Subsequently

Something like faith.

Name:
Location: Kingston, Ontario, Canada

With all the issues under the sun.

Friday, July 16

Today has been a strange day in Canada and the rest of the world.  Canada has been put fourth on the UN's new list, Martha Stewart has been sentenced to five months in jail, five months house arrest (or something like it) and two years probation.  80 (or more) children died in a school fire in India, and I, Robot is getting mixed reviews.  Whoopi Goldberg has been dropped from the Slim-Fast campaign because of her rude remarks at a Kerry fundraiser last week (it's been speculated that this is because of consumer complaints, as the man in charge of slim-fast is democrat himself, and given lots of money to the party.), and in the item that I wanted to open first (but tortured myself by reading everything ELSE), Michael Moore has broken a Canadian law.
I was a little skeptical at the title.  I thought "oh yeah?  What'd he do? Speed on the 401?"  Then I learned something about Canadian law that I didn't know before.  In order to try to sway canadian votes, you have to be a Canadian.  Technicality, I thought.  As much as I didn't like the fact that he made a statement with nothing supporting it and no reasoning behind it I still figured "well, whatever.  What's done is done."  And now, today, I find that there are people (university students from Ontario)  trying to get elections Canada to charge the filmmaker.  Um, okay.  I doubt that elections Canada would, or that any charges made would actually stick, or that there would be any sort of serious penalty, but kudos for trying!  The story gets weirder.
The mayor of Sarnia, Ontario has stated that he will try to make Michael Moore into an honourary Canadian citizen, to "shelter" him from the charges.  Now that annoyed me.  I'm fairly certain that nothing will happen to him -- with the fact that like, every major store chain in the world sells his stuff I think he can afford some decent lawyers.  And why should he not have to defend himself?  He did break a law, even if it was an obscure one.  What on earth has Michael Moore done for Canada that warrants us sheltering him from anything?  We even produced Bowling For Columbine.  Bah.  It's not like he'd make movies about us (please, we're little potatoes), but it would send the wrong message.   Michael Moore is a big guy.  He can take care of himself.  
And in a world where Martha Stewart gets convicted?  Anything is possible.

Wednesday, July 14

They stand up on stage, practising their religion by waving their arms and singing melody -- neither one willing to submit to the other and sing harmony. They close their eyes and crane their necks so their heads are raised, standing in some sort of mock supplication to their God. They want, they want, they want…and I wonder who this God they worship is, because I doubt he's the same one I sing to (though he could be: I really don't know…), and does he REALLY care? Does he look past the thoughts of image and sound and appearance that I know fill their minds as they wail?

Maybe it's because I have so little of "God" in me that I can't love them. That I can't forgive them. She looks at me and says something about family in the Lord and I want to hit her. Family, they say, but they don't mean me. No, the church doesn't want people like me. People who are going through times of sincere questioning. They say 'belong', but they don't mean it. They say all are welcome, but they don't mean it. Sure, all from the outside are welcome. But a fallen one of their own? They use the pirates code: "he who falls behind gets left behind". Or they shoot the lame horse.

If I leave I know what will happen. They'll tsk tsk tsk and ask what went wrong? If word of my actions got out they would be appalled and blame it all on my parents. Or they'd say something about a rotten apple in every barrel, which is fine except I'd rather not be the rotten one: I have a sneaking suspicion it's the barrel that needs to be thrown out. Everything halfway decent I've done will become illegitimate. They'll pray for me for awhile, and then forget. Memories fade: especially bad ones.

I didn't take communion on Sunday. I find it more offensive to desecrate the Lords table like that than fake it.
Plus if I did…that would make me one of them.

And yet I will still sit in church on Sunday, watching them close their eyes and sing their melodies and (sometimes) harmonies and think about the way they look, all the while hitting a glass ceiling in their faith.

Monday, July 12

Today
I got to go home an hour early. Only to take sick little canary named Peter to the vet, walked a spoiled yet well-loved mutt named Domino, have a scaldingly hot shower, read a moderly good book (A Song for Arbonne, definitely not his best. Still good, though.) and talk to a short, drastically blonded Italian who is undoubtably tired and stressed out. And life couldn't BE any better (please note the blatant LIE in that statement.)
The pets i like. At this stage in my PMS I'm feeling deeply affectionate feelings to everything living yet non-human and non-insect. Reptilian is also a little iffy. But it's hard NOT to love a grumpy bird who puffs up into a little ball of feathers and a dog who waits outside my bedroom door in the AM for me to get up. (I was in a serious car crash. Go here for a detailed account. I'm leaving it alone otherwise.

Thoughts
When the female baboon wishes to mate, it parades around with it's brightly coloured ass on display. When the female teenager "wishes" to mate, she covers her ass in the most disgussting fabric known to mankind, pulls it five inches into her butt and proceeds to parade around, looking for a taker. Of course, when the first sub-standard male arrives, she promptly decides that he is perfect and idolizes him, thus marking her arrival into teenager-hood.

I myself have fallen victim to this: willing myself to see love and eternal perfection in the eyes of a man so low down on the scale I should have scoured the local pond for algae instead of date him. At least the algae would have paid attention and not been so piggish. And it wouldn't pretend to be intelligent, either. But the first "man" I "loved" (both used in the loose, teenager way) marked the beginning of a long line of men who, even though they were terrible for me, I craved. The first I stumbled into: innocent, open and optimistic. He took me (in the emotional sense), closed me off and made me believe I was somehow worth less than he was. After that I played the teenager: I picked an image and bought into it. I did my very best to make myself into what I thought 'they' wanted. I would be more angsty, more perky, more intellectual. I would wear tight jeans, do the sexy look, the natural look, the tomboy look. I would do my very best to convince them -- and me -- that I was exactly what they wanted.

It never worked. It never does, for me. Some girls were the most expert of players - they could play forever and never drop facade. While i was too "unique" to envy them, on some level I'm sure I did.

It took some amazing friends (four, to be exact), a trip across the world and the love of an incredible man to make me realize I didn't have to play into an image. As Shakespeare once said: "and above all else: to thine own self be true." (Polonius says it in Hamlet, for those of you who care.). But it's not just for myself that I do these things - it's for the people who love me.

I still have places where I slip into the old shows -- people around whom I am a mask of old, discarded habits and hobbies. But I'm working on it. I've come to the opinion that I'm worth more than anything -- just as I am. I wear baggy pants and sneakers because they're comfortable. I wear tight t-shirts because I can and because they look good.

I think a funny thought is that I never would have seen this when I was younger. I'd have defended to the death that everything I was came from a concrete knowledge of who I was. I'd never have let myself see that it was just a series of phases. And now? I'm ready for something more concrete, I think.