Ashlandsblog

I suppose I imagined it. When my brother is brought up, I hear the condolences, sentiment manufactured, is still a sincere gesture. But I imagined someone asking me If I miss him, right after. A tiny glimpse of compassion, for a moment reminding me, grief is the brother of love. And he demands to be felt. Someone please remind me to perform a seance and bring back the ghosts in my attic. I’m forgetting if you avoid them, they move your furniture, your favorite mug goes missing and you’ll never find the remote. I guess, I’ll sit on the floor then, drink right out the carton and look out the window. My brother welcomed attention with contempt. 

There was a time in life when it was apparent that every man needed some time alone. It’s less obvious now. You’d have to rip open a space in a consciousness to get it. I do miss the days when I was free from spectators. Cold night, and walking in circles. But walking was never walking; it was searching.

And then you bring someone else into the mix and it all goes terribly. All of a sudden I have to adjust my pace, listen to their perspective, pretend to care, and they stop to pee. Motherf*ckers always ruin my tempo.

Thinking, to me, is like Jazz music. It exceeds analysis. It relies on intuition and action. You do what you do and you deal with it. So when I have someone asking me questions about how I come to some conclusion, I have to bite my tongue. You’re either a thinker or you’re not. Non-transferable skills, buddy. The post doesn’t even make coherent sense. I’m addressing an imagined adversary, a disappointing former companion, my sister who never asks for ketchup and gets me to ask for it.

Spectators everywhere. In no man’s land is anyone ever alone. Put your hand out, there’s always people reaching.

Growing inches from the day I’m born. Limbs unfolding, and the mind unravelling. Only to find that no matter how far into look into someone, I see halos. I’m not concerned with the good. I have seen them all my life. In my pursuit, I’ve lost my tidings. I’m looking for the devil that’s in disguise. For once to meet someone with no apology, all disclosure of their cruelty without excuse. Come on, make it easy and appear to me in crimson, horns and all, hooves. Do something bad, cause the pain and admit you are inconsolable. Don’t show me a past that makes up for it. I’d rather black and white. Anytime I think I’m close, someone weaker hides behind the veneer of austerity. Just another fraud with paper horns, and in my deep frustration I’ve started snatching the halos off of people’s head and frisbeeing them. I would like for once to not make amends on behalf of every injury sustained, worse to admit they’re not from some formidable foe, just another person whose limbs keeping growing and mind unravelling. And worse still that the closest I’ve come face to face with it is in the mirror.

“I didn’t know it was anything wrong,” says he. Everyone talks with a tone drawn from a certain central theme in their life. My sister identified mine as, according to her, the tone and base of someone always insufferably self-advocating. And that’s true, what’s wrong with that? Should I not make it explicitly clear at all times that—oh well, everyone has a certain theme.

My favorite customer, although sometimes he makes me question that title, has a chronic case of always being the “biggest person in the room.” He knows better, he feels more, he is going to lead, he’s the reasonable one.

The other one is poorly cracking jokes, or even his menial recall of the day is arm in arm with a base of laughter. As if everyone’s supposed to find him amusing or funny. But it’s not so, now it reads more like the ghost of his dead stand-up comedy career haunting his life and dialogue.

My oblivious friend tells me a story about what he did. And when I question the morality of the situation, he says he had no idea it was a bad thing to do. He’s oblivious, but somehow someone managed to follow a 15-step sequence of what a bad guy would do in a certain situation. Without practice. How crazy. If only he was cluelessly able to do the good guy things. A mind built to protect itself from blame. You’ll find most guys resort to this. A costume of innocence.

At least we can thank God those people eventually find someone just as bad, and it devastates them back into our shared reality.

Project Title: TBD

Shoot Location: WPG Concourse

Director: Ash

Compensation: My absolute care (conditional)

Seeking:

An individual who can authentically portray a regular customer who is constantly performing a “nice guy.” Must look handsome from all angles; tall, 6 feet and up, no more than 6’1”. Dark hair, wide-eyed. We want dispassion, a mute sense of exhaustion.

