In Between (Christmas) Time

Kodachrome Christmas is the best Christmas.

I feel a bit adrift lately. We just went to a Christmas concert on a cold, damp Wednesday night, which was nice, but a bit odd. I was already feeling the carnage of Christmas before it arrived. The carnage I refer to isn't the pressure of gift-getting, or of meal prep, or of baking, or of having company over, or even the last-minute rush of work. It's a carnage of my own perception of time. I’m feeling timelessness. As in, I have no idea what time or day or year it is. We saw a live show on a Wednesday? So it feels like Thursday or Friday, but it’s not. It’s cold, damp, and grey like November, but it’s actually December; that is, until suddenly it's -16°C and it feels like January. Lately, we’ve been watching old episodes of The Great British Baking Show, which were shot during the pandemic. Having a second Trump presidency only makes this time dislodgement worse. Is it still 2019? 2017? 2030? I can’t affix words to this feeling of time drift other than it feels like I’m a viewer of my own life in slow motion. At times I’m busy, punctual, ticking off boxes, checked in, tuned in. While other times, it feels like 2 hours passed in minutes, or I forgot to put out the bins because Wednesday is tomorrow. Isn’t it? I see Christmas decorations out and about and have to remind myself it is, in fact, Christmas.

In physics, the elasticity of time is called time dilation. Yet, I'm not feeling what Einstein predicted; I'm perceiving time in a very jumbled way. I don't want to raise any alarms about my cognition either. I'm not forgetting what I had for breakfast, but simply by the early evening, breakfast has felt like it happened a week ago. I would liken this to that feeling you get if you've ever been in an accident and it seems to happen so very, very slowly, or like some moment in sports when you felt like you were moving normally, but for some reason, everyone else was just standing around and you walked in on net and scored. Then you think to yourself, "That was weird." Later, you wonder why you couldn't just do that all the time. For the last few days, this feeling has been even worse. I've had a cold. Not a bad one, but one that has drained my batteries and forced me to try and sleep it off, which has only messed with my sense of days drifting slowly by in a flash.

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Hurkle-durkle 

An unbiased interpretation of hurkle-durkle.

Hurkle-durkle. No, not the first draught of the lyrics of Helter Skelter, but a word, of Scottish origin, to describe lounging in bed when one should be up and about. Apparently, some time ago this word became a meme on social media that I clearly overlooked while busy experiencing reality in real life. I realize to those of you with children or more than one job, that the idea of lounging about is not only remote but perhaps even angering. Merely thinking that someone else has such leisure may be triggering for you. I assure you, to those of us without children, that having such time is a luxury that is never unappreciated.

It was on a recent Sunday when I hurkle-durkled my way to idly watch online videos, read inconsequential articles and flip lazily through a book or two. How was it that time, essentially poorly spent, was such a luxury? Just as scarcity creates value, abundance depreciates it. If you have too much free time, it's boring. Only when you're busy do you find the gaps with nothing planned, nothing scheduled, without errands or chores to do, that time feels as luxurious as high thread count cotton. Leisure like this can feel like a pause in a meal when you enjoy the scent of wine in your mouth, or chocolate melting on your tongue.

So it was that I enjoyed the nothingness. I could've easily manufactured some busyness. Laundry could've been laundered, dust could've been swept, bills could've been paid, e-mail read or written, groceries procured, but all of it took a backseat to this most important of tasks. The task of not doing any tasks. The absence of tasks.

I'm reminded of reading about a book, Voyage Around My Room, written by Xavier de Maistre while under house arrest, in which the author describes his room as if part of a travelogue. Within the boredom of his confinement, he discovers an appreciation for the smallest details of life. Sure, some may call it a "stay-cation" but I like to think of it more as a vacation from myself. A holiday from my everyday. It was like I was on an all-expenses paid trip where my bed was the cruise liner.

