The Desire to be Unique

            Simply put, human beings strive to be unique. Living vs. Non-living, Organic, Mammal, Homo Sapien Sapien, civilization, religion, society, state, nation, race, ethnicity, level of education, wealth, friends, family, clothes, hair-cuts, and hobbies/interests. No one wants to be ‘ordinary’ we must be unique and special. The only way to be so is public recognition. Awards, medals, diplomas, passports, novels, paintings, buildings, laws, discoveries, etc…

            Why do we want to be unique? Why is it once we are unique we wish to be more unique? I will answer the second question first (so why didn’t I just ask it first?). We do not simply want to be unique in the present but we want to be unique in the future as we become a part of the past. We want to be remembered, read, related to. Now the first question, we want to be unique because we seek to be remembered, we seek to be remembered because we know we are mortal. Those who have embraced atheism will find this much easier than others to understand. Since we have nothing in death, we wish to exist in memory, in history. ‘Leave a trace.’ (Some ‘modern’ men are very witty and seek remembrance through obscurity and anonymity.  Ok now I’m making an irrefutable argument, this can’t be right.)

Women

            The graceful beauties that like magnets draw our eyes and our attention. From a mother to a lover, men have diverse and at times equally affective relations to women. Like a snowman before the sun, men melt for women. Sometimes, regrettably, to the degree of forceful or direct submission of the women, which no reasonable man could ever defend. The right women can have us do anything for her; a man in love is blind beyond the vision of his lover.

            Enter the feminist movement; a wonderful and wholesome expression of free speech and individual and civil liberties. There is no justification for the ‘glass ceiling,’ differential wages, or any form of systemic or institutional inequality. In no way should women be considered unequal but as it has often been said this does not mean the sexes should be seen as the same. As women ask for greater recognition and public consideration, they are losing a strategic position that men will be more than happy to fill. Centuries ago, men spoke (at least publicly) and made decisions, but in the households, it was the objects of their love that guided their positions. In other words, men were the actors and women were the stage directors whispering the script. By wanting the spot light women have become associated with certain messages (some of which should have been taken up decades ago!) but most importantly they have opened themselves to scrutiny. They are now held responsible for the outcomes of decisions and policies. They can be targeted and blamed. They can be grouped together, these ‘feminists,’ and subjected to biased criticism from the existing power structure. Meanwhile, men take steps back, and hopefully, if they can improve their memories, begin to take on the role of the faceless director. The problem is, this strategic and covert position conflicts strongly with ‘the desire to be unique’ unless we accept the argument in its (shamefully) irrefutable form. 

  Pi 

As he walked by the Macdonald – Herrington Building, on his way to a class on human nature in Burnside Hall, his waking eyes met the rising sun above the Montreal skyline. The sub – human February temperatures stung his nose and ears. He stopped wearing those wool condom-like tops two years ago because of his hair, because of his vanity.

After having nearly spilled his coffee twice and nearly having it spilt two more times he took a sip of the wholesome black richness while the last students filed in and the professor dimmed the lights.

“What is aggression?”

Silence.

“Is self - defense aggression?”

The lecture continued and his mind awoke. To do list: LSAT class, see Supervisor, research for International Economy paper . . . the boring passion of academia.

Four years prior he had walked on campus for the first time, head high, ready to solve the world’s problems, or make a lot of money trying; like everyone else.

For moments, he listened, paralyzed by the advances in cognitive neurosciences that made it possible to settle some questions on human nature (within a paradigm of course). Then, when he could no longer take it in, no longer process, digest, and evaluate the dehydrated passion in the professor’s words, he would drift off to the past. The genetic analysis of language was so obvious to Dr. Chemsy, and so turbulent to this senior pupil.

He left class not knowing what to feel as his own neurons fired sideways. He walked straight and up to the majestic Arts Building, passing by the reproduction of the university founder’s urn. “James McGill that lucky bastard. Should I aim at that type of effigy?” He tripped on the steps, blushed, and smiled as one of the many intellectual beauties of McGill University looked down on him trying to get up. Inside, the hallways rang with silence, peoples’ mouths moved but he couldn’t attribute phrases to speakers. Posters paint the walls advertising some sale, some beer and pizza, some speaker, some candidate, some nothing.

