Thursday, April 17, 2014

Paper Dreams

This life has ways of vexing, shocking and mystifying us in the hare trigger of a split second.

In the past few winter months, the days have stayed long and dark, but lately, a new feeling is afoot. My old bones creak with anticipation and I settle myself into my sullen blanket fort for a cozy nap.

What have I been doing? Oh I don't know - watching the Sens self destruct and watching my homie Joel Plaskett slay a sold out audience at the NAC in Ottawa while playing with an orchestra. We had whiskey after the show and he talked with my brother about cover bands. Joel is a fine fella. Rest assured.

One thing that has helped propel me through this dastardly season is something very simple and childlike; a paper route.

Every week, I sling a local rag at doorsteps in my neighbourhood for literally penny-piecework. It's fiscally ridiculous, but it provides me with gas money for the month - but more importantly, it gets me outside for a few hours where I'm forced to listen and forced to examine the world around me.

My trusty, beaten up iPhone companion flips between Adam Carolla and Joe Rogan, but between the two of them, I come away learned. I always attain some strange piece of wisdom that I didn't have before.

Beyond that, it's been a nice addition to my fitness regimen (which has become a mainstay in my life). I recognize the glare of growing older, and I have not sunken into a carb-filled haze of self pity. I have taken control of that which I am able to, and I have done something about my surroundings.

It's strange - when I feel weary or unsure of myself, I blog more. When I feel secure, safe and sailing through the seas of this life with vigor and vitality, I don't blog.

Strange how that works.

There are days when I'm infinitesimally close to giving up on Journalism. It's become a garbage racket filled with old boys and old girls who don't want to give up the reigns because they fear for their job security instead of succumbing to the power of the written word.

They are pawns. And I play in their game.

But maybe that's all changing.

Music has always been where my heart is - and I've found some smalltown friends that I can play with. Friends who take me in for who I am, and who are keen to trade harmonies and melodies for hours on end.

So I'm gonna do that.

Fuck everything else.

For now, I grind and churn out paper in the office of my father. But when that is done, I feel that east coast is calling my name. I miss the atlantic. I miss my friends. I guess I just miss me.

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