It should come as no surprise, a fair amount of guilt had to be ignored if I were to truly enjoy this decadence. It seems this kind of guilt is built into a society that despite our many advances believes that your time is better spent by working, regardless of what the work is. This is true in religious communities, capitalist countries, socialist countries and, despite the stated goal of setting the worker free, communist countries. Even in the laziest of modern occupations, the "influencer" is a job where people who found success are quitting as the demand for content has led to a kind of creator burnout. This demand on us to busy ourselves seems to me, to be the single biggest factor in suppressing creativity. Though let's be honest, there is much creative work made while in the middle of a grinding schedule. In fact, there are plenty of people who will say they were at their peak creativity while at the same time, at their peak productivity. Many people, be they entrepreneurs or artists had their best ideas while they were also at their most prolific. Yet that just isn’t sustainable. I’m in this life for the long haul. I’m not aiming to be the flame that burns twice as bright for half the time. I want my creative life to simmer on the back burner, always bubbling at the ready, always warm to the touch. If a little hurkle-durkle helps maintain a frothy fermentation, then so be it.

The Lime Green Pop of Chlorine 

The luxury of having an entire public pool to yourself.

I was somewhat astonished that the Cooper Koo Y, where I swim, was open every day during the holidays. My aspirational self noted this as if my actual self was going to get up off the couch during the torporific season between Christmas and New Year's and do something about it. Then I did surprise myself by going a few times. What I found was in Toronto many people don't do much during Christmas so they'd rather be at the Y working out, playing basketball, or volleyball. This meant the pool was even busier than usual. Except for one day. Friday, January 05. For whatever sociological reason I cannot fathom, Fridays seem less busy. On this particular Friday, the last Friday of the school break, the Y wasn't busy at all. In fact, before I finished my swim, the only other people in the pool had left and I had, not just a lane, but the entire pool to myself. It reminded me of swimming on Friday nights as a kid.

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Tired of Living in Last Year 

Why should old acquaintances be forgot?

Like millions of other people today, I’m looking up the meaning of the Scottish poem Auld Lang Syne. While academics argue its provenance, all you really need to know is, it's about two old friends sharing a pint and recalling old times. As news and media pundits practice their augury by looking back over the last year to divine some theme or other, I’m reminded of Homer Simpson’s insight at the end of an episode when he said perhaps there was no lesson to learn, but rather, “Just a bunch of stuff that happened.”

Let’s face it, the Universe doesn’t care about our orbital year-end wrap-up or your most-listened-to tracks. Why are humans so particularly cursed with pareidolia - the tendency to assign meanings to patterns? When I had a digital bedside clock, I was constantly noticing when it read “12:34”, “1:11”, “2:22” or “3:14” and wondering what it meant? It meant nothing other than my brain trying really hard to make it mean something. To me that’s what all these year-end reviews are, simply a collective case of pareidolia. Every year we tally the wars, the deaths of celebrated individuals, the natural disasters, the political plots, the words on everyone’s lips.

This year is as predictable as any other. We were "shocked" at some celebrity's passing (though some argued we should've been more shocked they hadn't died before), we were disheartened and disturbed by wars in Ukraine, Yemen and now Gaza, we were dismayed at wildfires, flooding, earthquakes and amazed by volcanic eruptions. The economy behaved one way or another, causing wealth or poverty. Food bank use skyrocketed yet so many people bought tickets to Taylor Swift concerts that it actually buoyed local economies wherever she played.

There were shocks in Hollywood once they realized they had been spending too much money making too much crap, that only got worse when writers and actors went on strike. Why did they strike? Money, obviously, but less obviously, there were concerns about AI (or more correctly ML – Machine Learning) that was jeopardizing livelihoods. While most people had fun playing with new, and surprisingly viable, AI models and applications, writers, composers and actors could see the potential of them being literally being written out of a job by a bot trained on their own work. It seems more than a slap in the face if you're an artist whose work was used as raw data, without your consent or compensation, by a machine learning algorithm to learn how to create art, and then you would lose your career to this very same bit of code.

