A Jeep In Summer

another WWW space I have claimed

Check it out. Man.

A New Short STory

Diamonds And Soot
by Douglas Coupland

People say when you're in love you enter a parallel universe - a republic of two, hypnotic, exclusive, and bubbly, as if you're living inside a punchline that just won't end. But I don't think this is true. Being in love simply makes you feel even more connected to the rest of the species - it makes you belong to the world as fully as birds and animals and flowers. I think that the real *other* universe is the one that erupts when love goes away - when the world crumbles and you're left floating, with nothing to grab on to. And this is the world I'm living in right now. It's a place where the rules are different, where the only
things that make sense are gestures that frighten or confuse people who live in the real world.

For example, this afternoon a squall came in over Vancouver Island, black and gloating like a cartoon warlord's empire. And then an hour later the rains came. I got to thinking of the hot, tarry smell of roads after a shower that follows a drought. So I walked up to the highway, four lanes each way, just before rush hour, and began to walk backwards along its shoulder. If you were driving west, you'd only see the back of my head, dripping wet, and my legs taking me the wrong way. Seeing this, you'd know that I was a soul in trouble, a soul obviously headed in the wrong direction, a soul who lives in this parallel loveless world.

But then the sun came out and I looked off the highway's edge, and there were all of these trees - birch and alder and vine maples - glistening, as though varnished. Because of the drought the colours hadn't changed the way they normally do. The wet leaves looked brittle and transparent, like glassy candies, and they lured me into the woods.

And then I felt wonderful. I felt the way I feel after I'm halfway through my third drink, which is the way I wish all moments in life felt: heightened with the sense that anything could happen at any moment - that the reason being alive is so important is that just when you least expect it, you might receive just what you least expect.

Then the woods felt as if they were made of glass shards. I had this feeling that all these coloured shards ought to be tinkling like wind chimes. And then the world went silent. I had to sit down on a rock. I had this feeling that surely the early pioneers must have had about the beauty of the New World, that the only way to explain it was that there had to have been an eighth day of creation. What else could have generated such an astonishing world?

And sitting down, I got to thinking about how our lives can seem so plotless, which makes us desperate to feel as if we're part of a grander story. And I got to thinking about writers, how they know when they're about to finish a book - the last chapter, the last paragraph, the penultimate sentence, the final sentence, and then the final words, THE END. And I got to thinking that there has to be some sort of psychic compression that happens in a writer's brain when they're about to hit that final wall. Surely all writers must compress something out of themselves that they hadn't expected - a diamond has to be left behind, even a microscopic diamond.

And so I walked back to the highway, got in my car, and drove to the library. I went into the fiction section, got one of those little book carts, and selected a hundred novels at random. Then I photocopied the final two pages of each, stapled them together, took them home, and I read them all.

Did I find any diamonds? I don't know. I did find that the one thing many story endings have in common is that when they end, the narrator is either moving toward or away from light or darkness - literally - carrying candles into dark rooms or running a red light at an intersection.

And so here in my parallel universe I think about you and I think about the light and the darkness that defined us when we lived in the real world - the way you burnt your fingers on the kerosene lamp at the lake two years ago; the way you made me walk shoeless up the coast last year, through the sea foam, full of phosphorescent organisms; the way you always had to duct-tape over the one chink of light that drilled into your eyeballs every morning from up near the curtain rod; and the night we shone flashlights through our fingers, to convince ourselves that we're made of blood.

And so now I live alone in my loveless world, looking for light sources and patches of black, hoping for a signal, wondering whether it will be a spark or a flame or a shadow or a tunnel, all the while feeling utterly unsure of which direction I'll be headed in once that signal arrives.

Borrowed from walrusmagazine.com

oh yeah

It's not like I'm a ho.

This one is for B, J, and S--my dinner partners tonight.

Today, Tonight

I had the most difficult time making the transition from 'details guy in the office' to 'spiritual mentor in the car' tonight. It wasn't until I'd vented a bit and traffic came to a near-halt before the Ridge Cut that I was able to start asking the hard questions.