He walked into conference; the room was dry and bright. Unfamiliar students glanced back and forth at each other’s mannerisms, some talking, some trying hard not to be noticed. He sat, as always, with a deep sigh and everyone was quickly made aware that his life was heavy. The Teaching Assistant began, incessantly posing fascinatingly contentious questions as bait for debate. But the room was silent. Somewhere in the city a car alarm went off. Two students sat in the corner. The young man was writing amorous chalk messages to his uncomfortable maiden on the black desktop. Finally, as always, that one girl raises her hand. Five, six times it’s the same one who pierces the silence and comes off as ‘our despicable savior.’ Normally he’s right there with her but he hasn’t done the readings for a while now. Eventually, conference ends.

Walking to the library, the depleted primary resource for this particular educational institution, he overheard a distressed conversation on the tumorous portable shouting machines  “. . . have to send them all Candy Grams. Like, I’m not gonna spend $50 of my own money so they can feel better about themselves. Uhh! They take themselves so seriously!” she paused, glanced at her snow-soaked UGGs, and softly continued  “Anyways, so lets talk about your illness. So vertigo huh?”

“Vertigo? Candy grams? I’ll have to write that one down.” He thought chuckling at her shallowness. In fours years he had felt himself change drastically. What once seemed like a globally optimistic track had now faded to a flickering utopian dream of how the world could be if only. Eight intense semesters of study and work, countless pages flipped, lines underlined, thoughts tickled; all this for a transcript. These pieces of paper were the proof of his fairly concerted work and he knew not where they were to be sent. He had not solved the world’s problems but only discovered their abysmal depth. The moment the summer winds would carry his ‘cap’ with those of his peers he would be in uncharted waters. Until now he had traveled the path most taken and wandered off only on a few occasions, always returning to the maternal guidance of her comforting arms. Now, there was no path. Or if there was it was more of an intersection. He stopped in the road facing the front gates, behind him the Arts Building, to his left the ‘sciences’ buildings, to his right the library. The city to one side, Ivory towers here, Babylonian towers there, and behind it all, Mont Royal, a hill of white elephants. No matter how much of an atheist he had been since adolescence, the cross towering over the city from amidst the mountain’s trees always drew his eye and stroked his hope.

At the library, the factory was in full force. Students sighing their ways through the large corridors, hands filled with musty unread books. He walked into the computer area, 63 computers, 68 students, 5 waiting in line. The screens brightly reflecting the thoughts of their ancestors- they studied full of a hope they would excite upon the discovery of someone else’s thoughts. “Wow, I can’t believe someone said this. I should talk about this. It’s amazing.”  As he strolled by the new ‘comfortable lounge’ seating area, students slept over their stimulation. Actually, that’s why he was there, to take a nap surrounded by a breadth of knowledge he could never hope to integrate nor conceive of.

The world’s most fortunate complained of life’s banal difficulties while a person, a world, was dying. He did it all the time too. No matter how much he heard of others hardships, no matter how much he wanted to change things or at least help; he could not help but disappointedly catch himself mirthless over the most insignificant speed bumps.

The Indiana Jones theme-song rang in his pocket. It was Zach. What a spontaneous friendship that was. What a significant friendship it had become. “I think we see a lot of ourselves in each other which is why our mutual praise often becomes self aggrandizing boasts. He’s a man of integrity, I wish more people had integrity; it makes life so much easier.”

            “Did you read the Trib?”

            “I told you Zach I only read the student press during your campaign.”

            “Ok, stick to your pink Financial Times.” He condescendingly joked.

            “It’s salmon. So what’s up?”

            “Ahh, I was walking and wanted to kill some time, got to run. Take care my friend.”

“Ok but…” click.

He couldn’t sleep and began to finger through one of the University’s many low readership publications. The story was by a freshly elected executive in some prominent student-government group. The two pages in the first person were an adolescent laundry list of sexual promiscuity in hopes of overcoming some fundamental insecurities; all painted in the popular overtones of “cum” “fuck and “suck.”

“A failure of democracy or a simple lack of class?”

He walked out of the library and back towards the Ghetto. The setting sun shone through the cross on Mont Royal and its fleeting orange spread across the sky only to fade progressively into a deep blue. He drifted though the mass of students, each with a determined destination. One he knew from first year, one he always wanted to know, one he didn’t know but felt bad for, and quite a few he had always wished to be; all silently speaking in a sea of knowledge.