Christmas is such a time when we celebrate nostalgia, it's almost hard to think of anything but the past and its traditions. A new Christmas film isn't a "classic" until it has been played repeatedly for years. Then we stop complaining and forget that it was never considered a classic (see Elf, released twenty years ago, now on everyone's Christmas watch list). By the last days of the year, we tire of the replays and living in the past. We crave the new. Why do we ring in the New Year with fireworks? Are we so desperate to burn away last year we want to see it go up in flames like some kind of metaphoric effigy? We want the world to have a reset button, but it doesn't it work that way. We aren't out in space revolving around the sun like it's a treadmill. The sun itself is in an orbit, and we're following it, so in truth, we, the planet and everything on it, are on a forward trajectory. There's no going back. There's only forward, so fasten your seat belts, it's going to be another bumpy ride.

Messing About 

Leonard Cohen knew the value of solitude.

Blessed with one extra day of vacation, what would you do? I can tell you what I did. January 3, should have been the first day back to work, but my company has added four additional vacation days over a year called a "Day for Me". You can work if you like (not bloody likely), or take a class or do whatever. It's your day. I began it by sleeping in, an act of both defiance and denial. I slipped downstairs to find Julia had already made a pot of coffee. This was followed by two clementines, the most seasonal of citrus, though nowadays you can get them any time, they remain one of my favourite Christmas traditions. This was followed by some oatmeal and a small piece of chocolate (I was still on holiday after all). I had two small errands to run so of course, I steeled my reserve with a brief after-breakfast nap.

I then set out to pick up a print job from a local office supply place, return home with it (too large to carry around for the day), then off to return two small unwanted items to a downtown Ikea. A modern day rewrite of both Homer's and Joyce's Ulysees would have included an Ikea labour. Once there, unexpectedly, it wasn't so busy and it seemed necessary to enjoy a cinnamon roll with a glass of "nordic drink" (purportedly lingonberry flavour).

Once again refreshed, I continued on to the Art Gallery of Ontario to see the exhibit of Leonard Cohen's photos, writing, music and art. It was surprisingly busy. The joy of having a day off that no one else does, usually means you have most public places to yourself. Not so much on this day. Despite the crowded galleries, the restaurant was relaxingly sparse and it was lovely to have a full table to myself and enjoy a meal with only the side dishes as company. Once I left the cloistered quiet of the gallery's bistro, I rejoined the masses in the streets. Even the streetcars had returned full to the brim with the riding public.

As new years go, I recommend everyone begin with a day only for yourself. Unless of course, all of your days are to yourself, in which case, perhaps seek some companionship at least one day. There is undoubtedly a difference between solitude and loneliness. One is chosen, the other, presumably, is imposed. Leonard Cohen certainly valued the work he did alone in a room or by an open window or sitting in a café. A quote from Cohen in the exhibit was, to paraphrase, "the archive is the mountain and the published work, the volcano", which I took as meaning the mountainous accumulation of work you do in private, that no one ever sees, still informs whatever you reveal to the public. There is the value of solitude. For me, solitude isn't necessarily leaving behind everything to think quietly in a cave, but simply moments you take for yourself. I realized recently when simply walking on your own, you decide when the break between the cars is enough to dash across the street, which is not something you do when walking with others. A holiday like Christmas is seen as a cherished time to spend with family, so much so that Newfoundlanders invented Tibb's Eve to have a night out with friends before all that fam-time. I like to sprinkle days off in the year just for me. Of course, this may be considered selfish to parents with little kids, but that just shows the unusual luxury of time to yourself. There are plenty of ways I like spending a day: at a gallery, a bookstore, a bike shop, or even doing laundry or just napping. Some ways I measure the success of those days for me are how long I spent the day without wearing my glasses, which for me are worn mostly while working at the computer or how long I went without looking at a watch or clock. When you've spent a day not caring about time you've probably had a good day.

After my Day for Me my only real regret was that it wasn't a "Month for Me". It might seem a bit much to think of having more time off immediately following having time off, but as I have said before, (to quote a certain rat in literature, who I now consider my spirit animal), I can't think of anything more important than simply messing about.

Time Rift

aestas canadensis (Canadian Summer)

I always have this nostalgic vision of summer: lazy, sunny mornings, padding around the house barefoot, where I linger over coffee, pastries and seasonal fruit. Reading in the shade while listening to new music or podcasts. Countless swims and bike rides and plentiful stops for ice cream. Restaurant hangs with friends. Movies in cooled theatres. Music in parks. Slow shopping in markets to get ingredients for a great meal made over a grill under a salmon coloured evening sky. None of that is exceptional or difficult but you need time such that none of it is rushed. You need a special kind of time. You need summertime.

