Four

Several years ago, I went through a phase in which my life seemed to improve through the act of complaining about it, either here, in this journal, or in a conversation with certain friends. This was not an uncommon occurrence, and led me to wonder whether this was a signal to stop complaining, or to do more of it. At first I tended towards the later, however, once I got so heavily into ‘trusting’ and trying to see the positive in everything I kinda stopped. Well, events following my last little rant about my current host nation ay convince me to get back here and let off steam more often…

Two Monday ago, I was pretty glum – the day had not been a good one, and I felt in a rut. I came here – to the library at the University of Guelph – and churned out eleven hundred words that may or may not have some basis in reality and felt better. Then I walked to a music club in order to check out an open stage night, got on stage to play two songs, and, by doing so, met a couple from my home town of South Elmsall. The population there is about three or four thousand. They lived on the street next to mine. They knew my dad. So that was pretty thrilling.

Stuart and Marie, it turns out, have been over here for some twenty-five years. That said, their Yorkshire accents and English ways were still pretty much intact, and it was a real joy to interact with them. I felt like I could be myself in a way I rarely can over here. It was so nice to be able to make jokes, and talk naturally, and reminisce about certain walls or bus shelters and laugh about the odd place we grew up in. It felt very different to the vast majority of my conversations thus far. And there was more…

Stuart had himself a recording studio. Stuart said, come on over, I won’t charge – in fact, I’ll come and pick you up and you can stay the weekend. And so that’s what I did. Now I have a nice CD with five songs on it, and some great memories and thoughts to take away with me. If only I could sing in tune.

Beyond all that, I feel like I got to learn a lot about myself, about who I am, and about where I’m going. See, they’d done so much – made successes of themselves – and had so much get up and go. I feel like I don’t have any. I feel like I’m not really making the most of what I do have and that it’s probably about time I started. I feel like a baby, in this regard.

I’ve started reading a book. It’s one of those self-help type things that I love/hate so much, all about gifted and talented people who don’t really fulfill their potential, for one reason or another. I feel like I’m one of those. I feel like I’ve had it pretty easy, and done some pretty cool things but, when it comes down to it, I’ve never really pushed myself, never really taken on anything that was proper hard, and I’m wondering if I might start paying the price for all this ‘coasting’ if I don’t do something about it. For sure, I’ve got gifts – the writing, the music, and the healing, for example – but I don’t really do anything with them, and seem to consistently move away from what they are calling me to do when the time comes to get serious. I’m starting to wonder what that’s all about. I’m starting to wonder if this charmed and seemingly blessed existence hasn’t made me just a tad lazy, and led me up a dead-end street. Gifted or not, the reality is that I spend my days working in a job I don’t really care about it, filing endless pieces of paper, and earning the princely sum of ten dollars an hour – my lowest wage in over a decade. I know it’s not forever – I know it’s just what needs to be done for now, to pay the rent, to support the life I live, but…I still think there’s something telling about all this. Still, it’s not all bad news.

A week ago I got an email from a place I must have submitted a short story to some time in the last year. They said unfortunately they weren’t going to be publishing my story as they could only choose twenty from three and hundred and fifty, but would be glad to offer some feedback if I so desired. I wrote and said I did, and the next day I got an email saying, whoops, you got the wrong email, your story is in the book and we’ve been trying to track you down, the book is out this week and, where would you like your payment sending? So that was good news! Good, and thrilling news, actually, and, coupled with the meeting with my fellow Elmsall-ites the week before, things seemed to be looking up. Life’s been pretty rosy then – all wonderful on the home front, a nice new co-worker fresh from eighteen months in England with home I can share jokes and kinda be myself without weirding everyone out, and a good feeling inside, nothing much to complain about (which isn’t necessarily a good thing). I feel hopeful for the future – hopeful that I can start to work on whatever it is that’s keeping me back from living my life to somewhere approaching my full potential. I really don’t think I can settle for second best. I’m really not in the mood for mediocrity.

...
So I’ve been having more fun letting Canada make it’s impression on me, and testing my theories on the whys and wherefores of this great nation’s collective psyche. Lately I’ve been hearing from others who somewhat share my beliefs that there isn’t much in the way of humour here, and that people are, by and large, putting on a façade – indeed, several people have told me that Canadians are really quite two-faced. Another made the point that people here seem quite easily satisfied – it’s that child-like innocence I felt in America – and you certainly don’t get the sense of depth and heaviness you find in the ‘old world’, all that existential torment and gloom, etc. That this is missing isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s what I’m used to. I like my people to feel a bit more than, “everything’s kinda neat”.

Canadian’s like to see themselves as the peace-keepers of the world. I think that’s true – but I’d also say that they’re afraid of conflict, whether on a national or individual scale. One thing I’ve really noticed is that people here don’t seem to have much in the way of opinion – or, if they do, they do a pretty good job of keeping it to themselves. Dinner discussions are pretty dull, and generally revolve around what other people are doing, rarely touching on what anyone at the table actually thinks or feels. Conversations don’t tend to go beyond two or three sentences – that would involve depth. To me, it’s like skating on the surface, or viewing only half the picture. To me, it doesn’t really work, neither for myself – except that I find it all fascinating, and, as I let go of my need for what I like, more and more amusing – nor, from my observations, for the people at the table. It really is quite a shallow existence, and I wonder if it’s because no-one wants to be the one to rock the boat, to voice the outlandish thing, or to stand up and say, this is what I think, and run the risk of having someone disagree with them.

