Paramore

The early part of the show.

Ah, Paramore. Still my favourite band. Have you heard their latest album? It's self-titled and absolutely fantastic: the lyrics, the voice, the drumming, the guitar riffs. Going to their concert back in May was honestly the best concert experience of my life. And it motivated me to start my own band. I think you can guess the name.

It ended with confetti.

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A caterpillar's tale

I was sitting in Kensington park this afternoon, watching (but not quite staring) at the cute counter-culture girls with tattoos and hippie clothes. Little packs of people with musical instruments and various trinkets were strewn here and there, and the smell of weed wafted in and out through my nostrils.

While not getting high, I was getting more and more in tune with the atmosphere of the people there; clearly these people were regulars to the park and as conversations about their life flowed on and on endlessly around me, I felt connected.

I desperately wanted to join in on some of the fun, but having been rejected far too many times before, I decided I would not risk it and kept to myself, propped up against a tree while eating brazil nuts. But I was not alone.
All around me, the grass shimmered with late spring vitality and if I looked at the greenery just right, I could see individual lifeforms busying themselves with their animal tasks.

The ants were scurrying around, patrolling their territory. The birds were chirping, singing songs of life and liveliness. Dogs barked; cats roamed and I lay down and felt myself melt into the earth.

And then, a most beautiful creature appeared on my arm. A fuzzy little caterpillar was quietly undulating, rising and falling up and down my arm hair. He seemed happy when I looked at him straight in the eyes, as he raised his torso up to greet me.
And I talked to him.

I told him of the loneliness that I felt, even while on campus. I told him how hard I've worked to be the person I've always wanted to be. I told him that I felt happy that girls were finally looking at me when I walked down the street. Smiling, now, seemed so easy. And I got smiles back. And yet,  as I recounted to the caterpillar, I rarely found the occasion to have long, deep conversations with people.

He understood. He listened, but offered no advice. After all, he had his own problems to deal with.

Soon, he would become a butterfly. His metamorphosis was imminent; and once he would be a butterfly, then he could finally fly around and see the world from a different perspective.

And so I asked myself; maybe if I were to undergo some sort of metamorphosis; some sort of change, then maybe I could change the world around me so that I could fit in better.

And as I sit in front of a computer at the biggest library in Toronto, I wonder if my walk home will bring me the reflection I so desperately need to keep on metamorphosing.

And maybe, just maybe, the girl of my dreams will run into me at a corner, and my loneliness will be cured.

Until then, I write.

Pub time

Apparently, fitting in is important.
So anyone wanna go the pub tonight?

I pick the pub though.
And it's gonna have some gluten-free fare.
It better.

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In my world: a musical note

Whew. A lot of my previous posts have been somewhat dark. The good news is that I'm not really a dark person. Not anymore, anyway.

So to lighten things up a bit, I figure I'd share some of my rules. Rule isn't really a good word. Hmm, something like... code? Maybe. A code, yeah.

Anyway, here's one of my music codes. It's a personal code, of course, so don't think that I'm trying to say that everyone should adhere to it; that would be lunacy. Definitely not sunny today.

#1
Only in very rare exceptions should lyrics in pop music ever reference self-grooming.

Want some examples? I've got a couple.

Firstly. Avril Lavigne. Oh yeah, she's pretty great. I'm talking pre-Girlfriend era, of course. Anything after Under My Skin is pretty trash in my books.

So My World is probably my favourite song sung by her. It never fails to make me feel happy: most of the lyrics are quite smart and the actual guitar chords (a lot of majors, I believe) never fail to up my mood.

Ah, but there's a caveat. Check out this bad boy of a lyric:

I never spend less than an hour,Washin' my hair in the shower,It always takes 5 hours to make it straight,So I'll braid it in a zillion braids,Though it may take all friggen day,There's nothin' else better to do anyway.

Oh come on. Luckily, the lyrics return back to the real daydream she sings about... whatever that means.

The rest of the song is fantastic. The whole song is fantastic. And this part doesn't really bother me; I mean, I still sing along to it. It just irks me to have such a mundane section of a song take up six whole lines.

Alright. I'm feeling pretty tired. I should be in bed.

But I need to get just one more lyric off my chest. I'm being punny; you'll see.

I'm so obsessed, my heart is bound to beat right out of my untrimmed chest.