Yet, what is a summertime? It's really just a dozen weekends, and if you really think about how many weekends others ask you to join them in their summer endeavours or that you have to use for all the chores and errands you were leaving for a warm, dry day, that number is probably closer to half of that. You also need summer weather. We now have summers of crushing, searing heat, oppressive humidity, raging forest fires, overwhelming droughts or deadly flooding and mudslides. Not a time for simple pleasures.

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The Saddest Day of the Year 

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A post shared by Peter Rogers (@peterrogersesq)

The Christmas Tree Massacre occurred on January 05, 2022. Coincidentally, this was also the same day as the Christmas Cake Abduction wherein the last of the Christmas pound cake disappeared from its last known location.

I didn't want to throw my Christmas Tree on the sidewalk like weekly trash but that's exactly how the city picks up your Christmas tree, like yard waste, in the most ignominious way possible. I'd planned on extending Christmas cheer until January 6, Epiphany, Old Christmas Day. Yet, trash pickup is on Wednesdays on my street, which was on the 5th this year and so the tree was stripped of its lights and ornaments and 86'd through the backdoor like a drunk on New Year's Eve. I suppose I could keep the Christmas spirit going by eating my weight in pound cake and chocolate, or maybe it's healthier to let the holiday go and keep Christmas in my heart instead of my gut.

Road Tripping

Road trips used to be a lot harder.

In August I flew back to Newfoundland. It was the most expensive flight I’ve purchased in years. The flight was delayed twice and, if you count the train ride to Pearson, the wait at the gate and the time filling out COVID documentation once I landed, I was wearing a mask and breathing with difficultly for over seven hours. This is how we travel now. Not by hook or by crook but by cautious and respectful steps.

In contrast, in September, Julia and I took a road trip a few hours outside of Toronto where we listened to our own music and podcasts, took our own time, took the road less travelled, snacked on our snacks and spoke and laughed entirely unmasked.

I’m not generally a fan of the road trip by car. The stress of driving on a 400-series Ontario highway combined with junk food, intermittent radio, carefully timed bathroom breaks, not to mention other idiot drivers, all while sealed inside a ton or so of steel, glass and plastic seems more like torture by boredom than fun. By comparison, nothing comes close to the thrill and genuine freedom of heading out on the open road with just your bike and a couple of stuffed panniers. When you bike it takes a day to cover the same distance you might go in an hour by car but you remember every minute of that day and every kilometre of that journey. It is so visceral. The sun or (god forbid) rain on your cheeks, the aromas in your nose, the wind buffeting you, the sounds from roadside woods or creeks all become unforgettable. The journey isn’t just the way you got somewhere on your vacation but it is the vacation.
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Welcome to the Working Week 

What breed am I? Couch potato.

It was another long day full of meetings, conversations, planning and deadlines. Another late supper and another day that ended on the couch flipping between late night talking heads and their celebrity guests. The THC/CBD oil was starting to kick when I decided I'd had enough and stood up to head to bed. As I usually do, I checked my phone to see when my first meeting of the next day would be. Oddly, there were no meetings  because, as I came to realize, I was looking at Saturday in my calendar. Only then did it occur to me that it was Friday night. This is a day that shall live in infamy. The time I forgot it was Friday.

You often hear retired people forgetting what day of the week it is, because, well, why would it matter? I can sometimes picture the same thing happening to me but it never occurred to me that I might not remember what day it was because I was so busy.

The affluence of doing absolutely nothing is something I cherish. I realize I live easier than most but I don’t feel “rich” or wealthy. I think of the wealthy as those who don’t need to work to pay for their lifestyle and they don’t have to work to even build more wealth. "Money makes money," as they say. Yet it occurred to me that the freedom to do nothing but lie around listening to podcasts, flipping through a magazine or a book, or watching a film is a kind of wealth many cannot experience. 