Still, I do like it here. My girlfriend’s nice…

...
Writing. When I think about what I really want to do, that’s what it always comes down to. But I’m incredibly lazy, unmotivated, and unwilling to put the work in. I still haven’t given up on the idea that I’ll one day write a book about/based on my travels and hitch-hiking adventures around America and Mexico. I’m not sure why I don’t do it – except for some arguments/excuses/possible good reasons regarding timing. At the minute, though, it simply remains one of those things I dream about, and talk about, but don’t actually do. I think that’s one of the symptoms of the underachieving adult. I think I’d like to learn how to get past that, if that’s what I’m supposed to do. Maybe one day I will…

Oh, Canada

So, the fact of the matter is, I’m bored. I know I said I wasn’t going to be moaning and/or indulging in my transitory emotional states anymore, but...well, I want to. I mean, what else is there to talk about? So here goes...

Once upon a time I was somebody different; life was good, and I had great experiences. Then I decided I needed something more than that, to get my head sorted, to get ‘settled’ in some way – and here I am. As if by magic – a thing totally incomprehensible to the me I was a few years back – I find I’m living my life almost exclusively for material purposes, and (sometimes - today, for instance) hating it, and absolutely unable to think of anything better to do. My job is crap, my social/hobby/creative life non-existent, and I’m not even sure I like the country I’m living in. Then again, I’m not really sure I like it anywhere.

I find Canada surprisingly difficult, especially compared to how I felt when I was here three years ago, so at home, familiar, and comfortable. Maybe because I was out west – it is different there – but, the truth is, I’m wondering if myself and these dudes out here are even on the same planet. Oh, don’t get me wrong – they’re nice enough and all – but I do wonder whether our wavelengths really coincide.

My first month or so was hellish – I couldn’t get over how phoney everyone sounded, how superficial, or shallow, or whatever the hell that thing is that just kinda makes my skin crawl. I’ve tried to tell myself that it’s just me – that there’s nothing wrong with all the exaggerated “how are yous” and how everything is always just great – but I don’t think it’s that – I think there really is something weird about how so many people seem to believe things you tell them are “awesome”, without even stopping to find out what those things are.

Examples of this have arisen when people have asked me what I’m up to, and maybe I've told them that I'm at uni. Invariably they respond with an enthusiastic “awesome” or say “that's wonderful”, and leave it at that. I find this bemusing, since, on the whole, it’s neither awesome or wonderful, and I can’t understand why it never occurs to them that this might be the case, or to investigate it further with a simple question like, “what’s it like?” Similarly, I find this whole, constant, endless, maddening “how are you?” thing pretty ridiculous – though I have started to tell myself that it’s just the same as saying “hello”, and doesn’t really mean they’re asking how you are, or have any interest in an answer. Still, it is a little disturbing.

I’ve mused over all this a lot, and I think I’ve come up with some answers. Forgive me if they’re a massive and unfair generalisation, and totally missing the mark, but it is what it is. Here we go:

1. From an English perspective, all this stuff is pretty ridiculous and annoying, and is no doubt what has created the North American stereotype of superficiality – but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s not merely that people are being superficial – ie, merely presenting a shallow imitation of who they are – but that they really are that shallow – that they just don’t go down that far. I kind of tie this in with the civilisation over here being so young and inexperienced, while, in Europe, we’re all so old, and bored, having been around the block more than once, and tasted about all there is to taste, as things like 9/11 seem to have shown (ie, it wasn’t such a big deal back home because we’re used to that kind of thing, whereas it’s really a new experience for modern-day North Americans). To believe this, however, you kind of have to buy into the idea of a cultural collective consciousness, which I do.

2. For Canadians especially, there’s a sense of not rocking the boat, of trying to have everything nice all the time, and of being ‘peace-makers’. There’s something in this, but, I’d say it’s more about avoiding conflicts, and not dealing with the harsh realities that life often throws up. Sometimes things are just shitty - and sometimes you do need to go to war. I don’t think they like that idea much, and so, even when things are a bit messed up, it’s still always “fine” on the surface. To me, this leads to shallowness, and denial, and the pretence of likeability. I must say, I find Canada a pretty cold and affectionless society, on the whole, even though the image projected is anything but. I think this comes from the denying of feelings, and even hostilities.

3. I don’t know why, but Canadians seem rather boring and bland, with not much to say for themselves. Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s the overbearing spectre of their neighbour to the South – or maybe they are just naturally dull. I’ve heard other people say this, and I’m starting to believe it’s true. Then again, any country that can produce the wealth of cultural masterpieces that Canada has – in, say, art, or film, or music – can’t be all that bad.

Poor old Canada! They love to pride themselves on not being as naughty as the Americans – but is that really something to be proud of, if that’s all you’ve got going for you? And they like to think themselves so different, and will become most irritable when presented with the merest suggestion that they are in anyway like the US – my girlfriend took mighty exception to my saying the countries were “linked”, which I thought was pretty impossible to refute, given a quick look at any map – but, let’s face it, oh Canada, there’s a great deal you share with those guys down there. You drive their cars, you watch their movies, you eat their fast food, your cities look like theirs – or ours, sometimes, a bit of a mix, really – and, horror of horrors, your children grow up watching their TV shows. Given that kids generally spend more time in the company of the TV than their parents, just who is that’s bringing up your future generations? And, truth be told, much as you love to hate the man, your newspapers probably wouldn’t have had much to talk about of late if it wasn’t for George W. Bush – but you do know he isn’t your president, don’t you? Still, I must admit, it is 'nicer' up here – if a little dull...

Oh, for having grown up in a fascinating and wonderfully mad country like England! It really does spoil a chap…


...

And now, forty-four minutes later, I can hereby testify to the wonderful healing properties of a good old winge, and, especially, the ego-boosting benefits of singling out a target and criticising it mercilessly, thus rendering it inferior, thus making oneself feel superior – it really does work! Ciao!