Here's some mad poetry I wrote that explains how I feel about your lyrical genius, Espionage (production team).
If you don't know the song, try and guess.
Spoiler to the right: Hey, Soul Sister - Train

Trimmed or untrimmed, I honestly don't care/
But it seems like you just didn't know what to wear/
Honestly, I think that's pretty gross/
And your boring lyrics have a funny way of making me feel morose

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The allegory of the ship

If you would prefer to listen to this short story as read by me, click here.
Hollowed out and filled up with hate/all we want is you to give us a break!

You were cruising on a mighty fine ship, headed straight for the open sea. You were master and captain and had all you needed to succeed. The first storm breezed by like nothing; after all, you were prepared. You had retouched the sails, polished the deck, whittled the bow to perfection. You had even met a mighty fine wench to guide you through the trip. And for the first time in a very long time, you felt free. For weeks at a time, you breathed the free air like a new man, excited for all the mystery and adventure that lay ahead.

But it was too good to be true. At the second sign of trouble, you were tempted. And you were hoping this wench would back you up, but she was gone somewhere else. You scared her away, and in your own moment of fear you reached out in the wrong direction.
Master and captain of your ship, but not master of your own afflictions, she took over again. Slowly, at first, to deceive you into thinking everything would be all right. So carefully, she crept into your life again, filled with promises of hope and glory.
At first, it seemed like all was well. You had, in your mind, conquered her already, this affliction a thing of the past. And there lay the real danger.

Blissfully, you ignored your own warning signs and plunged right in. Thinking someone else would fish you out if there really was trouble, you left your careful nature behind and played with the tiger's tail for a little too long. For days, you shut yourself up in your cabin, ignoring trouble in your bubble and living with the pleasures of instant gratification.

The question, then, is how you will get out of it now that you've realized your mistake? Oh, you have plenty of fantastical ideas to help you keep a steady course, but they're nothing if they're not in the real world.

Your ship is not sinking; no, it's merely drifting, waiting for its captain to take command once again and to sail on to less dangerous waters. You just wished you weren't so terribly alone on your journey. The wenches come and go, but what you really need is a mate. And in your head, you can only get one if you complete your journey.
But how are you to complete it if you're blind to all the magic that surrounds you?

Pressure

If you would prefer to listen to this short story as read by me, click here. 2024-07 edit: No longer available; I might have the .mp3 somewhere; I might re-record.

They sat side by side on the bed, discussing the everyday happenings of the world. She was pretty with her long auburn hair and glistening brown eyes and he could feel the connection intensifying. He was trying to remember her name. He remembered loving her name the first time he had heard it, but it had since completely slipped his mind.
As they talked, he felt liberated. He hadn't opened up to anyone about his real past in a long time, and there was something about trusting a complete stranger with his own darkest secrets that appealed to his thirst for discovery. But soon enough, she had started talking about her boyfriend and his heart sank. She didn't overdo it, but it was clear where the line lay. He was disappointed, but not frustrated or angry. In fact, he was almost expecting it and it was a bit of a relief to know instead of having to guess.

Still, his teal eyes had lost some of their sheen and he retreated into his shell once more. Perhaps this was a cue to the outside world, for as he was about to launch into the more private details of his life with her, a man with a mohawk approached. He was considerably older than the man sitting on the bed with the girl. He wandered over and sat to the left of the young man, who was now sandwiched between the girl and the mohawk man.

And the mohawk man wasted no time at all. As swift as an eel darting through a pond, he worked his words on her and started recounting to her his travel tales of South America. It worked like a charm. She was immediately drawn into his fantastical world of adventure and ancient Mayan mysteries. And while the young man was interested in the tales, having had dreams of traveling down south himself, he couldn't help but notice the jealousy growing within him.

He managed to suppress every ounce of envy that smouldered at his heart and he expertly put on a silent front as he pretended to be absorbed in the mohawk man's tales. Soon enough, mohawk man started showing the girl his vast collection of travel pictures, and as he explained in perfect detail where the pictures were taken, the younger man further retreated into his own world.
Seeing this pattern in himself, he decided he would do something about it and he slowly edged his index finger to the touch phone screen, which the auburn-haired girl was already touching. And as their fingers brushed against each other, he felt the heat of their touch electrifying his entire body.

But that connection lasted only a second as the mohawk man took back his phone and started talking about his business and money-making schemes. Truthfully, the younger man was quite bored, but he didn't dare leave the bed for fear of losing the girl.

But eventually, he had had enough of this misery and as he slipped off the bed, it was as if no one noticed he was ever there. And as the girl and the mohawk man continued to exchange tales, he wandered into the kitchen to fix himself a much-needed drink.

As the whisky cascaded slowly down his throat, the burning sensation shaking him from his envious torment, a light went on in his head. Her name was Katarina, and he had lost her forever.