            His perception of his parent’s expectations fueled his ambitions. No matter how much he gave; it had yet to be enough. He wanted it to be enough, knowing much more was to come. The perceived efforts of the future constrained his ambitions. His ambitions constrained his decisions. He was like all the others, in search of inspiration, seeing things how he pleased, walking into the night.

            The best days of our lives…

(a preview from the next issue of STEPS)

                                                          Raspberry Fingers

He glanced in the mirror, his cataracts made life hazy. He popped the yellow, bright blue, and brown pills in his mouth and drank some water. Like every other morning since who knows when, he took his time to shave perfectly. Though he could not see well, he would run his coarse hands across his face and shave until it no longer felt grainy. He sat with an easing grunt, to take a break to breath and struggled to stand again, pushing off of the nearby window ledge. As he fastened the dentures to his gums, he sighed. Out of habit, he brushed them slowly, and softly – the accuracy of his movements having faded long ago. He snorted in content as he remembered his wife waking him that morning saying, “I had a restful sleep.” Never in sixty-two years of wedlock had she expressed such repose; he was happy.

            CRASH!

He dropped his toothbrush and walked to the stairs. His hearing aides rang of silence as he ventured down. He stumbled down the final stairs and saw blood pooling from the kitchen door. He had seen this before; just eight months ago he was vomiting blood in that very spot prior to losing consciousness. When he reached the kitchen door, his life stopped.

There she was, her white hair stained red, lying on the floor, eyes closed, and two shattered plates at her side. He whimpered aloud as the adrenalin hit. After two failed attempts at dragging her into the bedroom, he successfully placed her on the bed. “Je t’aime,” he said stroking her hand.

“Emergency?” He waited for the ambulance, he kissed her beautiful lips. The feeling was the same as when they met at the church choir in the dawn of their twenties.

~~~~~~~~

“Je me souviens quand …” his paper soaked in the black ink as tears rode down his cheeks. He had a window seat, he hated the window seat; he liked the aisle. His leaky nose became an unbearable dripping faucet when he finally pulled out his last, his only, tissue. He had forgotten the rest in Montréal. The girl in the middle was stuck between a hairy, smelly, bald man nearly resting his sleeping head on her shoulder and this odd young man struggling to get the most of out his dampened tissue, writing a letter and crying for his mother.

~~~~~~~~

At the hospital, he was in her room complaining to the nurse about the € 5 phone installation charge when she first opened her eyes. “Chéri, you’ve come to take me home?” He smiled, walked over and brought her soft wrinkled hand to his lips; the inspiration of eighty-six years of experience revived him. They kissed goodnight, and he promised to return in the morning, imploring her to rest. “Je t’aime, sleep well.”

~~~~~~~~

Four sleepless hours later the plane had traversed the Atlantic and landed in Paris when his second wind kicked in to carry him through this day’s sixteenth hour at the ring of 9:00 a.m. Pale, tired, emotionless, he made his way to her apartment. An hour later, she was opening the door, half dressed, on the phone with her father, upset. The coffee and pain au chocolat drove a surge of glucose and caffeine through his body that made his heart race. “Half alive, better than before.”

~~~~~~~~

He walked, exhausted, into his dark empty house. It was 7:00 p.m. and he had nothing to eat. So tired, so scared, so worried. He called her and said he was home safe, “Dors Bien, Gros Bisous.” He sat dolorously in her reading chair, next to his, and closed his eyes. After a piece of cheese and glass of wine he was quickly reminded of the bitter reality of medication. “You can live without taste, you can’t taste without life. It’s just a side-effect.” Side-effect? What’s life without taste? Poor sight, poor hearing and poor memory. What’s life without her? He sighed and shook away the thought; fearing someone might overhear. At 8:30, he had just finished cleaning the blood stained floor and was getting ready for bed when the phone rang. He stopped, froze.

~~~~~~~~

Hours later they were on a train to Angers. He was exhausted. Everything slipped by like a glossy dream. The permanence of what happened had yet to settle in him. Twenty hours since his last slumber, he was sleeplessly debilitated. She had let him ‘take’ (read: he took) the window seat to rest his head. It did not help, he felt his heart beating loudly, his eyes stung and head throbbed; the reflection of dried tears could still be seen in his glasses.