Typed diary, Oct - Dec '04

October 3rd, 2004

Dear diary,

Hi. It’s been a long time. That’s because I don’t write anymore. That’s because I’ve got someone to talk to now. Things are better, life is good. I’m happy. And I like Sophie a lot. She’s great. We have a good time together. Aaahhh…

I live in Guelph, Ontario. It’s a nice place. It’s sunny, and the people are friendly. I play football several times a week. Usually that’s a lot of fun, though sometimes it does my head in, as the Canadians play it quite differently to what I’m used to. Less shouting. Less competition. And less physical, too. They don’t keep track of score, so goals don’t mean as much, which I miss, but I rarely go home feeling bad if I lose, and that seems better. Canadians are very nice, which is a good thing, I suppose. At first it drove me crazy – they seemed so superficial – but now I’m used to it. I feel very settled. Everything seems normal.

Sophie and I have a lovely apartment. We’ve been here three weeks now, and it’s really feeling like home. The colours are nice, and the light is great. It’s real cosy. We have a kitchen, a living room, a pretty big bedroom, and a cute little bathroom, with a bath and shower. I got no complaints here. It’s a swell little place.

Living with Sophie was hard at first. She had all these little knick-knacks, cloths and ornaments, and boxes of paper, and, for some reason, the sight of them just freaked me out. I’m not really sure why. But I hated them. Partly, I guess, it’s because they were from her past, from the time before me, and a part of me didn’t like that. They made me think of pot and drinking and the way I imagine she was. Other boys, too. But I guess I’ve gotten used to it. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I feel quite settled.

Sophie’s very messy. Sometimes I don’t like it, but mostly I’m glad for it. I’m glad she’s not one of those naggy women that’re always on your back, always wanting you to pick up after yourself. I’m glad she’s not like that. Also, it helps me to feel good about myself, because I’m tidier than her, and it’s not supposed to be like that, and that makes me a good guy. And it makes her a little more human, a little more quirky, and a little less perfect. I like that too. She’s a real doll. She’s so easy to live with, so laidback, and ever such a cutie. I think I’m really in love with her.

It’s been three weeks now – three weeks and a day. So far, so good. It’s worked out well. I’m glad I came, and I’m glad I’m where I am.

October 12, 2004 11.56pm

I can’t go on; I literally can’t go on. I want my life back, but I don’t know what that life is. My head is swimming. I want to cry all the time. I don’t know what I’m doing. I dream of Amma, and wish for that, but the thought of it makes me miserable, and then I think it would have been better had we never met. I think of marrying Sophie, and Laura pops in there, and I wonder if she’s the one – and then I think how often I wish we’d never had sex, how right it would’ve been without that, and what a mistake it was. I think of Sophie, and of our relationship, and all the ways it is, and ways it came to be like this, and somehow wish it had been different, that I had done things differently, kept more from her, played harder to get, given ultimatums, and meant them, kept sex special, etc. Wanting things the way they aren’t – wanting them to match some imagined ideal. Never gonna lead to happiness, or peace of mind, but…I don’t seem able to help it. And I’m so alone, I have nobody to talk to, no friends, nothing to do – just become a machine in an office, a tool to provide this roof and this home and this miserable stinking life and – once I was a writer, a traveler, an explorer, and an inspirer of men and women. Once I had something to offer. Once, I touched God – and many times God touched others through me, with healing, with words. But did I help anyone – or did I merely help lead them into the madness from which I now suffer? Was I better then – or simply truly mad, as I keep telling myself? And did I change myself for Sophie, or did her presence facilitate change and much-needed growth in me? Am I better now, or have I merely given up, sold out, and rejoined the unenlightened masses? Is this suffering necessary – and why is there no-one to help me? What is the purpose of living when living can be so bad? Why go on? Why constantly be at these crossroads? Why such confusion, and suffering, and so many dead-ends – and where is God in all this, my saviour, my comforter, my Friend? Where is Amma, cause of so many of my difficulties, She who loads my mind with innumerable burdens? Where is John Milton? Where are all the people who promised their love to me, who wished to lead me to something better? How available are they? And how willing am I to put myself out and ask them for help? Soon Sophie will be busy, will be partying, will be disappointing me, and I shall be further alone. Alone, alone, alone – and, alas, a meditators dream, but no meditator am I. No meditator am I – so why, God, should I be so burdened with ideas of the spiritual life, when I am no spiritual man (save the gift of healing – which I am not, by the way, permitted to use, by You (yes, I’ll blame You, since it couldn’t possibly be me)). Why? Why? Because I wanted it that way, I suppose – and because it was good. It was good, by God – so why can’t I have it back? Why do I sit in some office when I could have You? Why? Why? Why can’t I have You back, God? Why?

I need:

A therapist

A group (meditation/spirituality/etc)

To write

To make music (never play my guitar no more)

To heal

To feel alive

To get to the bottom of who I am

To find some fulfillment in work (voluntary position somewhere)

I need to get these things done

The only thing that’s stopping me is me

But they’re all just ideas about what will make me happy

I don’t know how anyone lives

I don’t know how anyone makes it through the day

I don’t know what to do

I don’t know what to do

I don’t know what to do

I need help

SO HELP ME, GOD

So help me, God. So help me, God.

On a more local level, I could:

Fix my guitar

Buy a computer

Get my cheque from Karin sorted out

Visit Big Brothers, Big Sisters to see what I could do

Go to Van Gogh’s Ear and see about a gig

Call my friends, like Shawn, and John, Eve and Stevie

Find a meditation group – even if it is by way of poster, flyer, etc

Speak up more, regarding Sophie, about the things I want, and the things I want from her, instead of sulking, pouting, and getting all irritable

Forget all about sex

Maybe go find a therapist, once I’m a bit more stable financially

Make an effort

And be thankful for the things I do have – incredible girlfriend, perhaps one-day wife; good, well-paid job; fancy home; nice city; lots of opportunities; beautiful weather; valuable experiences; good friends, no matter how far away; some slight connection with God, no matter how distant or fuzzy, slight is better than none at all: at least there’s hope. At least there’s hope.

