraid each day.

  This is my 365 Attempts at teaching!

  As for my personal/social/family/business life well you'll have to stay tuned. My exploits will be documented on my new upcoming blog:

  How to not make it to America.

This blog will cover the frustrations of any artist trying to make a living off their craft. I will continue, in pen name, my journey as an actor but will also attempt other huge artistic goals, which in truth I have no interest in. “To better gauge the luck factor in our field.”

  Goals and link to blog coming soon!

    Finally I would like to thank you.

  You!

  Thanks for taking a few minutes out of your day and making me feel less alone.

  You took my words and made them your thoughts and held me in your mind, even if it was for a minute, thank you! I love you for it.

  You made me feel important and you gave me something to look forward to in times when I really really needed something to distract me.

  So seriously, thank you, you fucking awesome person you!

  For being someone who took a chance on a random actor from french-canada and read his thoughts aloud.

Goodnight but not Goodbye ;)

  Bows.

  Spot light dims.

by: Anthony Imperioli

Wow. Are we really here? My final post on this blog. I'm at a loss for words. And let's talk about words for a second; because they've been the subject of many of my posts as well as being entirely made up of them. Words. Words are the spells we use to conduct the world; words can destroy and elevate. I fell in love with words, and digging into them. At the base of words are what they're trying to convey. And the funny thing about words is that they point to the very things that you can't use words to express. Words are the songs of experiences. Deep within words is the truth they're meant to represent. The words we use today are evolved words; they're the 'LOLs' and 'LMFAOs' of another time and place. When we peel back the layers of the evolution of communication we lay bare the true meanings of words. We see what words were originally meant to convey. Now our words convey a conveyance and as we evolve these words will be words conveyed by new words. So as this comes to an end, I'll leave you with the word origin for the word 'word' (searching for this was a Google adventure!) 'Word' used to, and in some ways still does, mean 'promise' And so here I am, with all my words, all my promises, and you. Thank you for listening to my 'promises' and if I were to leave you with one thing, it's this: be mindful of your words, take yourself with a grain of salt, take others with a grain of salt, but learn to listen to both. Everyone is always revealing the truth they seek; and when you can hear the truth in other people's words, you'll hear it in yourself.

With much love and respect to all the readers and my fellow bloggers, Anthony

by Courtney Wing

Hello and Goodbye,

It has been a fine year writing to all of you who have spared valuable moments of your social media minutes to read bits and pieces of my thoughts. Thank you for taking the time, I hope some of it pinched you in the heart and bum bum. 

With this final submission of words, I feel as though I should be feeling like I'm leading a marching band to a finish line with a victory song in tow, one in which perseverance and dedication are represented by rolling snares and thundering bass drums, the many moods between melancholy and righteousness expressed with lilting violins and swelling trumpets, and an epic roaring cadence with every instrument that ever existed finessed with a couple of toot toots on a sterling silver whistle to conclude the victorious finish line crossing. Oh how it would be marvelous to feel such triumphant revelry, but I don't really. Instead, I feel chill and grateful for the fabulous opportunity to write for the first time. I'm also grateful to fulfill one of the next dreams of my life - to live on a beach under a warm Hawaiian sky with a surf-able wave and hopefully someone special to delve into the depths with.

So long people. Live fully because this is all we got before we fizzle away.

Courtney 

ps.  If any of you would like me to send you the three albums I've made in digital format, please send me a little hello in an email to [email protected] and I would be more than happy to share them with you.

pps. Thank you to Tanya, the founder of 365 Attempts at Life, for inviting me to write for one year. Tanya is a very lovely woman with a golden smile that pretty much beats most smiles. 

by Kenneth Voss

When I went to school one of the cardinal rules for young boys was you never, ever cried. I remember times I wanted to so bad but I willed my little eyes to keep the water in until it was absorbed, because a single tear running down my cheek would’ve been seen as a sign of weakness. I was an emotional boy, most men are (don’t let anyone tell you different). The few times where I couldn’t control the  tears was during fistfights. Then it became at a pure release for the sadness and frustration. It was a clean release.

