{ The Plight of Personal Style -> }
This, and other choice words about our over-calculation of quote-unquote personal style in my Life, etc. column at The Genteel. Now, excuse me while I go contemplate hair toners. Kidding.
{ On growing up and growing old -> }
For The Genteel, in which I contemplate getting old and living and stuff while I’m still young. Quarterlife crisis? Fuck you. Plus, more references to Lana Del Rey. I know, I know.
the currency of happiness, pt. 3
Life, etc.: Optimism is (Still) the New Black—>
For The Genteel, my column this week is a continuation of my own, probably self-indulgent (not - I promise) exploration of what happiness means to me/us/you/them. This time, it’s more me looking at the concept of “optimism,” which I guess is like being…optimistic?…that you + me will be happy. I was once told you can’t base your faith upon your sight. I think a lot of this has to do with that.
{ I saw Joan Didion + wondered about my own privilege -> }
The Genteel. So, I saw Joan Didion read from her newest, Blue Nights, on Tuesday evening. It also happened to be the week I was thinking/writing about the idea of “privilege.” I mean, when Slate ran this piece on Didion’s privilege + her addressing of it, I (sort of) got really fucking annoyed. I’ve been criticized for being so-called privileged (“a Rosedale gay” or some other so-not-even-close-to-the-truth combination of words), which – in its purest, most literal interpretation – means to say that I’m rich and spoiled (and stupid?). And, to some, even delusional. Sigh. But when Didion addresses the question/those critics in Blue Nights, it’s odd? I agree, after my friend Anupa pointed it out, that if one’s not aware of one’s own privilege (which extends beyond rich/poor to include minority/not, gay/straight, male/female + the list goes on), they face becoming out of touch with reality, as is often the threat with public decision makers, for example. (Rob Ford, anyone?) But watching Didion read, and even reading the work for yourself, what does anything matter when the words are so beautiful, and you can see the trauma and endless fatigue of what seems like a 100 years war. Just there, sprawled across her face, quietly resting in her eyes, and in her words. The rest will soon disappear into white noise. Here’s a picture of Didion, still making the rounds, doing her thing. Go on with your days.
{ The Marilyn thing. Is enough enough yet? -> }
For my weekly thing at The Genteel. I love the girl, but let’s not mix words, okay?
"At least someone, somewhere outside of this place, is interested in Toronto…"
—
Me, in The Genteel. It’s a start. But we’re actually turning out great talent.
friends forever?
“Is adulthood the fork in the road for childhood friends who feel like they’ve morphed into The Odd Couple?” »
My latest for The Genteel. About best friends, and friends who change, and friends who want nothing more than to make it work. Sometimes, it’s not about thinking or believing you’ve made strides. Instead, it’s about showing yourself that you have. And that, as it turns out, happens one day at a time.
love letters from strangers
“Met you today under less than ideal circumstances, and there’s really nothing I can say that will let you know who you are or who I am……just because.
When I saw you, that exact moment, is lost to me, because I didn’t fall in love or crush or whatever with you for a little while. There was no thunder, there were tiny sparks from an exploding pinecone in a comfy fire, landing on my cheeks and eyelids, making me shy with blushing and brushing to escape the tiny singes.
You’re beautiful - there’s something about your features that came together for me under the harsh fluorescent lights, and just……made me clumsy, and ashamed, and awe-struck, and excited, and happy - because now I know there’s a man like you out there.
For today, and tonight, and tomorrow, I’m going to ghost you on Facebook like a complete creep, and think about impossible ways I could say hello, start a conversation, try and grab a tiny spark before it singes my cheek and try to light something in your heart, but it won’t happen. I want you to know that you’re special, and sweet, and for all of my bitchiness and jaded Torontofagseenitall attitude, I wanted to hold your hand in spite of its flaws, and hoped that you could look beyond mine. “
I read Craigslist Missed Connections like it’s hard news. Most of it is bullshit, and annoyingly vague, but sometimes - sometimes - you come across something so vulnerable, and so real, that your heart skips a beat and you find meaningless faith in men you don’t even know. Who is this guy? Who is he talking to? Why can’t it work? Who knows. But the thought is beautiful. The idea is lovely. The emotions are raw. See the post here, but by the time you click, it will probably be long gone, just like this moment.
a stranger asked me a question about love
On Formspring. “And sure, you can “be in” love just like you can “be in” a pool; it’s a mass that can drown you, and give you that heart-aching fear for life and breath the moment it’s happening. It can drown out your thoughts and consciousness of the surrounding. But then you can get out. Sometimes with or without help. Before its too late. Or you can keep swimming. Or you can choose never to get into the pool at all. But that would be like never feeling sunlight on your face. And who wants that?”
ghosts, again
So, do you believe in ghosts? he asked me as I lay across the floor, organizing things. I’m not sure, I looked up at him. Have you ever seen one?
No. But they’re real. I believe it.
A few days later, I asked him about love. If it was possible to be in love with someone you’ve never met, or known, or to just fall out of love with someone you’ve spent entire lifetimes with.
I’m not sure, he said. I’ve never been fortunate enough to experience that. Or it. But I know it’s there, I believe in it.
Like ghosts?
I guess, he said.
I knew.
"The only thing more elusive than the search for love is the search for happiness."
— When the chance came to contribute to the new Aggregation Magazine, an online collection of stories based on a collection of links, I knew exactly what I wanted to write about: the allure of happiness. We’re flooded on a daily basis of what happiness should look like; what it should mean, how it should feel. But where does the self come into play? How does one define it? I’m not sure I’ve answered any of these questions, but I hope these links bring you one step closer to doing so.
Others links that didn’t make my cut in the piece (too recent and you’ve probably already heard about because the media obsessed over it for about a week), but are worth a look nonetheless:
Looking for happiness? Try Bhutan. Boston Globe.
The world’s happiest countries. Forbes.
Others links that didn’t make my cut in the piece (too recent and you’ve probably already heard about because the media obsessed over it for about a week), but are worth a look nonetheless:
Looking for happiness? Try Bhutan. Boston Globe.
The world’s happiest countries. Forbes.