Hope – you keep me hanging on.

If I didn’t have you,

I don’t know what I’d do.

Hope.

Hope.

And hope.

And as Momma always used to say, “don’t worry”.

Mourn not what is absent – rather, make your grief the impetus to wish for it.

God, fulfill me! Now go to bed.

October 17^th, 2004

A good week. A better week. Things feel more settled, more at home. My job’s good, I don’t hate it – and I’ll probably even enjoy dealing (tangling, wrestling, playing) with Donna. It’s nice to get a pay-rise, and nice to have a little six-week contract. I got no complaints there. Everything’s groovy.

Things are also groovy with Sophie. We’re getting on really well, being very lovey-dovey and close, and getting more used to living with each other. She says the nicest things sometimes – like that she adores me, but doesn’t really show it – and that makes me feel great. And we had some mad hot sex last night (until almost four in the morning), and that was great, too. She’s such a doll. Sometimes I just look at her and find her so yummy, so delicious, so…irresistible. The little bits of skin that show when she’s bending over her work; her gorgeous face, deep in concentration; that smile; her legs, when she’s walking ‘round in her knickers; the look on her face when she’s wrist-deep inside me; the way she holds me, and I hold her, and the way her skin feels under my hand; the way she moves when she’s writhing under my touch, squirting her juices, and moaning her moan; she’s the greatest. What a gal. What a gal.

But while we’re on the subject – why do some things bother me? Like the thought of her getting tied up by some guy in San Diego five and odd years ago? Because she’s mine? Because I don’t want anybody else to have her? Because I want her to be like that with me? Or wish she had been like that with me back then? Because I don’t want her to have been like that with anyone? Because I don’t want her to have had a past (a fun past) with anyone but me? Or because it doesn’t add up, since she first told me she had sex with him, and it was horrible because he wouldn’t hold her afterwards, and she came back to me? And because I want it to have been horrible for her – or at least get a straight answer, get the straight story. Because I’m a jealous guy. Because I feel threatened. Because I want her so much, and don’t want to lose her. Because…I have her. That’s what I can’t get into my head, and what I need to get into my head: I have her. She’s mine. She’s yours. I mean…my God, this girl loves me. She’s crazy about me (you) and I can’t even see it. She writes in her journal about me all the time, especially when we’re apart, and she’s changed so much for me. She’s given up the thought of others – Emily, for one – and remained true, even when there was no real need for her to (i.e., when she had the freedom to do otherwise). She really, truly loves you, this girl – and wants to be with you – and wants you like no-one she’s ever wanted in her life. She wants to give you babies. And she wants to marry you one day –if not to-day – but, one day. She wouldn’t want to be with anyone else, even if she could be. She feels the same way about you as you do about her – if you grasp that. I know, I know – you love her with a passion unimaginable, you’d do anything for her, you think the world of her, and you need her and want her more than anything – well, that’s just how she feels about you (“you’re my whole world”). We really do just want to spend our time together. We really do enjoy each others company, and each other, and our lives together. We really are good – now stop typing and go and give the blessed girl a hug!

Okay. Cheers. And thanks for all the lessons, and the week, and all that is to come. I love you, and I love my life.

Always,

Rory

Amen xxx

October 20^th, 2004

Hi God, Sophie’s on the phone talking to Bob. I’m in my house listening to her chuckle and earwigging and being my usual strange self. Is this normal? Why do I do it? Always got me ear out for her bad-mouthing me, or making plans to do something wild (drink, sex, drugs, etc). Where does that come from? What am I to do about it? Is it her or me?

Me: hangover from Eve (mistrust, fear, not wanting to lose Sophie in the same way) (Sophie’s a different person); narcissism (the way I like to hear my name mentioned, maybe a slight paranoia); not having anything else to do, to occupy my mind (i.e., her being my all); just being a bit crap, basically.

Her: wanting to party/drink/do drugs/have sex with women (don’t know if she really wants these things – she fluctuates); her not really knowing what she wants, or wanting things that are unhealthy or unwise (not that she ever seems to follow them up, in reality); her lack of self-awareness, of seeing how different she is on the phone (different kind of communication, not really real, easy to feel good with, easier to talk, giggle, etc) (she likes talking on the phone, needs to connect with her friends, that’s just kinda normal – I like it too, like being able to call Laura up and have a chat, helped me out a lot last week).

Maybe I just want her to be like me. Maybe I don’t want to share her with anyone else. (the giggling really annoys me). Maybe I have to accept that some things about her will annoy me. (!) Maybe expecting too much from her (that she would rather do things in real life than giggle on the phone); expecting the things I would expect of myself (get out there, sort things out, not be unwise/unaware) (am I like that? Hard to say – I’m sure I have my blind spots too).