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T'is Still the Season 

Baking is always a part of the holidays and this year I baked a couple of pound cakes (one to share for Mike to finish with marzipan and glaze and one for myself) and some bread. The pound cake turned out great and I think the reason was really just the amount of whipping I did when making the batter. At least so says founder and owner of Milk Bar, Christina Tosi. Tosi's point being you can't really play with the ratios of ingredients in baking but how you handle them makes a difference, like whipping more air into a batter.

On the other hand, I hadn't baked much bread lately because I was avoiding bread, gluten and carbs. I have to admit after avoiding gluten and dairy for almost eight months I couldn't see any big difference in my health. I could still avoid the carbs but I'm not sure I have the problems with gluten that others have so, basically, here comes the bread! Baking bread is fun. I use a pretty simple and forgiving recipe so it's easy to imagine playing with it by adding seeds or nuts, or even things like olives or sun-dried tomatoes. A lot of people took up baking bread over 2020, whereas I sort of stopped, but I think this year I might get back to it.

We Need a Little (More) Christmas 

On an overcast, ugly day in January I'm trying to extend the sweet warmth of the holidays by listening to Christmas specials, eating chocolates and generally being a world champion layabout. This my last day before going back to work tomorrow, so it will be a day of snacking, napping, reading, and watching television and listening to podcasts. As to continued snacking… in for a penny, in for a pound, or two or maybe three or four. I can wait a few more days to think about getting back in to shape starting with four-second workouts or how to get fit in my second half.

Like the Ones I Used to Know 

I’m passed the age of dreaming of snow for Christmas or presents under the tree or chocolates in a sock (OK, if I find a sock full of chocolates, it would probably cheer me up. C’mon… chocolate!) but I’ll never be passed the age of missing family. So many people are lamenting not being able to be with family for Christmas this year but I’m sure a few are more than happy not to deal with the stress of travel, the expense and stress of gift giving or the inevitable drunken Uncle Phil with a less than modern view of race relations and gender fluidity (“Fluids?! Don’t mention fluids at the dinner table!”)

Last year, I voluntarily removed all the stress of the holidays by staying at home alone. I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day entirely alone. In my solitude I slept, ate, watched TV and movies, snacked and napped my way into a state of bliss. Of course, this was possibly one of the loveliest holidays ever because I was still able to see friends, visit galleries and I wasn’t really missing family as I had spent a lovely summer vacation with them when Newfoundland is at its best (“When summer spreads her hand” as the Ode to Newfoundland says).

This year is different. I won’t be spending the holidays alone, but I won’t be with family either. Now, almost a year and half since seeing family, including my ailing mother, and there is a bitter tang to this pandemic pill. (Pill? Is there a pill?! No, Uncle Phil, go back to sleep.) We can never seemingly get what we truly desire, unless you live in a Hallmark Christmas movie, which is to have everyone we love be together at the same place, at the same time, and still have control of the television remote. So pardon my nostalgia, back to a time when I was so small that my world was so small that everyone I loved fit on a single couch and could squeeze into a single photo. My world is bigger now but I still want that feeling. Hopefully, a slice of marzipan covered pound cake, a chocolate (or two), an old tune and some familiar voices will do just that.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Partial End of the Decade 

Not to be one of those guys, but I think we're generally pushing this whole "end of the decade" thing too much (isn't 2020 still the same decade as 2011?) This is especially true when Spotify tells you this is your music of the last decade, when you've only been paying for the service since 2015. I'm not sure why we're so interested in this kind of year/decade end round up thing but here we are at the end of the year. All the clocks and calendars are set to roll over and I guess everyone feels it's an opportunity to press the reset button. So if you have a button you want pushed, push it now.

Not to be technical or anything but I've only been on @Spotify since 2014. Still, apparently, this is how my (partial) decade sounded on Spotify. Get your #spotifywrapped. https://t.co/czcbQGPn0W

— Peter Rogers, esq (@rowdyman) December 31, 2019

Everything is Special 

Snow is extra special at this special time of year.

Everything is so special at this time of year. Light snowfall on a sunny morning is pretty, not worrying. The twinkly shop lights and window displays in the dim afternoon light seems extra lovely. The darkest and longest night of the year isn’t a day of dread but of Solstice celebration. Coffee is sold with peppermint, chocolate and whipped cream, which is special. When it’s cold enough for the ice rinks to open, it’s so special to see crowds of people circling in a small rink.

