"We pass the word around; we ponder how the case is put by different people, we read the poetry; we meditate over the literature; we play the music; we change our minds; we reach an understanding. Society evolves this way, not by shouting each other down, but by the unique capacity of unique, individual human beings to comprehend each other." - Lewis Thomas

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

New Job

Okay, although I don't normally write blogs about my day but I want to try something new. I recently start a new job as a 'Youth Service Officer', working for Service Canada. I, essentially, just deal with youth/students (university included) and help them find work in my tiny town. At least that is the official job description.

Well to start some background, I use to work for Starbucks for about 2years, I am rounding up of course. Being a lowly 'barista' and constantly working with the public, as (I am sure) many of you know is an experience like none other. People are interesting creatures.

Now working for Starbucks, I saw my fair share of these interesting people and often wondered where they all came from. People pissed off about their day, people who had no clue what or where they were, people who just plain old had no clue, and some people who were just held a grudge with me because I said "Hi, how are you doing today?"

Now, I don't know about you all and where you are from but my home town of Campbell River houses some of the oddest and most 'interesting' people I have ever seen. Now, Campbell River (CR) is a small town that barely made it to call itself a city. It could be all small towns/cities, but I know for sure CR houses the most facinatingly interesting people.

As I stated above, I use to wonder where all these people had come from when they came to Starbucks. Now working in the public service, I wonder it even more. Our office opens up at 8:30 in the morning (as per most goverment workplaces, I think?).

Well, to start off this morning an astranged hippy walks in carrying nothing but a white slip of paper. Now I solely work with Youth, sadly have limited knowledge on our other services. Still this hippy appeared to be in a rush, as he dropped the paper on my table like desk. Before the paper even hit the desk he was moving out the door, yelling as he did "This is for (Hippy2)".

Needless to say, I had no idea what to do with this appearent white piece of paper. Turns out it was a doctors note. When the receptionist saw this, and/or heard this, she quickly picked up the piece of paper from my desk. Nearly spilling my coffee, with ninja like speed, my 60 something year old receptionist grab the guys shoulder and command he wait a second.

At the time, I was much too in shock to hold back a laugh much less brace myself for the quickness of the my near retired receptionist. I caught the cup coffee in time to hear Hippy Squared from her car (which had been running the entire time, as if she was the get away car during a Bank Robbery) yelling her Social Insurance Number out to her boyfriend (Hippy1) who was repeating it at an equal volume in the doorway.

Already by 9:30am, I was scared, confused, amazed, flustered, histerical, and nearly burned. This day continued on much the same way. The day continued to rise and fall with each client, much like a heart beat monitor. Bleep, Bleep. All that could good through my head "first week down, 3 more months to go."

"The truth about people lies not in the way they present themselves to you, but in the way they don't." - Authors Note 04

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The Cherub and The Sinner

There is a room,
Locked behind a wooden door,
That lies long forgotten.

A nursery and a tomb
Silhouetted by shelves
A child and a skull sit opposite.

The child, born of innocence,
Thousand years of tolerance
Sat upon the dusty shelf.

A single star,
Silently swinging sorrow,
Like a spot light upon a stage.

The skull sits in silence,
Locked eternally with a smirk
The sin of eternity.

In the center,
A world spins like a top,
About to topple over.

The Cherub and the Sinner,
Place bets on the spilling souls,
Like sailors lost at sea.

There exists a single room,
Locked behind a forgotten door,
Where time places no tole
On the wicked
Nor upon the innocence,
She merely watches from above
Like a star singing sorrow.

"In each and every soul which wonders are fair earth there exists a soul of equal eloquence to them self. The issue lies not with their existence but with there location in relation to each other. It is our job not only acknowledge their existence but to find them and prove to ourself and them that they are that destiny." - Authors Note 55


Lately, being the past 2 months, my writing has been suffering from lack of inspiration and anything nothing to write about. Life still ticks away as if I were still able to write. It's a writersblock which masons stop and marvell at. It is like an ailment or illness which shows no sign of slowing down or curing itself anytime soon.

There is a black leather notebook which rests on my bed and torments the mind of a young writer. Every once and a while the pen and I resolve the differences between us and scribble some words in it. I start to wonder if inspiration is like the flame of a candle flickering, but once it has devoured the wick, the flame is no more. It seems to me that the tiny voice of the internal critic finds twice as many faults as their are words.

It is a sad story when a writer loses the elegant music of the squabbling of pen on paper. When the writer realizes the words he chooses are the same as the ones before, and before that. The meanings, the ideology, the criticism he offers to himself mean nothing more to the soul as the gray sky does to the earth below.

I began to wonder if there may exist a cure for this type of writersblock or if it is the punishment for an unconscious crime. It is hard to target the small clog in the clog in the circuts of the brain. Perhaps the coffee I drink every day has finally stopped the part of the brain that ignites when one gathers inspiration.

"Disillusion is a natural stage that follows the holding of an illusion."
- Susan Shaughnessy