Existential Anxiety

The existential anxiety of not knowing where I belong, or what I believe about home or really where I’d go if I wasn’t going where ever the fuck it is I’m going… which is seemingly everywhere and no where.
Working on making a plan for the next 5 months that involves driving around America, playing music and meeting new people. I have no idea what else to do with myself and I’m still not totally sure this is what I should be doing.
But, well, I’m already doing it. Booking shows, spending hours and hours on the internet contacting complete strangers, not getting a lot of shows booked. Getting in touch with old contacts and making plans. Writing emails to the ones I hold close that say things like “I miss you too” and “I don’t know when I’ll see you next, but I’m coming to find you”
It’s already been 5 months since I left “home” and I really don’t have any idea what home ¬†actually is? A neurotic space where I can pace and wonder and worry and build my mind up to a million concerns?
At least I know I feel better, in most ways, when I’m in motion. But for some reason, I always have this strong feeling of longing. A deep loneliness that can’t be soothed or pacified. A confusion. A misplaced heart that beats irregularly.

Somethings change, somethings stay the same.

Some people will be missed and some people do the missing.

Where do we go from here?


Dear (Friend),

We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the days where we were curled up in the fetal position, orbiting each other and everyone else like wounded satellites. Too broken to fix anything, too beat to care.
We’d roll around on dirty floors, in dirty jam rooms. Nap on thread bare couches with tears resting in our eyes. We’d walk the cold streets of a city I can’t name in our shredded shoes, our big hearts resting in our throats and trying to strangle us. We’d search, aimlessly trying to figure out how to breath again. How to breath deeply and with meaning.
How to breath through the cigarette smoke and smell of dirty laundry. The dumpstered jokes and food bank treats rotting next to the compost bin. How to breath through the oppressive smell of our sweaty dreams shouted out like threats all over this city. Threats used to cover up the fact that we’re cowards as we roll another smoke, roll another bitter joke over our lips, roll another piece of paper into a ball. Another piece of paper containing a failed letter to another failed friend. Again and again, because practice makes perfect. Ball your fists, balls of paper. One better than the other to throw around, one better than the other to fail at I suppose…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the nights were we spread our arms wide and yelled out at the dark. Our thoughts falling all around us into ideas and dreams as we believed in anything we could wrap our minds around. Our hearts exploding with hopes and desires and caring.
Sometimes I miss the idea that things could be that way again, before you were broken, before you broke trust with me…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Nothing will ever be the same again, and for that I am grateful.

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Please stay strong. (I’m trying to forgive you)

Emo night, no cover.

Sometimes I get hit by a wave of sadness so hard and fast that it feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Taking the wind right out of me and leaving me disoriented and in pain.

There’s so many people I’ve loved over the years, and now I’m sitting here in my room at 2:44 on a Friday morning wondering how so many friendships just faded or went on hiatus.
How so many people can fail each other. How much someone (me) can miss because shit went sour and then went even worse.
I’ve made mention to leaving, to change, to running away.
I was so fucking broken when I left that I didn’t know what else to do. I spent three years drunk as fuck and shit got bad. Sometimes it was better but worse than before. Other times it was just worse.

I came out of those years yet again wondering what the fuck happened. Again destroyed even further with hurt, pain, lies, abuse.
I came out of those years with a fucking drinking problem and a concussion.
Some more scars and chips to put of the list of shit I’ll never, ever fucking let happen again.

What ever friendships I had saved from before those years really struggled to survive them. I lost more friends because I was broken and becoming more broken. I was hurt and becoming more hurt. I was losing myself and for all I fucking cared I was about to drowned in the bottom of a 20 pack of Caribou green and set my self on fire with a pack of Canadian Classics. Preferably every night. Or die trying. Hopefully.

And now I’m sober. I’m trying to give up smoking.

I’m starting to see folks around that I haven’t seen in years. It looks like a lot of people are moving out this way. People I used to be closer to and miss dearly. I’m terrified to open back up again, I’m not sure if anything has actually changed. Some of them still hold parts of me. Some of them I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive. Most of them probably don’t give a fuck about me anyway.

I miss so many people so fucking much, but maybe it’s better off like this?
Maybe some of the bridges need to stay burnt.