Maybe I just need to chill out. It’s my judgments and expectations that keep me from joy. Such as with lesbianism. I mean, God, I used to love that stuff! But ever since I’ve got with Sophie, slowly I’ve come to hate it. Now I can’t bear the mention of it – it all just reminds me of the things that could take her away from me – and her flakiness, her lack of integrity (not too much of a lack, especially in reality), and her tactlessness and inability to see straight. I mistook her for a ‘spiritual person’. I got carried away with the idea of the girl I met in Mexico. That girl barely even existed, just another one of her passing trends (was she following a crowd (or individual) then. No sense of a cohesive self, with Beth, Emily, Bob, me – whoever, really – just seems to be following what’s presented, not suggesting, not leading, not doing what she truly wants to do. Not really wanting to do anything, by the looks of it (art, creativity, some kind of role in the community). Likes movies, though – another very passive activity, the onus on the other to provide the entertainment. This is something I feel to be true about her – but do I mention it, seeing as it doesn’t really cause me too much of a problem, other than the worry that when she meets her ‘friends’ she’ll be lead astray into the ways of old and bring me sorrow and unhappiness and ruin our relationship. She says she likes me to mention things to her – doesn’t usually seem to like it when I do – but, then again, often thanks me for that kind of thing. Oh, how I wish I could be different to this! How I wish I could be simple, merely observe the struggles of my children, let them find their own way, and stand apart from it, unless called upon. But what is that? Just some idea, some image – some imagined way of being never witnessed, and not necessarily having existence. Why that? Because no-one seems to appreciate the way I am, when I’m like that? Or maybe the opposite, maybe they do, and I have been appreciated, when I’ve spoken out (been outspoken) such as, in my writing, with Helene, with Laura, with…Eve and Kelly, and a myriad other people, who seemed to like the way I was. But how much can you go around just pointing out people’s perceived flaws? And how much can you go around keeping it all inside, without letting it go, just thinking it anyway. Where does tolerance come into this? Where’s the love of the parent, who watches on while their child stumbles, falls, does themselves damage – or is just plain stupid. I guess I’m not a parent – and Sophie sure as hell isn’t my child. Do I owe her the truth? Isn’t that what our relationship is based on? Isn’t that the soul work we are up to? Or is it time for me to try and find this imagined outlook of love? What is love? And what would love do now? What would Amma do? And how can I get that to help me, knowing full well that I am not her? How can I find a little piece of mind? And how can I find piece of mind with a girlfriend? Is it even possible? All these questions (and more) will be answered in the due course of time. Unless they are not.

Goodnight.

October 25^th, 2004

Diaries are such bobbins!  You write something, and then a week later, read it again and think, “which moron wrote this?”  You think, “God, I’ve changed so much since then.”  And so trivial and insignificant in comparison to the things we say, the things we do – yet these words are what remains.  As far as an earthly record goes, in any case.  Maybe that’s why the saints don’t write – maybe they know all things are recorded and remembered, just not here, by us, by people that can see them, or read them, or talk about them.  Or something.  In any case, I’m real tired, my girlfriend hasn’t had sex with me for a week – hasn’t really kissed me for a week – and she spent all day yesterday working on her project.  I think she takes it all far too seriously, spends too much time on it by half.  Surely she could just knock something off real quick and be done with it (like I do).  Alternatively, I suppose I could try and find some life of my own (eg, Buddhism, walking, cycling, doing the laundry, having a good think and/or sit down).  Goodnight.

November 4^th 2004

So today old Angela came and gave me the news.  At first, shock – and hurt, and…not-niceness.  But then a phone message from Sophie, and hope, and anticipation, and upon leaving – after fond farewells with David and Brett – a sense of peace, of things being okay, of…the Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want, etc.  And now we wait.  It wouldn’t surprise me if they offered me the job – I shall have to be better in this one, or in whichever one comes next – but, at the same time, it would.  I really hope I have gotten it – and I can hardly believe that I have.  I guess I shall have to try and let my mind be at ease for the rest of this night, and see what the morning brings.  In the meantime, the only question is: how to I broach the subject with Sophie?  Part of me feels like it would be better for me to talk to her about it ASAP – so as to avoid any future discomfort, for example – but then the largest part thinks, well, what’s the point?  It’s not like I need to talk anything over, and not like her knowing will do anything good for her.  I suppose the only good thing that could come from doing it is in avoiding having to face the question of, why didn’t you tell me sooner and figuring out how to go about not going to work tomorrow.  But there doesn’t really seem to be much point (in telling her) – and she’s got the cramps – and is feeling all peaceful and nice – and…

In other news, my old journal – or the best part of it – seems to have finally turned up.  So what does that mean?  What am I going to do with that?  Interesting that it should reappear – though I’m not too clear about the timing.  But we shall see…we shall see – and ever so grateful that it has!  Thanks, God, You’re a Star!

December 3^rd, 2004 11pm

Dear God, why do I still hurt over Eve? Why am I petrified whenever Sophie goes out, can’t relax, or sleep, and going through these thoughts of what I’d go if she got off with someone, where I’d go, how I’d react, what we’d do about who would live here, etc, etc, etc? It’s endless – but was it always there, or did it come because of that Goddamn lunatic French slut? I really don’t remember being like this with others – Kellie, Leah (she a little naughty sometimes, me more so, but no feelings like this back then), and Laura, and Debbie, and…no, it wasn’t there before, not before her, that French bitch. Goddamn! And Sophie so lovely, and honest, and true, and good – and I just can’t get that into my head, and my head is ruined, polluted, poisoned, because of her. Why, God, why? Why do I have to live with this shit for the rest of my life, just because I got with the wrong person, the dirty fucking bitch. She’s fucked me up, you know that? Is there any respite? Time? Feeling the feelings, going through the process, letting Sophie go out, be with her friends, be with guys that fancy her, and listening to my own mad head until it’s finally shown for what it is and maybe I get healed or something. It’s bloody hard, though – bloody hard. I really don’t know what to do. I really wish I didn’t have this; hadn’t gone through what I did; hadn’t gotten involved with the person I did. The bitch, the bitch, the dirty fuckin’ whore of a bitchhhhhhhh. That’s what I think of her.