So that simple rule got so hard wired that by the time I was a teen/young adult, crying became an optional exercise. A movie with a touching scene, brush it off. I couldn’t go out to see a friend, break something. A friend or family member passed….put your head down, say little, and stay at the periphery. Don’t feel. Stay numb. It was what I was supposed to be doing as a man.

Except somewhere along the line it stopped working. The frustration built and built and I was a powder keg. There was intractable anger roiling away below the surface and at times it would bubble out and over the cauldron. Pouting, venting, isolating myself, yelling, bullying. I became a stereotypical young man in crisis. Thank god for releases. Sports, where I could run and compete for hours, leaving that energy and frustration out on the field while not hurting myself, but more importantly not hurting others. Books, where I could submerge for weeks, in imaginary worlds full of ecosystems, chemical reactions, business plans and come up for air only when I wanted to see if others still remembered I was there.

I fooled myself into believing that I could live an entire life like this. That somehow, by avoiding situations where I needed to feel deeply, by not dealing with things that made me uncomfortable, by not letting people get close enough to hurt me, I’d be safe and happy. It worked for a while but when it started to fail, it failed miserably. I had  no self-awareness, no sense of the notion that it was ok to be unhappy and feel sad about it, that you could deal with issues without using anger, that life was going to be full of setbacks, of hurts, and that you couldn’t control and you couldn’t numb them because these setbacks are food for the soul.

At it’s worst I fell to pieces, a depression and then some. In that moment there was a darkness so thick and so severe I gave into it completely. It took time and a lot of work but slowly the veil began to lift. I’d like to take credit for all the big changes in my life but I can’t. What I can take credit for is wanting to change, and seeking the help of professionals. Their challenge was to take a boy who spent his entire life trying to feel numb and to make him feel again. I learned to be in the moment, to be aware of what I’m feeling - even I needed to write it down, of sharing what I’m feeling with somebody else, and allowing myself to feel.

I cry now. I cry a lot. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad, I cry when I hear an emotional song on the radio, I cry when I watch movies, I cry when I read a touching article,  I cry when I go to funerals, I cried watching Undercover Boss last night - deep, heart wrenching, sobbing. To be honest with you, I cried a little as I wrote this. 

I gotta tell you, it feels pretty good. This is the most whole I’ve ever felt. I wish I’d ignored the rest of the flock and cried when I was younger. But we need to do a world of re-educating before we get there. And believe me, we need to get there. Because another thing I learned during therapy was that anger masks sadness; as boys we’re taught, “When you feel sad (want to cry), react with anger.” And we’ve become really good at that. Rape, war, homicide, abuse. Mostly male driven. Or better yet, learn to manage your anger - and we learn to numb it - drugs, alcohol, meds, depression, obesity.

Be honest. What’s the first thing to come out of your mouth the second a kid comes running to you crying? Don’t cry. Stop crying. It should be, ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘do you feel better now?’ or ‘how can I help?’ Seeing our kids cry makes us uncomfortable. It should make us happy.   

I’ve learned to cry and I can honestly say I feel like a real man again. 

So what are you waiting for? Be a Man. Cry.

photo credit: Jimmy C (Jimmy Cochran) 

by Natalie Karneef

"The thing about God is…"

This is an open question my fellow blogger, Johnny, put out into the ether a couple of days ago. I’ve been thinking long and hard about an answer. I don’t want to get political or argumentative, because I actually think the thing about God is to not do that.

I was never super down with God when I was younger. Especially not in the form we are most exposed to in this part of the world: white man in sky with robes and beard, chastising us for being human, and especially for being female. I never felt any kind of other presence in churches, or even in the ashram in India where I thought I might finally find God hanging out, but instead found a lot of frustrated people who were trying to control each other.

