clinging to the wreckage

Grasping for the words that were written or spoken… digital… paper… long lost audio disappearing as ghosts of sound in the wind. Once so relevant and charged with emotion, now simply relics of the past. Fossils that can occasionally be unearthed by excavating old mails, messages, blogs, and journals. Brush the dust from a single word and uncover a phrase, a sentence, a meaning that was once so powerful and is now merely an understanding of the past. The fossil record of our romantic evolution. The black sheets are covered in white papers, coloured books, envelopes and digital devices as I search through them all for the missing pieces. Am I simply lost in the past? Clinging to something I believed to be a superior species? Meanwhile, it is myself that is on the brink of extinction.

  A forlorn lifeguard stares from the loneliest lifeguard office I have ever seen as the sun sets behind a gloomy sky. I sit on the beach while the waves crash and a young-looking African lady waves at me from above. I’ve seen her several times selling small collectible items near the beach, and I’ve always wanted to smile and say hello. Today she finally waved, after which we exchanged several smiles. Eventually she got into the back of a pickup truck with several of her colleagues and the driver drove off into the darkening evening over bumps that the truck seemed incapable of handling. A different life… one that cannot be easy. Once again, it crashes down upon me that I am extremely fortunate. We all suffer to a certain extent, some suffer more than others. Often, those who suffer more still retain a smile and a kindness that those more fortunate will never know. It begins to rain, and I stare out into the abyss of open ocean and contemplate the future. Standing up, I start to searc

During this Christmas break, I have been fortunate enough to read the memoir of one of my life-long heroes: Greg Graffin’s  Punk Paradox . I have found the book to be truly astonishing and ultimately inspiring. Having discovered Bad Religion in 1993, when they had already been around 13 years and had seemingly accomplished so much, I assumed them to be supremely confident, comfortable, and truly in control of their own destiny. Therefore, it was a surprise to me to read of Graffin’s frequent periods of doubt and concern about his own relevance and impact. Equally surprising was my discovery that the band was frequently going through complex periods of difficult decisions and choices during which heavy sacrifices had to be made (Graffin dropping out of his PhD and co-founder, Gurewitz, leaving the band to focus on his record company, for example). Not only that, but their personal lives were also deeply impacted by their touring schedule and lifestyle imbalances even when sacrifices wer

Christmas morning with my parents for the first time in ten years. It is quite a remarkable thing. My mother and I would probably drink all day, but my dad doesn’t drink and is not always amused when we begin to get wasted. Outside it’s raining and warm. It’s beautiful. I am sitting at the garden table under shelter of the roof that my father built a few years ago. There is nothing more soothing, peaceful, and therapeutic than sitting here with a book with the rain falling all around. A few days ago, I slipped and nearly broke my foot. It is bruised and painful, but I manage to hobble to the beach successfully where the sand and salty water seem to soothe it somewhat. I read for a while or gaze in a trance at the ocean as the sun flickers through the clouds like machine gun fire and begins to burn me. A child is flying a kite too close to me and I eventually gather my things and walk to the bar for a beer. Finding a seat outside in the crowded space I sit downwind from three women only