On a lighter note, I’m bored shitless with my life. Also, I’m boring. And so is this Goddamn country. And what exactly am I doing with my life, with what I have – to make a difference? Do I? Not really – people here don’t even like me, we just don’t gel, too different. Bloody bland as, these Canadians! Then again, maybe them Brits are too – maybe everyone is. Maybe I am. It’s bloody hard living on a planet you don’t like, surrounded by people who disappoint you. Where’s Amma? Where’s my salvation? Where’s the love, the joy, the reason for existing? Is moving pieces of paper around in order to earn money in order to provide a home for a woman while she completes a degree she doesn’t even like reason enough for living, or do I need more? I think I need more. I think I need something more – but what? What the hell is there? Where the hell do you go when you’ve tasted God, and freedom, and bliss, and still come up bored? I’m bored, God – bored shitless – and I don’t think typing this out is really gonna help any – and it sure as hell ain’t gonna make great reading for anyone else and – I’m sick. Now I’m thinking of Sophie coming home and knowing that I’m gonna be tense and unhappy and wondering what’s going on and…

Nothing’s there to rescue me. The world is empty of things I like. Spirituality has failed. There is – as far as I know – nothing left for me but death (and a spot of living in between). I’m bored. There’s nothing left for me. I’m bored.

Create something.

Like what? And why?

Something to show someone.

Like what? And why?

A story.

A story? The story of Eve? Why?

To heal you. To revisit. To look over, and take, and re-shape, and know…something.

Why? I can’t, I…I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything. I want to sink into this rut, to curl up into a ball, to fall asleep, to…just live. Existing. Nothing but existing. Oh, where is she, my reason for being, my healer of woes, what is she doing out at this time with some creepy fancying guy? Fine, go ahead, do it, set me free, put my mind at ease, let me go, let me be alone, let me go back to life without you, without the confusion, without the wanting, without any ties or commitments to anything, without any…meaning? What do I mean by meaning? Where has that come from? Would my life have no meaning? Probably. Well I guess I don’t want that – I guess I really did want a woman (why? Remind me of that one, please, I can’t for the life of me remember) and, beyond Sophie, there’s only Laura – lovely, sweet Laura, but…but that’s not really realistic, is it? Or…or what did it mean when the I Ching said, “you can’t escape your destiny”? Did I get the wrong end of the stick? I suppose that’s one question that always eludes me – ah, things were so much easier with her in a way. But then I never fancied her in the way I do Sophie – I could never say to her, “you’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw” – and I never wanted to be with her, not really, not as demonstrated by my actions, by the fact that I always ran away from her, moved on, visited and then said goodbye, and…but, boy, did she know how to hold me, like a mother, like a woman, like…I guess I still don’t know – but don’t the facts of the case speak loudly enough, that I am here, and want to be, and have wanted to be for almost three years, and…and didn’t want to be with her? I guess – but I still can’t help but wonder. And what on Earth would Sophie make of these ramblings, were she to nose into my journal as I have sometimes nosed into hers? At least the madness and meaninglessness of my ramblings help to show me that hers may be just the same; they don’t mean anything, they’re just the machinations of the wandering mind. Wandering. Wondering. It’s cold outside and my life has come down to eating and drinking and sleeping and dying in this little three-room apartment with a girl called Sophie and…

And how dramatic! And how empty! And what’s the reality? The reality is I’m doing this to avoid having to think about her coming home and telling me she’s been getting off with some other guy – not so much the doing, but the hurt, the horrible, horrible feelings that I’ve tasted already, that I really, really don’t want to taste again, and am somehow petrified that I’m going to – and…and, really that’s about it.

I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t think I could bear it. It’d be fucking horrible, and I suppose I’d have to go home to nothing, and probably go begging and crawling to Laura, not so much to have me back, to be my woman – I don’t see how that would be possible – but to just hold me while the misery sank deeper into my bones, because I wouldn’t want to be alone, and…and, I wonder, what am I doing, once again, so far from home? I’m out on a limb, and this is the only thing I have here, and – and maybe a part of me would like it to be over, so that I can be comfortable again, retreat from this precarious place, and…I’ve never been comfortable anywhere, have I? And certainly not in Yorkshire, that’s for Goddamn sure! Nowhere, never, no how, never, nope, never. I’m not normal, not real, not human, not happy, not good, not alive, not me. Bollocks. Why didn’t anybody teach me how to live?

Living In The Past

So last I mentioned, I’d brought the story as far as my entering university in Canterbury – but neglected to explain how, some two years later, I happen to find myself a resident of the city of Guelph, Ontario, in the rather large country of Canada. Well, the answer is simple – I’ve taken a year out of my degree (BA in English and American Literature and Creative Writing, going very nicely, thank you very much) and gone and got myself a 12-month work visa so that I can be here while my girlfriend finishes her own degree in Landscape Architecture. Long-distance no longer satisfying, what needed to be, etc, etc, and, here we are. Now we’re renting a lovely apartment in a nice neighbourhood, and I’m doing shirt-and-tie office-type jobs (which I actually rather like), and playing more football (soccer) than at any other time in my life. It’s a jolly nice life, all in all. Before that, there was a fun and interesting summer in China (with a week in Tibet), and several mad (but good) months living with a bunch of fellow students in a rather large house near campus, and jobs as a student mentor, cake and then cheese salesman, and also a spot of volunteering sorting out the music at an Oxfam shop in town. I also spent my first year living in a caravan in the woods, without water, heat or electricity, cooking outside over the open fire. Boy, was it grand, and good, and exactly what I wanted – but, boy, am I glad I don’t live like that anymore. Seems like I’ve changed a lot these past two years…

Two years ago I was pretty much the same person I had been when doing all my travelling; indeed, I rolled up ready to start university armed with only a guitar, a sleeping bag – my entire worldly possessions – and about three quid in my pocket, and I spent my first week or two sleeping under a tree. I bathed in a tub on campus, dressed pretty shabbily – wearing only what I found or was gifted, and managing the winter wearing sandals, no socks (I had no socks) – and was often on the high street playing mad guitar or juggling (how I paid my fiver-a-week rent) or going for long barefoot walks through the woods, tromping in the mud and getting lovely and dirty. Needless to say, I was befriended by teenagers and hippies alike, and for a while things were pretty groovy. ‘Cept I soon got sick of it – soon got sick of the people I found I was attracting – and things began to change – especially after the girl came into my life.