But then, things happened.

A few years after my stay in the ashram, I found myself in Athens, in a hostel bunkbed, facing the horrible fact that I had just been raped. I had been to the police and the doctor, ugly and demoralizing experiences I won’t go into now, and I felt more alone than I thought it was possible for a person to feel. In that moment, all I was capable of doing was praying. What with being in Greece, I felt like Hera might be close at hand, so sheepishly, desperately, I prayed to her for help. Within hours I met the girl who would become my dear friend, confidante, travel partner and eventually my roommate and partner in crime.

That’s when I started to wonder about God.

A few weeks later, having temporarily parted ways with my friend, I woke up in the middle of the night on a remote hippie beach island. I opened the tent flap and was greeted with the most mind-blowing lightning show - flashes of light bouncing off the silhouette of the mountains on Crete, a few kilometres away. I looked up and saw stars like I’d never seen before, spattered like jewels, layer behind layer. Sitting there on a sand dune, I felt fully aware of how small I was on this giant rock we all share. I also knew, somehow, that everything was going to be okay.

There have been other brief God cameos since. A tiny church I wandered into by accident, where three women asked me to take their photo in front of the altar. They posed with their arms over each other’s shoulders with such excitement and reverence that, after they left, it struck me, finally, that despite my issues with Christianity, God, at the core, is kindness and love, and I knelt down and wept, out of gratitude.

And most recently, on my last night in north Wales, standing on the porch of the little cottage I’d rented, looking at clouds chase each other across the face of the moon, hearing the sound of the wind rush through the trees. The feeling of awe was too big for me to compute, and that, to me, is the thing about God.

I recently found myself at a chanting session in a nearby meditation centre. I’m still sticky about this kind of thing – chanting, gurus, bowing down before anyone - but as I seem to be having some kind of (early onset!) midlife crises, I’m trying to be open-minded. When I arrived, I was greeted by a man named Michel, who led me through several confusing hallways to the chanting room. I joined a handful of people repeating the same two lines of Sanskrit over and over for an hour and a half, midway through which I felt a thoroughfare get blasted from the base of my spine to my head. After it was over I hid in the bathroom and cried. Are we seeing a theme here?

When I came out, Michel was waiting. He asked how I was doing, and I nodded affirmatively, afraid I was going to start bawling again if I opened my mouth.

“Here,” he said, “it’s full of grace.”

The Oxford dictionary defines grace as the free and unmerited favour of God. I think that’s it: the thing about God is God is there if you need him/her. If you’re looking. If there’s nothing else to hold onto. In a church or a mosque or a field, or even a public bathroom, like this one, which I found last night:

by Tanya Sa 

By: N@ Lauzon

It's almost midnight - but I'M STILL UNDER THE WIRE! 

How shitty would it have been, a mere 2 posts left for me, to have missed a day in the ol' 365 experiment.  Probably not that shitty for you.  But I woulda felt like a supreme dink for at least 10 solid minutes.

We had a big radio party tonight with listeners.   I just got home. 

At the party, someone won a trip to Italy and another person won a car. 

Me? I won the chance to shove a balloon up my shirt and pose with a real life pregnant lady.

Some things you can't put a price tag on, y'all. 

lady.  

By Johnny Sa & Friends

He sits there skipping rocks by the lake without a worry in the world. He sits there catching frogs counting stars and smelling the beautiful marsh and wondering when the next worry will come, for at this moment, there is none. Just the boy, his lake and his rock.

  The boy. Nature and God.

  He slept that night in wonderment and awe for everything created for him and he sleeps the best sleep he’s ever had. He thinks of his father, a hardworking man who brings home so much money but brings home so little time. He thinks of his mother who has age-old knowledge but the times are changing. He thinks of his siblings as the foundations of his choices and directions. They reset his compass.