On the way back to downtown, I pulled out the new Rent soundtrack. I forget to measure my life in midnights and cups of coffee. I think that is what's been wrong with me for months and months. I don't measure up to these ridiculous standards when I start believing that I should be something besides what I am. When I start subscribing to those standards I forget that I am what I am. I forget that that, as Amy Grant sang long ago, all I ever have to be is what God made me. Not that I should be satisfied with what I am...but (to be continued).

It's time to work. I am very grateful that Greyfriar's is so close.

Almost

got my tongue pierced tonight. My housemate K has been thinking about it, so he drank a couple of beers and we headed off to Standard Ink. I filled out the paperwork but then thought, OK, I have something like 5 meetings tomorrow, and if I can't communicate that will just be a disaster.

endeavoring.

I have, of late, been feeling the need to clear out my email inboxes as quickly as possible. The result is that there are only about 9 emails in my home/personal email inbox--there were about 300...ergh. I don't know about work, I'll have to count tomorrow.

This new endeavor means that you probably won't have to wait months to hear from me. If you email me.

No "Real" Blogging

Yes, I recognize that I haven't really written here in a while. I've just felt kind of drained, and that I didn't have much to say. Life, what with being employed again, has been changing and challenging and good and as usual I've been up and down. But I haven't really had anything to pour my heart out about.

About 15 years ago, Covenant's then-Dean of Students and I were walking in the winter, after the leaves had fallen, and he asked me what made the reaching tree limbs so beautiful. "Mike, it's the space between. It's OK for there to be nothing going on."

I'm in a space between. Not exactly C.S. Lewis's wood between the worlds, but I feel kinda emptyish. If you're familiar with my current household situation right now, you know that there's a ton going on--and I don't know how to respond to it. And maybe that has spilled over into the rest of life.

I'm also not certain what my questions are right now. ("What's the question, Neo?") Consequently, the answers are blurry and obscure, maybe like I had never washed the clear plastic shield of my motorcycle helmet and I'm still trying to see through the bug splatters of a cross-country trip. Maybe I'm waiting for something. ("Looks like you're waiting for something, kiddo.")

I think I need a cookie.

I KNOW I need a long motorcycle ride.

fun with google

Mike needs our help.
Mike is in need of a date.
Mike needs Dave's help.
You just provided what Mike needs, which is fish, not facts.
Mike needs to be famous… and fast.
So, Mike needs between 103 and 146 g protein per day.
Mike needs to go back and... uh... continue slacking.
Mike needs a good editing to clear away the clutter and realize his potential.
Mike needs to have an extravagant garage sale that is what he needs to do.
Not that Mike needs any fictionalized intrigue; he has that on his own… in spades.

dntn places to eat

mikeoneintl: lupi's or sticky fingers or what?
peterson dw: lupi fingers
mikeoneintl: uh
mikeoneintl: uh
peterson dw: sticky mac
peterson dw: quidonerra

CD's I brought to work today

INXS Full Moon, Dirty Hearts
comment: rock and roll all night, party every day

Original Soundtrack Album The Preacher's Wife
comment: come to Jesus, "Jesus bless the chirren", I'm goin' to WhitneyLand

Joshua Kadison Painted Desert Serenade
comment: send me picture postcards from LA

Coldplay Live 2003
comment: U2 lite, but still good stuff

Steven Curtis Chapman All About Love
comment: no, I'm not dating anyone

this is how I have felt the last couple of weeks

What would Gollum be like if he had a triple espresso?

"It's Too Late Baby, Now It's Too Late"

Just got home from work. But it was fun. Thanks Dave. You rock. Even though you might feel like a blister in the sun sometimes.

Substitute for Writing

Your Inner Child Is Naughty

Like a child, you tend to discount social rules. It's just too much fun to break the rules! You love trouble - and it seems that trouble loves you. And no matter what, you refuse to grow up!