Some of the changes I noticed were these: I started dressing more smartly, even buying clothes, and tossing out things that I didn’t find acceptable; I found myself intensely irritated by New Age flakes, and spaced-out hippies, and began subconsciously gravitating towards older, more together, professional types; I discovered a pretty well-developed ‘provider and protector instinct’; and I realised living alone in a caravan in the woods was all very well – mighty economical, for one – but being a hermit wasn’t really what I wanted to be. I no longer desired to be associated with the hippy crowd – I cut my long hair and put on shoes – I wanted to be taken seriously. To a large extent, I seem to have achieved that; my last job was for the Ontario Provincial Government, where I was often (good-naturedly) chastised for dressing too smartly.

So, while I say nothing much happened in those two years, in a way, everything did. University healed me – it gave me enough of an incentive to actually stick something out for longer than two weeks, or three months, even when it got to be tough and unpleasant and had me screaming for the road, or foreign climes, or pastures new. It got me to stay in one place long enough for me to finally go beyond that and get down to the business of sorting myself out. It gave me some sort of foundation for getting through the day-to-day, while the other stuff of trying out ways of being and shedding skins that no longer suited me took place. All in all, it gave me a lot.


...
It seems to me that I’ve been living in the past. It seems to me that the ghosts of ‘travelling Rory’, and ‘spiritual Rory’ – and even, I realize, ‘post-spiritual Rory’ – have been hanging around long since their earthly lives expired. It seems to me that I’m really not who I was – but still kind of think I am.

It’s ridiculous, really – it’s at least three, if not four years since I last did any serious sightseeing in the world, yet it’s still such a big part of who I see myself to be. In meeting someone new, it’s never too long before it enters into the conversation – and even if it doesn’t, its almost always at the forefront of my mind – yet, what bearing does it have on my life as it is today? Similarly, what of my time wandering around America ‘soul-searching’, meditating, etcetera? It’s over a year, now, since I last did any kind of regular meditation, and, I have to confess, my life is about as far removed from ‘the spiritual life’ as it has ever been. If truth be known, the time I spend dwelling on ‘divine matters’ is probably about one ten-thousandth that I devote to football, sex, shopping, et al – and that’s probably being generous. So why still this idea that Rory is such and such a way?

I think, in part, it’s because I had such a big ego-investment in being what I was (traveller, explorer, spiritual seeker), and, also, because it was my way of identifying myself. When the spiritual phase ended, I had no real sense of what I was up to, beyond attempting some sort of recovery from the New Age nightmare I was tangled up in. But even that’s done now, and now…I’m back, I suppose. I’m back to being just a bloke, and being a bloke much like all other blokes, with a house, and bills to pay, and work to find and do, and groceries to buy and…I’m not really sure what you’d call that. ‘Drunk Rory’ segued quite seamlessly into ‘travelling Rory’, and ‘travelling Rory’ became ‘spiritual-seeker Rory’ without too much of a transition, but…what am I now? I don’t really know.

I guess I could keep looking back because it makes me sound and feel so much more interesting – yet if its merely who I was, and not who I am, what’s the point in that? What, really, is the point in keeping that game alive? I know, I know, there is a point in it, but it doesn’t really feel like what I want to be doing – it seems to speak more of dwelling in illusion than reality, living in the past rather than the present – and, in a way, it seems to be stunting my growth. I mean, how I supposed to move on if I can’t even recognize and accept where I am? How can I be fully in the present and let go of the past if I still think it’s happening? It makes no sense. It’s time to get over it. The only question is, how?

And the answer, perhaps, in part, is by writing it here.

So what am I today? Today I am…a bit of a bum (I don’t do much, mostly just relax, read, watch movies, play the odd video game, run around on a soccer pitch, do some occasional work), and…a loving boyfriend (great relationship with live-in partner, very caring, and happy and fun), and…career-wise, not much clearer (lately I’ve had urges to work in offices, still think lots about writing – but never do any – and will maybe move into teaching, definitely an urge to get something more fixed, and satisfying, and proper sorted out), and…and that’s about it. Maybe that’s why I look to the past so much; I guess my present just isn’t that exciting.

And yet…it’s more than that, it’s about growing up. I sense that my youth is over, that I’ve done pretty much everything I wanted to do with those years. I ran the gamut of experiences that one should probably run while one has the chance, and that is that. Probably this is part of the process; grieving, letting go, getting stuck, etcetera. Probably it’s all good…

I think this is why I find life hard right now. I feel like I’ve tried everything I can think of – done some wonderful things in the process (and some not so wonderful) – and now I’m waiting for something new. That something new lies outside my spectrum of currently available thought – it’s probably a more ‘grown-up thing’, and incomprehensible to ‘youthful Rory’ – and, as such, it’s hard to get an idea of what it is until it actually arrives. I suspect it may have something to do with a career, and a family, and a steady and stable life, and I’m pretty okay with the idea of that. But, like I say, since it’s beyond anything I’ve currently experienced, it’s hard for me to get any sort of grip on it and, in the meantime, I suppose I’m in some kind of void, where the old me is dying and the new me is waiting to be born. I feel a bit like a foetus, I suppose. I’m not sure if this answers the question of why I’ve been looking back so much, but I suspect it might have something to do with it – that, and always wondering when it (my glorious past) was going to ‘come back’ to me. But, I think it’s safe to say, it’s just not going to happen. It’s done. Over. Dead. And that’s not to say it’s a bad thing – I really do believe my life is better now than it ever has been (though I don’t think I could say that if I didn’t have my old journal entries to show me how ridiculously high and mad I was during my ‘happy phase’) – but just to try to begin and acknowledge that this is the way it is.

