Although there are far more interesting things to read about and write about than the weather,
I am going to talk about it.
Because I love talking about it.

Heading Eastbound on the TransCanada Highway tonight,
I see that the fog has come.
And I recognize September because of it.
This season we call Autumn is always marked by it.
It brings me to the roads, to the fields, and into my own head.

Amongst my struggles with gender and the future, passivity and altruism,
I find rest in this gray haze that settles itself over the Fraser Valley.
Late at night.
On the long ride home.


It's lonely around this little city these days.
No one to call up for drinks, go for drives around town late at night.
"A cup of coffee and a little conversation."

The things us kids fill our time with these days.
I always tell my parents when they critique my amount of c.d. purchases...
"I have nothing else to keep me sane.
It's a safer thrill than drugs, and cheaper than counseling. "

There are a couple of events coming up:
October Fifth: Kascade plays at Caprice.
October Seventh: You Say Party We Say Die plays at Richards on Richards.
October Fourteenth: Sufjan Stevens plays at St. Andrews Wesley Church.
All in Vancouver. All worth the trip.

.. . .. . ........... . ..
According to the looking-glass self theory by Charles Horton Cooley, our self is formulated in response to our perceptions of the reactions of others towards us.
So, we imagine how we look to others, according to attractiveness, friendliness, and intelligence.
We imagine how others judge us.
We develop a self feeling, such as pride or shame, as a result of our perceptions of these evaluations.

How then, does a negative self concept arise out of positive social interation and consistent positive feedback from peers?

Somehow the disapproval of character, self inflicted or otherwise, creeps in. Takes over.

Is self esteem innate? Or socialized?


I go to sleep most nights with the most obscene panic.
Questions and the desire for a cigarette.

After a frightening conversation I was given a picture.
If only I had the hands to paint.

[it is dark. the image and atmosphere.]

It is this:
God exists in my life as a tension that stands over my head.
Tied at one end is logic and understanding.
The other side is held up by childhood teaching and past interpretation.
And in the middle lies romanticism and the concept of an aesthetic Christ.

In the moments that are quiet: either peaceful or anxious.
God rests.
Just above me.

What is it that I see in music and old cars, landmass and hands?
I wish there were something substantial, something understandable to hold onto.

Angles and perspective. light through tires.
muted light on car windows.
This is time taken. Not a moment contrived.
Something happens to me on nights like this.
Even if I force myself to wonder if maybe all of this is man made,
God can not be denied.

I crave for these moments to be tangible.
Sweet, but filled with depth of understanding.
They ought to be fashioned as something bare but beautiful.
But I won't let the sweetness of it get in the way of sincerity.

It's in the marsh. In the songs.
In the misery of this not working.
The panic it brings to think that maybe I got it wrong.

I've somehow lost familiarity. The tone of your voice.
I wish I had a place where we could bump into each other.
Somewhere across town.
Somewhere I'd find you reading and drinking a cup of coffee.
Early in the morning. By chance.

Hair clean and only the window light.
Unpretty but happy.

I am ill with the notion of finality.

The scent still exists.

But patience is beautiful.