Tonight is a night of sadness and loneliness.
Of remembering the ones that are lost to me, but not gone.
Tonight is for missing you and wishing I could erase the hurt.
Wishing you would come and hold my hand like you used to.

Tonight is for mourning parts of myself that are better dead.
For believing in my ability to find strength even in my darkest times.
Tonight is for honouring the feelings I have and respecting that I can miss people who hurt me deeply in the past.
It doesn’t make me a contradiction to have feelings, It makes me human.

Directionless Danger Ranger

A rambling update:

Last week, on the 13th, my kitchen boss texted me:

“It’s all good, we’re fine, everything is fine here.
We have you strictly “on-call” for the rest of december…
it’s fine were fine fine fine every thing is fine it’s all fine”
(not the exact wording)

Effectively cutting my hours and screwing me over for three weeks of work I had budgeted for.
Illegally changing my work scheduling.
Knowledge is power, they say. So, I’m pretty powerful, I guess?
Because I know that it’s illegal to switch me from a “scheduled” worker to “on-call” with out a weeks notice, minimum. He technically owes me a weeks pay. There’s more technical shit about it. So, what is knowledge and power if it sits idly in your brain and you don’t brandish it like a weapon?


“Useless information!”
a voice echoes from the back of the room.
The crowded amphitheater in my mind sits silent.
Another voice calls: “Tell us more!”


Really, it’s like when you want to break up with someone, but they break up with you first, and you’re only really heart broken because they cut your lawn about it. (I can’t actually relate to that analogy, other than in the case that my boss broke up with my employment and I was gonna quit… so… uhh…crocodile tears.)

For the most part, I’m insulted. It was really shasty and disrespectful.
His business partner (and wife), who’s front of house manager, told me at the staff party last night how amazing she thinks I am, how she’s really happy she’s gotten to work with me, how much she appreciates me. Will I please come back in the spring?
No, but Thank you Alix. It’s nice to get feedback. Thank you for the respect and appreciation I deserve.

I lit off some fire crackles in the through fare out side the restaurant. Alix tried to give me shit for it, but she was really drunk and started laughing. I couldn’t take her seriously. I wish I had more crackles, but I only had two. Two different people gave me weed, I have a weed collection now. Highlights of the party.

At any rate, I’m done my intense working meditation, it actually started to feel good after a while. I don’t really know what to do with myself, and I know it’ll take a bit of re-adjustment to get back into the wandering life of an unemployed thinker like me.
I’m done my slaving in a kitchen too, fuck kitchens. Fuck kitchens forever.

I’m fricken free.
Semi retired.
Directionless Danger Ranger.

I ran away to Tofino for 5 days, then ran back to get shit done. I don’t feel very rested for a person who just stayed at a resort (fancy shit, yo). Now I’m looking at the rest of December and I’m lost. What should I do? Will I be sad to be without for christmas? or will it not matter? Every year is a gamble.

All these days to fill until I leave again to go east and then back west. Then maybe south? Maybe, i don’t know? Maybe some excitement?

Gotta be home for my birthday though! PDad says he’s making me lasagna, caesar salad and garlic toast.
It’ll be a right fuckin party.

Destructor Destructor

Life is filled with compromise. The cheaper the compromise, the more freedom within the spectrum of capitalism.
I choose to live subversively because it circumvents some of the irrational responsibilities our society tries to teach us are inherent. I’m still scared, I’m still unlearning. I’ll never stop growing.
Time is subjective and, within that subjectivity, it is unlimited. Waiting and learning patience for things I desire tells me that my insides are fighting to believe and understand the subjectivity.
It’s a process. It’s a challange. It’s life daring me to grow.

Things are changing because they are always changing. Momentum is a given in the unruled world of physics and chaos. Sometimes it’s easier to feel that shift inside of myself.

I arc myself to that challange. I accept the dare. I embrace the chaos gingerly and with a respect and fear, so timid.

I sometimes forget I’m in the throes of a world so wrapped in disorder that there is no up to swim for.
I feel the glow of trouble and curiosity. That spark that was seen so very many years ago is a raging inferno inside of me.

Tear this fucking city down.
I wanna feel the ocean breathing.
I wanna feel the salt water flowing through my veins.