Much of life consists of 'talking story.' The only way to make sense of anything is to frame it within a story.

Life is good when we know our particular, individual story. When we have in mind where we have been, where we want to be and why we are doing what we are doing in order to get there. Life is good when the narrative makes sense--when the unexpected events have been appropriated, the characters fallen into place and the plot, and the infinite of subplots, coalesce into a fragile whole which makes sense, if only to us.

When 'you lose the plot', things can get strange. When the story is rearranged, sliced, forgotten or erased--reflection comes in. Who? What? Why? All these questions--these fundamental questions--come to the front.

The key is finding a story which still makes hope possible. Which sees this little plot we have all been thrown into--sees the characters, the hurt, the chaos, the excruciating depths of breathing, the suffering, the accidents, the uncanny cruelness, the bodies--vulnerable, present, open--and keeps hope at the forefront.

The stories which continue to be stories, but are void of hope--these are the stories which sear our history with cruelty and tragedy.

Your shit smells. It does.


My shit smells too. I know.


If both of us remembered this, life would be better.

This is Nishkegaard's picture. He takes amazing photos, look him up on myspace and he might send you some.

And this is what I think:

Nishkegaard, you are a restless wanderer, sad in a way--seeking, grappling, fighting, hurting, wanting for the answers that dwell in your spirit without respite and with the strength of all your being. Yet, you are a hero--stopping at nothing for those answers, even amidst the banal, the mundane, the everyday, and the trash.

No parking. No stopping. No breathing. No thinking. You ignore the seductions of inauthenticity in favor of reflection and stop.

The world goes on behind you, in its rush and its confusion. The alley extends forever into the nothingness. Yet, you sit, still and calm, focused and intense, not a care in the world for the world you have left, the world that has left you here--in the alley, with the trash, with your fear, with your hope.

You are beautiful my brother--an existential hero and a poster child for the postmodern dilemma. You have made Leroy proud.

Alright children, it is that time.

The school year is wearing on. We have been through the first two and a half stages and now the dawn of the third is on the horizon. We have traversed our way through the Autumn--the fashion show that is the first couple of months of the year coupled with the Darwinian struggle for position on the social ladder. We have conquered the melanchology Winter--occupying the cold by solidifying places in the social scheme of things while simultaneously identifying potential mates. Twitterpation is now upon us--Valentines has come and gone, and the once potential mates have either blossomed into hand-holding friends with benefits or dissipated into the bitter cool air. Either way, the excitement of the New, the Shuffle and the Meeting are now staggering into Spring. What then? This is where it all goes down.

First, we are all tired. Whether you are in primary school, secondary school, etc. it doesn't matter--the routine is taking its toll, the mushy lump of neural connections in your head is weary and worst of all--we have to stare at the same people all day everyday. The little quirky things that used to be cute are now unbearable. The charming boy next door or in one of your classes has been revealed as a player who doesn't call people back. The cute girl you had your eye on is really a headcase which you have had to block on every online community to which you belong and has required the changing of e-mail addresses twice. The people you don't get on with are waring on your patience. Yes folks, it is time.

After Easter, it all goes down hill. This is when the beautiful couples of the Twitterpation stage fracture after a storm of cheating, lack of commitment or just plain annoyance. Yes, children, it is time to wake from the collective romanitc beer goggles, get over the 'what was I thinking?' and move on. After Easter, the fisticuffs will take place over issues that aren't worth stitches. Scuffles will take place over nothing, only because it is that time. You will grow weary and you will want to go home.

And then?

Summer. The freedom and promise of summer. Away. Away. Yes.

But, you know the story, 6 weeks in--bored, broke and missing all those wonderful people you used to get to see everyday.

Next Autumn, we'll do it all again.

I can't wait.

I love living,

Keep it real.

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.