Even laundry. I did Christmas laundry this morning and it was so special! There was a momentary streak of sun which lit the tiniest crystalline flakes of snow in the air. Very special. Cleaning is special when you’re tidying up the house to prepare for visitors. Why can’t I keep the house this tidy all year long? Because the rest of the year isn’t special, that’s why. What is dreary every other time of year is less dreary at this time of year. Cooking a big meal with all of the special ingredients is especially special. Eating, something we do every day of our lives (if you’re lucky) is super special when it’s a special meal downed with a special drink. Doing the dishes after a special meal doesn’t seem special until you realize your head is bopping to the special music of this special time of year.

This time of year is so special that people will nearly ruin themselves to spend quality time with the special people in their lives. They will take special care to get to the airport early to catch the special flight with the extra special price. Or they will drive for hours through dangerous weather just to get to that special feeling of being surrounded by loved ones.

This year I did something super special. I took out the not-so-special part of Christmas and simply stayed home. I didn’t just “stay at home”, I stayed at home, in the house on the couch. Of course, I did eventually leave the house and see people I know in friendly environs but on Christmas Day itself, I was alone. I was alone with the TV shows I loved, the music I loved, the books, movies and food I loved. Via technology I saw family face-to-face with only a pane of glass and thousands of kilometres between us. Alexander Graham Bell would’ve wept. It was lovely. It was not lonely. Now I’m not saying I would do this every year nor would I recommend it to those who require familial support. I might be unique or this year may be unique but I am rolling around in my solitude the way a mountain dog rolls in fluffy snow. I’m watching beloved movies. I’m reading on the couch which leads to napping on the couch. I’m eating chocolate, liquorice, cake, chips and clementines. I’m wearing what I call “house jamas” (not really pyjamas per say, but light loose and shabby clothing nonetheless) and loving it. My health hasn’t been super this year (an ongoing skin condition that would have made Job an atheist) and travelling like this would have been my end. Rather than fight line-ups, security checks, other travellers, weather, fate and lastly sitting in this skin I’m in on airplanes and in airports, I’d rather be left at home to my own devices. Sometimes to appreciate what makes this time of year special, you may have to sacrifice some of what makes it special to preserve its specialness.

A Very Cheery Messmas to All 

I often think of Christmas as a very messy time of year. It's a hot mess from top to bottom. Gifts, travel, unpredictable weather, illness, expenses, deadlines and line-ups can all seem crushing. Yet this year I elected to not travel and "go it alone" despite causing my mother worry, I'm embracing the complete and utter relaxed chill of it all. Maybe it would be better to nickname this Christmas, Chillmas. I hope you get the Christmas and holiday you want and need.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered 

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Summer vibes.

A post shared by Peter Rogers (@peterrogersesq) on Aug 5, 2019 at 5:39am PDT

A man trying to fit his oversized bag into the overhead bin looked angrily at the compartment while not understanding how his overhead-bin-sized-bag would not fit. A flight attendant came to the rescue and turned the bag 90° clockwise and pushed it easily into the available space. When the flight landed a woman stood up and started towards the toilet before realizing that the plane’s exit was the other way. Even then she seemed unsure. Later in the terminal at a sandwich shop a man stood in front of a menu board looking so intensely at it you’d think he expected it to deliver the meaning of life. After a minute he abandoned the task and walked away in a huff. While I waited for my boarding call I entered the men’s room to be met by a woman shaking water from her hands. For a moment I thought I had gone to the wrong restroom but the urinals told me otherwise. This woman clearly now recognized her mistake, dropped her head and muttered, “Excuse me.” It’s a look I’ve come to know as “The Bewilderment”.
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The Skin I Was In 

PEC Dreaming pic.twitter.com/Kh64tuGLOA

— Serge Report (@rowdyman) July 15, 2019

The pool of Picton that saved my soul after over a 100 km of hot weather riding.