  He sleeps and dreams of the future: of a woman to share his dreams with, of children to raise and preach to. He will undo the errors of the world in his children’s eyes. He will show them heroes exist and he can do it, because his heart is that big.

A bullfrog croaks and wakes him, he shutters at the cold of the night. He is aware for the first time at how alone and unprotected he is. It is quite a realization; the fear comes over him, the darkness, the infinite. It is enough to chill his bones. The same black canvas where the brush strokes of imagination and wonderment swirled now dance a ballet of horror. 

  He is alone in the dark, the abyss, the blackness.

  He stands looking for stars. They hide under their covers, sleeping under clouds. The boy cries a silent cry, the wetness of his eyes dripping down his hands and falling to his bare feet.

Just then he becomes aware of the massive rock he stands upon.

  The bullfrog croaks again and he smiles.

  He stumbles in the dark searching on his hands and knees. He finds a dull, flat rock. He grabs it and squeezes it tight. In a burst of confidence his wonderment returns.

  He stands, arms extended and waits for the breeze, his mind searches and finds the water. He repositions the rock in his hands and releases it like the first space shuttle.

  Then, he waits.

   And in the quiet of the night the lake came alive.

He heard it, the sound of what could only be described as the world’s greatest rock skip.

  Tap tap splash

  Tap tap splash

  Tap tap tap tap.

  A bird somewhere awoke with a screeching chorus, the crickets came alive with song and the tadpoles below began to create a bass of synchronized swimming.

  The waves, the ripples all in synchronicity creating a lullaby. And the glory that was the perfect stone skip called it’s players as a brilliant opus of fireflies torched the sky.

  They grew vast and covered the lake and brought about the greatest realization in the boy’s life.

  He lay back down on the rock smiling and thought one simple truth:

  We are never alone.

    .................................................

I asked friends and family to complete this sentence:

  The thing about god is .....

  … It’s an imaginary friend for grown ups.

… The thing about god is....he doesn't exist.

… created us all (not just Christians) in his image, thus investing us all with infinite worth.

… Meow!

… He knows what's going to happen next but isn't going to do anything to stop it

… Hasn't been around in a long time. Much has changed.

… He's always listening.

… That mental issues (ie: hearing voices) should be treated, not revered !

… You can't see him.

… Está en todas partes!!!!

…  He's not invited to my Xmas party.

… The thing about God is, don't ask about God. You'll start a fight.

… It comes it many shapes and forms we cannot recognize visually.

… Never around when you need him.

… You question his existence with so much wrong with the world.

... He's -really- bad at his job.

By: Anthony Imperioli

This is my second to last post. To tell you the truth I'm feeling quite sombre. In what has been probably the most eventful year of my life I feel like I still haven't peeled back enough layers. I feel I'm still holding back. I've erased and rewritten this sentence three times now. Maybe I can go into what I've learned over the past year, about myself, about my writing, about the people around me. Maybe I can reveal some truths I've been dying to reveal at the behest of those dear to me. I think inch by inch I slip away into my being and into who or what I am that I seem to forget to hold up fronts and to be a certain way. I have a beard now. And perhaps I've become a little bit too much the about the beard but the beard is just an external manifestation of what's inside... it does what my heart sets to do, simply grow as it was meant to grow, in whatever direction it desires (however I ensure to trim the edges from time to time). There's been so many times I thought I was broken. My inability to function on a normal scale with others, how I sometimes feign interest in certain things to not appear outside the norm, my financial handicaps and disability to hold a regular job or win some sort've regular income. I tend to always be at the cusp of my fears, never really being able to rest, building mounds over the layers of life only to be able to undo them into nothingness whereas I can die to myself a little each time, whereas I can undo the knots to reach that space I already am. And maybe this might sound weird to some of you and it may sound like I'm on some metaphorical new-age shit but I've never felt anything more real in my life. This pulsating vibration through my soul and my being, this aliveness, this being that's unfettered by anything material or earthly. Sure, weirdness creeps in, it's not all running through fields of chest-high grass with grazing horses in the distance. It's simply being here with my self in moments meant only for my experience. And I don't mind those moments. Even in the moments where my body shudders and shakes, where coldness sweeps my being, I'm here; present – alive. But what am I trying to say here? What would I want to tell the world? Why at the end of all this is this desire to save something, anything, to save the world. Yet I speak in such hushed tones and I keep my voice silent. Perhaps cause love and beauty need not yell. Lies need to be loud, lies need words and belief – whereas truth exists with or without beliefs or words.