~~~~~~~~

“Sir, I am very sorry but your wife is deceased.” He opened his mouth repeatedly but nothing. Tears welled in his eyes. “Sir, are you ok?”

“H, h, how? Wh When? Why?”

“Sir I’m terribly sorry, we did everything we could.”

Sigh of incomprehensive dejection, “I’m coming.”

~~~~~~~~

He awoke to her sweet voice, as she drew the blinds slowly. Grey rainy dawn. For a moment he was lost, happy, and then he remembered. He rose from breakfast, leaving the plate as clean as when he found it, the bowl bone dry, and the bread untouched. He walked to the garden and talked aloud to himself as he paced along the rows of dead raspberry bushes. Her disconsolate voice called him. He noticed the tired sadness in her pale gaze. He was not alone.

~~~~~~~~

He sat, hunched, rubbing his hands together as the car made its way to the hospital. Should he have told the family before leaving? As he walked down the fluorescent corridor, everything seemed quiet. He shambled to her room wrenching his cap between his hands. His trembling hand pushed to door slowly to reveal her, beautiful, sleeping. A sigh, then the immediate realization. His eyes glazed with tears, his breath drew short. The warm touch of her hand was torture. He had to kiss her one more time. He slid to his knees in tears recalling how she looked singing in the choir when they met. The way she was still afraid of the dark. Her whispering “gros bisous” every night before bed. The children they had. Her obsessive caring for him. How he loved her. Life without her? Incogitable. 

~~~~~~~~

He listened to his predecessors preach, feeling uncomfortable, sad, confused, distant. He dammed the tears and tried to concentrate, it would soon be his turn to take her to the front.

Sitting in the front pew, he could not cry for he could not understand. Everyone was there for her, for him. He couldn’t hear the prayers and hymns clearly but he rose, prayed, sat, prayed, kneeled, and prayed with melancholy reflexiveness. All the years of doubtless faith brought no salvation now. She was no longer with him; it didn’t matter where she went. He rubbed his hands in disbelief, there was no explanation, no meaning. He straightened slightly while adopting a sad but prideful smirk as his grandchildren took to the podium.

As his stellar granddaughter placed her affectionate arm around his grandson, the young man’s voice read, “Je me souviens quand…” 

Pour Mami,                                     

A piece from this same time last year. The writing isnt so hot but I doubt I ever revised it.

Circles and Secrets

On the subject of interpersonal relationships, life never gets boring. We constantly, or at least we should constantly to some degree, interact with people. When you know someone’s name, it’s an acquaintance. When you know their phone number from memory, it’s a friend.

            Ahh the glories of friendships: laughs, objectivity, relaxation, and most of all trust. Depending on the person, trust develops at various rates but it nonetheless grows. Its almost as if one person embarks on the road of trust by saying something a little personal, the other will then top that slightly. So on and so forth until the two reach the pinnacle of the interpersonal honesty. Honesty between friends, honesty with others, honesty with one’s self.

            Ohh but there is a slight catch, if you’re lucky enough to have more than one friend, chances are so will they. And in life’s complexities your lists of friends will seldom be identical, especially in degree. And so person A and person B are friends, they trust each other and chat. Person A is also very close to person C; they both kind of know person D. Person B is inseparable from person F who is D’s little brother. Person D also vaguely knows person E who has spent many evenings with person A.

            We Begin

-         B has an experience with Q who is F’s Ex____friend.

(note: Q lives with E)

-         E tells A

-         A asks B

-         B confirms and stresses secrecy because of Q’s past with F and F and B’s good friendship

-         A wants to keep this secret and so only tells his closest confidant C

-         Due to C’s degree of separation from B, F, and Q this ‘high’ level of secrecy has been greatly diluted as the adjectives, adverbs and exaggerations have made the telling of the story to D much more fun.

-         D tells F while getting called by E who has been talking about it with A. They want to know what’s going on.

-         F confronts B

GAME OVER as friendships bicker, perpetuating the cyclical nature of trust and secrecy ad infinitum.

            But wait! All this sounds bad. Why have friends? Well I like friends.

But why tell them anything, well about anyone else at least? Just cut out all the ‘he said’ ‘she said’. . . sounds easy enough!