I lay in the warmth of my room reading a magazine with the hum of the air conditioning buzzing on. Idly I scratched my legs while I read. When the swoon of sleep began its descent I tossed the magazine aside then noticed the detritus of my scratching. The navy blue sheets were covered with tiny white flakes almost as if someone had dusted them with flour. In the din of the dark room it was almost like a constellation of northern Ontario stars. Also it was sort of gross and not a little sad. In less than two weeks I was already shedding the sun-browned skin that was my proof of an early summer adventure. I was shedding the version of myself that had known the sun sitting on my right shoulder as I rode east. I was losing that part of myself that recognized the croak of a bullfrog in a roadside creek, catalogued the dead (turtles, snakes, squirrels and baby birds), knew the distances between towns, knew the time to get there but didn’t care, knew the smell of mockorange and lilac blossoms so sweet they were like candy, and knew that fresh cold tap water was better than any Chardonnay or local beer money could buy.
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Black Heart Blues 

December can be an epic disaster of social events, over-eating, over-spending and over-extending. I found some relief when a couple of difficult projects were done and dusted, tucked away or sent off to the ether where they would no doubt die in the cold lonely space where neglected work dies. My calendar cleared up further when my volunteer commitments had been met and only one party was left. I took an evening to put up some Christmas decorations while playing a cheesy Christmas movie in the background (theme: when you’ve lost family, create your own etc) and I have to admit some seasonal warmth crept into my black heart.

Why the black heart? I’m not sure. It’s as though you’ve just discovered your hand has lost all sensation after driving a nail into it without noticing. That’s odd, you say to yourself, that should really have hurt. My job lately has been so soul-suckingly unsatisfying it has left me numb to whatever ridiculous thing happens next. The bleakness of the darkest November in 30 years certainly contributed. Meanwhile the hellscape of political machinations infecting our world is inescapable. I resolved to ignore it but no matter what, some kind of terrible news slips into your life like an unwanted guest.

I thought I could outrun that black heart but you don’t get far if you can only get around to running once every few days (see “work”). Maybe a good night’s sleep would do the trick but where did all the good nights go? I thought I could drink it away but that’s a bit of a cliché isn’t it? I thought the company of friends would take it away but you can only impose yourself on friends for so long. I sought out art only to find those unscrupulous thieves called artists not only have your number but they will call it and who answers that call? The black heart.

The black heart. That inky celphalopod who lurks and slips into any nook and cranny. That fairground funny mirror who reflects your own corrupt and morphed image of yourself. It’s a box, opaque to everyone else but transparent to yourself and it is disgusting, smelling of the rot of your own septic guts. Who are you? You voiceless director, making me your whipping boy, pressing my face in the mess that is my life. You are a spectral bully and if there is one thing I hate, it’s a bully. When you live in a time that venerates, celebrates, champions and elects bullies and their bullshit, it’s hard to see the bright side. There was a time I would have avoided typing that word but it’s too late for that now. We live in a golden age of bullshit. It is an era when that word went from unacceptable to the only way to describe the world.

I guess that’s a cynical view of the world, life and everything but that’s what the Black Heart does to you.

Cheers! 

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A post shared by Peter Rogers (@peterrogersesq) on Dec 21, 2018 at 8:26am PST

Here's to more cheers and less fear this year. Merry Christmas everyone!

An Algorithm That Made Me See Myself For Who I Truly Am 

Koerner Hall, Toronto

“Welcome to Koerner Hall”, said a casually dressed man, who seemed so comfortable on the stage that the audience hardly noticed him.
“Welcome Welcome,” nudging the crowd to settle and focus, “Tonight we welcome you to the third concert in our current series and to enjoy returning Torontonian, Chilly Gonzales.” A shower of appreciative applause. “We remind you to please turn off your phones and mobile devices, to disconnect from the outside world for a few hours and lose yourself in the music.”

I almost cried.

This felt like the first vacation I’ve had in over eighteen months.

I don't want to bore you with a "woe is me" list of how busy I am because everyone is busy. Everyone has their own stuff.

I don't want to whine about how much time I spend looking at screens. I could just look away, couldn't I?

I don't want to "humble-brag" about how volunteering for non-profit advocacy organizations takes up all my free time (#humblebrag).
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