How many times have I said this, perhaps I'm sometimes trying to hammer this into my own brain than I am onto others. On some days it's as clear as day and I can feel the sun shine through me and on days of cloudy confusion I rest and listen to myself, to others, to what the world around me is telling me. I've become to see things for what they are rather than what I thought they are. This allows me to direct my energy accordingly. I pay little mind to concepts and things that need duality to exist. Like 'issues' that you'd usually read in a newspaper. It's not that I ignore these issues rather I feel directing my energy on either being for or against an 'issue' allows this obscure collective mental construct to exist. So I don't pay mind to it and I can live freely on the outside of that issue. An example would be the charter of values in Quebec which has the province in an uproar. This is the first time I speak on the subject but I am neither for nor against this charter because I can see past symbols and concepts to who a person is and their divinity. It doesn't matter their race, background, or what they wear on their head – when I look into someone's eyes I'm seeing myself in them. I'm seeing the same spark and divinity that I so graciously get to be within them. I am them and they are me. What they wear on the outside on what they do in their life is simply layers of their identity and their upbringing. Just like I've had layers to my upbringing, things I do cause I've been conditioned to do or cause I can't think of any experience OUTSIDE of what I normally do. And who am I to judge to ask someone to change their ways because it might not coincide with what I believe. And to do so, to ask another to change for ME is to ask the WHOLE UNIVERSE to change. Do you know what odds that put you at? You? A speck of nothingness in this vast existence, asking the UNIVERSE to be as you THINK it should be? Those who support the charter of values are at odds against the universe and those who are against the supporters of the charter of values are themselves against the universe too for they're seeking these people to be as THEY are. It's those who want to constantly change others that are in need of the most love for they are the most insecure. So, simply live outside of that. Continue to see people down to their core first. Everything else is simply a layer over that whereas it's simply a display of how a person copes with the big mystery, the big emptiness, the big question, the big nothingness, the big everythingness. We all put on façade and shine our poker faces in an effort to show how we deal with the finality of life but freedom is in dying before death. Freedom is in letting go. Accepting. Living with dysfunction. Transparency. Love. Trust. Seeing the world as it truly is and not wanting to change a damn thing. Participating. Being with yourself every step of the way. Once you've gone inside enough, once you've revolutionized your innards, and see yourself as the spark that experiences this world from the inside out you'll learn others have that spark too and you'll learn that the tools of the mind that try to piece someone together based solely on concepts are futile and outdated. This leads us to where we are now – at the cusp of a grand evolution where we are shedding the skin of loudness coinciding with truth and authority coinciding with fear, a grand evolution whereas in the end, and as foretold, the meek shall truly inherit the earth.

by Courtney Wing

I can’t believe us lot of 7 writers are nearing our three hundred and sixty five day finale. It’s a bit unsettling actually, sort of like when you have one hour to meet a university paper deadline worth a heap of brownie points and you still have two pages to write, or when I am in the final days of making an album full of songs worth a heap of heart, or as though a hundred meter sprint race has unleashed me from the gate and is destined to end in a few seconds, but all I want to do is back pedal and write about everything I wanted to write about and didn’t. How will I continue to flood you with waves of words of introspective non-sensical babble? How will I send signal to your erect social media antennas, how will I contribute to your needy fix for other peoples’ moments. How on earth can I squeeze it all in to a mere two more posts. So many stories to share, so much questionable influence to dole, yet such little time.