The Return Of The Native

So here I is. Writing. Apparently. It's an odd thing to comprehend - to come and do - but...here I is. Writing.

A few weeks back the practically-complete and long-lost remnants of my old website (minus the pictures) were delivered to me by someone who had a back-up copy on a CD, and I suppose seeing that stuff again has given me a lot to think about. Ultimately, it's driven me back here. I guess there's a part of me that has something more to say.

It's over two and a half years since my last web-entry, unless you count minkturtle's nonsense, which I don't. It's also about two and a half years since, during my mad Dublin days, I finally went through the rigmarole of deleting some eight hundred thousand words of entries, as well as the only copies of all my pictures, for reasons which somehow escape me. Probably I was just sick of everything, and felt that doing something drastic might help me out. Probably I couldn't really think of anything else to do. In any case, it was done, and it was gone, and now it's back. Just as I is.

So what to say? What to do? Maybe a recap for the old imaginary audience, the ones who've been wondering where I've been, the ones who followed my tales, are familiar with my story, my life, the ones who find all this as fascinating and wonderful as I apparently do (he writes, sarcastically, sardonically). Maybe...

Last thing I remember - well, not the last thing I remember, but, I suppose, the last thing I remember documenting - I was, like I say, living in Dublin with my old mucker John. That followed a little two month trip to Canada - which I did write about - during which I kind of fell in love. And that kind of changed my life.

See, Dublin was the final straw. I went there on a dream, and I had hopes of this and that - continuing the healing, writing a book, having more mad adventures and growing some more 'in the spirit' - but, in the end, I just went a bit loopy. In the end, I couldn't carry on. In the end, I called up Mother Meera, told her I didn't know what to do, and when she asked me if I had a job - as she had done two years previously - I knew it was finally time to get my ass earth-bound and set my mad life in order. So that's what I did. Eventually.

I say 'eventually', 'cos it took me a long time, and it was hard. My head was still filled with wild dreams. I had no idea where to go, what to do, or how to make it work in a 'normal way'. I was lost, and so I took myself off home, back to Yorkshire, and back to my hometown of South Elmsall – back to the beginning, to start from scratch, and to hopefully build my life up again from the nothingness that I had made it. And that's what I did.

I found work as a postman. That was okay, but didn't really suit me, and I felt like I was wasting my time, and wanted more. I moved in with one of my fellow posties mothers, and started volunteering as a classroom assistant at the school in which she taught. I loved it. I fell in love with it. I loved the kids, and I loved what I was doing - I felt like I had finally found something I could actually do for more than two weeks, something that felt right. I made up my mind, there and then, that I would go to university and obtain the qualifications I needed to become a teacher. Within a month I found a place at the University of Kent doing a BA in Religious Studies. Within two, I was there. And there I've been, give or take, and until a short while ago, for the last two years.

I feel like everything changed with my enrolment at university. I can distinctly remember walking down Canterbury High Street following the interview in which I was formally accepted and noticing that, all of a sudden, I didn't feel absolutely and completely different to all the people that surrounded me. I felt like I was back on Earth, as though I had returned. I feel it even more so today.

Re-reading my old journal entries – particularly those from the two or three year period following my 'spiritual awakening' – I am overwhelmed with the sense that they were written by a madman. It's actually quite hilarious! And yet, insane as I was, I never even knew, and still look back on that period as one of the happiest of my life. It's simultaneously a confusing and fascinating thing.

These days, of course, with the benefit of some reading, and some good old, dry and theoretical academic study, it all makes perfect sense: I got a whiff of my spirit, lost myself in bliss and ecstasy, and went hurtling down the road of madness, delusion, and more than a little self-aggrandizement and egocentric nonsense. I've heard of and read dozens and dozens of almost identical accounts from men and women the world over, and since discovered that it's a well-studied phenomenon. I suppose the biggest question is, why didn't I snap out of it sooner? And I guess the answer is, either, I couldn't, or wouldn't. Or, perhaps, just wasn't supposed to. In any case, it ran its course, and now it’s done.

And what was it? Madness! A ridiculous befuddlement of the mind caused by a few – I still believe – authentic experiences of the soul. But madness, none the less. I’m embarrassed and chagrined – or would be, if the whole damn thing wasn’t so painfully amusing – to remember that I not only believed myself to be a Buddha and Messiah, but proclaimed it with such heartfelt gusto on this very page. I’m embarrassed and chagrined – or would be, if it hadn’t been so very genuine – to read again my entries of three years ago, in which I seemed to be capable of expressing little else other than gushing gratitude and marvel at the wondrousness of God, and life, and everything that came my way. I mean, bless his little heart – the Rory of back then – but, Gordon Bennett, what a nutter! What a space cadet! What a bliss ninny! I really was high – and loving it – but, looking back, it wasn’t all good, and certainly not something lasting or stable, and absolutely not what I thought it was at the time. Which I guess is what I’ve come here to say; I want to declare myself as a really ordinary human being who got pretty seriously lost in the crazy mixed-up world of Western spirituality, Messiah complexes and all, and who has, perhaps, finally made his way back down to Earth, mostly thanks to the presence of a rather wonderful woman, the love he feels for her, and the desire this produced to get his head sorted out, his arse into gear, and his life back on track in a grounded, Earthly, get-yourself-a-job-and-stop-mucking-about kind of way. This is probably not news to anyone that knows me, or who watched me lose the plot in such magnificent fashion, but it is to this website, and by stating it here – and perhaps investigating it and my subsequent life a little in the coming weeks – I hope to finally draw a line between what I was and what I am, as my writing has so often helped me to do in the past.

Which brings me to the end of this entry. Goodnight!