            If these are your thoughts then you’ve been had by your own nature. Cut out the bits of information and what else do you have left to talk about? Many things I suppose. . . Nietzsche? Capitalism? War? Bush? Classes? Okay. Minutes later you’ll realize that sometimes you don’t want to talk about that, sometimes you’re human and you don’t want to think. Sometimes you get excited by the degree of human rashness which certain unbridled behavior leads to. It sounds gross but hearing that someone “shat” (being the most amazing past-tense of “shit”) on the floor of the Peel Pub, was it stall? Bathroom? Main room? Who knows? who cares? It’s all very gritty stuff.

“He did this with her but she likes him and she just came out of the closet.”                                                                         WOW!

            So who would want to stop it? Why? Its great, its human, its interesting. The problem is that a secret is no longer a secret if more than one persons knows. But life isn’t about secrets its about honesty and truth. Sometimes the reason we get upset about people finding out things about us is because it’s the truth, it speaks to who we are and we don’t like that side of ourselves. Strangers shouldn’t be talking about my vices, and excesses. But they will and I shall return the favor because WE ARE PEOPLE. We need to assume more responsibility for our actions. Regardless of where we go or what we do; our past is with us. Even if one severs all ties in exchange for new ones somewhere else. The problem is that he still knows his past. Some of it will begin to leak out, slowly at first but then like a breaking dam a repressed past will let flow truths which destroy his ‘new’ ‘peaceful’ village.

            But when it comes down to it, they don’t ‘destroy’ the village, just damage it. The villagers rebuild that which was broken stronger and that which wasn’t is reinforced. The village grows as new experiences spread free. Assume responsibility for your words, actions and thoughts. Be who your past decisions, which always necessarily had to seem like a good idea at some point or another, have made you. Be true to yourself yesterday, today and tomorrow.

People talk and so shall you. Limit harsh, rash words. Let fly compliments and praise. Continue talking. Learn from other’s experiences in relation to your own. By observing the judgments of societies one gains quick insight into laws, governments, and ideologies. In France they don’t care that Mitterand had a mistress and bastard child. In the USA the public roared with pained condescendtion as they heard of President Clinton’s sexual endeavors (come on gentlemen IT IS THE OVAL OFFICE!).

            One of the greatest offenses, which I would never claim to be innocent from, is speaking of others, often pejoratively, so as to better one’s own standing. Insecurity, doubt, scapegoats. There are personal weaknesses to which most, if not all, of us fall prey. No more.

            Let us also try to take men more on their words, and allow the handshake to have binding significance. People are honorable. We are honest (for the most part). To certain degrees we almost always mean well, and yes of course, as with EVERYTHING ELSE, we are fallible. We strive for perfection (at the expense of others?). And yet, how boring would perfection be. Nothing to talk about. Everyone is a perfect social being. Norms are universal. Thoughts uniform. Difference is absent.

No! We need to recognize our imperfections, assume responsibility for them, and at times even cherish their existence. It’s our fiber, our charm, our signature.

            The wise man will always know that he doesn’t know, the honorable man won’t always want to know.

            Peace, Love, and Happiness,

                        Live, Laugh, Smile,

                        Germain Brion

It seems that my first 'post' should be somewhat like losing my virginity. From the looks of things, it'll probably take just as long. I admittedly know nothing about Xanga, websites, html, java or guava but when I saw that my friend actually had someone reading his thoughts, I figured I'd give it a go. "I'll try anything once, twice if you're luck." Knowing me, Ill be lucky if I ever make it to my second post. Right now I am in the middle of Grad School Apps, can't seem to get my Personal Statement (the most backwards philosophical task) right, I have a midterm tomorrow, and the INS wants to see me about my citizenship application which probably won't be approved because I study in Canada. My ex-girlfriend and dear friend 'ended' our friendship yesterday and what seemed like a future lined with gold now resembles more of a brownish 12 year old Chivas color.

 Anyways, enough self-pity, everyone has work to do and there are more important issues I hope to spark with this site. (PERSONAL NOTE: G, if you are reading this and all the subsequent entries are entitled 'what a day!' pull the plug on this forum of no privacy)

Well, I hope I get more things here soon so that no one actually reads that. Welcome to Quid Pro Quo. Please take the time to comment and reflect (disagreement breeds conversation).

- Never stop thinking, never stop questioning -