Take for example the time I drove into an underground parking lot in Austin, Texas, and saw the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She (wo)manned the ticket booth between the entrance and exit lanes of the multi-tiered parking lot, collecting money from parkers as they departed and dealt tickets and answers to those parking and questioning. I couldn’t believe my eyes when they laid upon that booth, or rather past the glass of the booth, for the booth was nothing more than a rusty dinged up box made of hardy metal stained with grease and time. She was of the light-dark skinned sort with a smile that gleamed gloriously from her pearly white full-lipped mouth. Her thick hair was wrapped in a Bedouin-like scarf and lengthy hoops and a single feather hung from her ears. Symmetry was defined with perfection when it came to the placement and dimensions of everything above and between her jaw line and ears. She had such an exotic look to her that it was hard to place her roots. Naturally, upon exiting the lot do my Texan tasks for the day, I chose to ask her where she was from. ‘Egypt’ she replied as she beamed her beauty into me deeper and deeper. Her smile made me smile and together we played the game of beamy smiles right there at the parking lot entrance/exit. But then I had to leave and wished that I wasn’t leaving with every step towards the light of day that welcomed me from the underground darkness. I was on a work trip and somewhere a clock was ticking and telling us to hustle. Upon reflection into my perfect memory of this beautiful parking attendant, I realized that perhaps the conditions in which I saw her in, the dark concrete underground with the thick smell of soot typical to such an environment, provided for a staunch juxtaposition to the beauty I had witnessed. So maybe she wasn’t the most beautiful woman after all, but rather an attractive woman working in an underground parking lot. There are heaps of other tales I’d like to share with all of you… Like the story of my Chinese family and it’s interconnectedness with opium, prison, half-way houses, gambling, and promiscuity at its finest… Or the time I lived in Israel picking bananas for six months close to the Syrian border fearing for my life that the man who cut the banana bunches from the trees didn’t have to pull out the revolver attached to his hip due to hostile neighbourly relations - the turmoil in Israel at that time was heavy with weekly bus bombings and mosque massacres. Or what about the time I saw Frank Sinatra from atop of my father’s shoulders in a hotel lobby in Beverly Hills. Or how about the time I nearly lost my head while riding a pony. For some reason it decided to run underneath a truck trailer. Or how about the time I nearly drowned in Sandy Beach, Hawaii, or how about that epic sunset surf I had with one of my best friend’s, Matthew, somewhere on the coast of Oregon. Or the love poem I wrote for Christy Wilson in grade 2, and then wrote another in grade 3 for her. Or what about the time I burnt a KOA campsite dock down with my two pals which resulted in a California-wide warrant for our arrest. We paid to have it rebuilt and the warrant was erased. Then there was that time I won the award for ‘The Most Improved’ in grade two and it wasn’t until years later that I realized that it wasn’t actually the best award to get. Then there is the story of the first night I got drunk. It was on Bowen Island, a quaint island just off the coast of Vancouver. Our livers were quenched with home-brew and black label beers and everyone seemed to want to kiss everyone. I even have a vivid memory of my friend Kira, now an emergency doctor, hanging off of my leg, eager for a kiss herself. So many tales to tell, such an inkling of time left to do so though. I sometimes wonder if one day my kids or grand kids will read these stories, or if they will be lost to the digital garbage dump that never ends. Who knows.. time will do it’s thing and will tell us as it will.

I’m off to cook a feast for a couple of buddies now.

So long until soon.

by Kenneth Voss, Esq.

It’s safe to say there’s an inverse relation between the number of Inspirational Quotes making it to your inbox or Facebook feed on any given day and the level of dreariness out there. The shittier things are with society/economy/your life, the more the Inspirational Quotes fly. ‘Determination will get you everywhere’, ‘Hope is a waking dream’, ‘Believe you can and you’re halfway there’. It’s reached such a feverish pitch that what was once a cottage industry is now an industrial complex, with countless websites, hallmark cards, and mountains of merchandise.

I get the appeal, I’m not a stone-cold hearted man. When the moon is just so, you’ve had one of those days and the quote speaks to you, putting a smile on your face, giving you the courage to soldier on, or getting a tear of gratitude out of you - it’s served its purpose. But honestly, how often does that happen? Do 1 out of every 10 quotes have that effect on you, or is it more like 1 in 100?

The problem is, there’s no Standards Council or Uniform Rules governing Inspirational Quotes. A place where a cross-section of our community sits and decides whether a submitted quote merits further consideration, and if the person submitting the quote is made of the right mettle. When Gandhi said something, there was a heft that was earned by a life of struggle, leadership, and transcendence. I have yet to run into a Gandhi in this lifetime. So we’ve resorted to quoting celebrities.

“No girl should ever forget, that she doesn’t need anyone who doesn’t need her,” penned Marilyn Monroe on the back of a napkin between Jacuzzi  breaks at the White House.

“I’m curious about everything. Even subjects that don’t interest me,” says Alex Trebek, during a break from a show where he thinks he knows everything about everything, and you’re an ignoramus. Dude, you’re reading off of cue cards!!!!!

Is it me or are inspirational quotes getting longer? They used to fit into one sentence. Now they’re the size of manifesto’s and written on virtual scrolls. Then we have the quote that will bring you untold fortunes and luck, but only if you annoy 10 of your best friends by forwarding it to them. (some are so vicious that if you don’t forward them a curse is supposed to come down on you. Really people?? REALLY?)

If you’re like me this is how your mind-rack (like an 8-track) starts playing once you see a quote:

Look how together this person’s shit is. They know exactly where they’re going. I have a hard time finding matching socks in the morning. I need to get a better job, join the gym, volunteer at a soup kitchen. No, no….I need to do some good overseas. Maybe an internship for Oxfam eradicating polio - what’s that, it’s just about eradicated - how about the plague? I should fall in love with a foreigner, teach English as a second language, learn how to play the sax, etc., etc….

It just goes on and on. Quotes inspire us for about as long as it takes to eat a Twinky. You want to inspire me? Teach me a mnemonic for memorizing all my pin numbers, give me a recipe for heavenly brownies that fits in a twitter entry, send me a chant with the power to hypnotize my kids to sleep in 30 seconds. I’m already motivated.

Until then, lay off with the senseless blather. Unless, that is, you’ve found a real good one.

Remember, beneath every cynic there lies a romantic, and probably an injured one. 

                                                                                                Glenn Beck

by Natalie Karneef

First you are born, and everyone says it.

Most of them probably don’t mean it. Let’s be honest: you look like a prune crossed with an English bulldog. But the people who made you, and the people who made them, believe it. Plus, you don’t know any better, or care.

You get older. A different word is thrown around. A diminutive word – “cute.” Cute does not stand the test of time. It doesn’t encompass, in the English language, anyway, the whole of a human being. But you take it. You know, dimly, that it means something good. Anyway, you still don’t really care. You plan to grow up and become a Disney princess, or at least a mermaid.

Elementary school. Your arms and legs grow disproportionately to the rest of you. So do your teeth. You get glasses. The people who made you aren’t too concerned about dressing you like everybody else, but you start to notice. Without realizing it, you’re already starting to categorize yourself. In high school, other things start growing, but boobs are not two of them. You don’t fit the mold - you never will. You aren’t a cheerleader, a sporty girl, or the kind of girl who gets a boyfriend in the first week of September. One crushing fall afternoon, you finally accept, sitting on your bed with your yearbook, the real truth about you.

Ugly.

Such an un-feminist moment. You’re embarrassed to admit it, even two decades later. You’d never dream of saying such a thing to your daughter; to any girl that age; to any girl, period. But on that day, you believe it sincerely, earnestly. All four letters of it, branding you for life.

17 comes, then 18. Some brave boy mumbles something, here or there. At 20 you hear a whispered rumor: so-and-so likes your body. You cling to this desperately, like a deflating life raft in shark-infested waters. But no one else concurs, and you decide he was drunk or high. Anyway, by now you are old enough to know the truth.   

21, 23, 27. You get boyfriends, nice ones, who say it until it no longer matters. You get lovers who say it and then turn the other way, leaving you alone on a dance floor, or crying hot tears onto your steering wheel in the bar parking lot. By then you’ve figured out why. You aren’t stupid. You might not have 20/20 vision, but you can still see. 

You meet someone who says it again and again. You marry him, hoping it will stick. It doesn’t. You blame him. You blame your body. You blame your mother. You blame Cosmo. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You make lists of affirmations. You treat yourself to nice face creams, like the magazines say.

                                                              *

36. You’re alone at home. Too lazy and uninspired to get dressed, you’re wearing a towel, but it makes breathing uncomfortable. So, for the most unexciting of reasons, you are topless.

You're trying to meditate, but your mind wanders, and you imagine how you would feel, in this moment, to be under the gaze of Someone Who Matters. You do your usual cringe, feel your usual instinct to cover up. You decide that maybe, if 25 people told you, this would change. Maybe 100 people. Also, if you were thinner, bustier, 22, on the cover of Glamour, in a French/Hollywood film, and the face of Clinique. Maybe.

But probably not. Under the continued watch of the imaginary person, you actually hear yourself apologize.

This is what wakes you up.

You know, in this moment, that 100,000 people could tell you and you’d never believe it. That it’s like the difference between shooting heroin or creating your own serotonin, not that this is a medically accurate analogy. For the first time, you understand that it won’t come from lists of affirmations, or ashtanga yoga, or expensive makeup. It will only come from your heart. And it never has.

For the first time, you stare straight into the face of the fear, the anger, and the sadness of a lifetime spent believing, knowing, breathing unworthiness. Of telling yourself, to your core, that you don’t measure up. You weren’t supposed to believe such things - what would Oprah say?  - so you kind of skipped over them, hiding them under clothes and eyeliner, pretending it didn’t matter.

You get up and get dressed. Oddly, you don’t pay much attention, tonight, to which boots to wear, or the un-flatness of your stomach, or the lines around your eyes. You see how these have always been excuses, and that “solving” them would solve nothing.

You meet a friend for a drink. She's one of the most attractive people you know. You tell her what you’ve been thinking about. She echoes every thought.

by Tanya Sa 

By: N@ Lauzon

Selfishness is believing you get a do-over. 

You don't get a do-over.

You get today. 

You get right now.

-

Do-overs are for somersaults and Algebra tests. 

And life isn't a scorecard or a gold star or a scholarship.

It's decisions.

And consequences.

And acceptance.  

And mindfulness of the intangibles in your care: 

-

time. 

hearts.

trust. 

-

And guess what? It's okay if things don't work out as planned.

In the perpetual design of who we are,  

pain is a teacher significant as joy.

-

Many parts make up the whole

in life's ebb and flow

some bits wash away 

making room for others to bloom

some parts, temporary as a snowflake

rough as sand

soft as a sigh 

rippling

shifting

idling 

drifting into dust 

bursting into color

carving scars and planting gardens 

twisting and turning

through the unfolding narrative of who we are.

-

But ignorance isn't bliss.

Set your mouth and lift your chin 

believing your slate is clean, 

And you'll burn a hole somewhere.

Edges will fray.

And no matter where you are

or what you have 

you'll never feel quite right.

-

Do-overs don't exist.

They are already stained with history. 

Built on shadows and whispers of another time. 

This is life's imperfection.

And imperfection is what creates us, unites us

and ultimately teaches us: 

-

You can never be reduced by anything if you seek its lesson.

-

So, don't do it over.