Must order a cortado. Sometimes forgets to say thank you, but still asserts goodwill through expression rather than words. Half-hearted approaches only- don’t act too eager for the part.

Our last guy only pretended to like coffee.

Imagine me clearing my throat before I say this … one of my favorites came to tell me, actually- 

how it really happened :

In the underground tunnels of Downtown Winnipeg, measured footsteps blessed the orange tiles with his steps. His cape, long as hell. Crown blinding bystanders, shiny particles of dust wafting off of him, slicked back hair, and an unreadable face. Stylish on overdrive. Walking towards me. At this point I was poetically bent down and when he was right at the counter, instead of bending, the platelets of the world titled down- and so did he- to tell me, “haven’t read your blog.”

The lights went out for a moment, not just in the tunnels, the world. Monitors and screens, zapped out of life, and something inside me too. 

It’s not the fact that he hasn’t read my blog, it’s how casually he hasn’t read it. And how okay he is. In fact his life is better without my blog. 

“A morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs” – from some book by someone.

Friendship with me is tax heavy, it feels good till the deadline. I’m selfish. There’s no way around it. I’m expecting you to read my mind, sense my mood, adjust, tie my shoelaces. My mom and dad used to do it for me, happily. My friends still offer to do it. These days, I’ve learned to tie them poorly but it does the job. 

I won’t text back. I’ll wait for an invite, and won’t show up. I’ll make fun of you, it’s worse if I don’t. Then I don’t bother at all to observe you at all. I’m different, and then I’m not different at all. If we’re walking together, I’m walking ahead, if you want to stay longer, I’m complaining. If you’re wanting to leave early, you’re not going anywhere. Everyone’s on thin ice, and when someone’s waiting for the tepid heat to burst, I go ; cold.

But it gets worse, as more time goes on you’ve invested too much mental effort into me and I’m that thing under the bed you’re reaching for, and just as you touch it, you’ve knocked it further away. Ofcourse I’m not totally self serving, I’ll have an inviting and deep enthralling conversation with you. Remember things about someone they’d never expect and they always experience it as a form of care. Then it’s worse if you know I care and I’m choosing not to. 

It’s far worse to encounter someone you know is good and chooses otherwise. And if you’re planning on running away, my claws are into deep, you’ll leave with your back scratched. 

It’ll still feel like a privilege to know me. You’ll never have met someone who’s so bound to who they are, no one but me. And just when you think at least he’s self aware, I always was. It’s not a matter of being of devious or emotionally extractive, it’s about how many of you believe you only matter if you’re of service. I never do.

If I sound corrosive and unbecoming, know that I am bound to a character written for me, for reasons I can’t say or don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be here amongst all living things, I’d be a star in the sky. But for now I’m amongst you all, a little fragile than most. And if you can sense that, and you’re around, thank you, I love you. 

Now, let’s tie my shoelaces.

I wasn’t granted enough care to be taught, and now my fingers turn to laces and the laces into fingers. And I’m allergic to asking for help.

“No, I didn’t. I mean, I looked at the book and knew I wouldn’t like it, so I picked up something else. You should read that one. It’s great,” the self-proclaimed people pleaser says. Here I thought I had coasted the seven seas and would never again feel the glee of amusement. It’s no surprise his name rhymes with smart.

A couple of days ago, I recommended a book to one of my customers. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He said he’d read it. He said he’d also read my blog. A week goes by, and he comes back and tells me he looked at the book, realized he wouldn’t like it, bought something else, and then recommended I read what he’s reading.

I’m quite thrilled. This proclaimed people pleaser has a lot of backbone for someone who’s always bending down to other people. It’s not an insult that he judged the book by its cover and therefore me. He had the faint idea that he could recommend something to me. 

As an act of God, I went to the store and found the book he was talking about. As soon as I went to grab it, it dropped. I tried to pick it up but my shoes kissed it, and stomped on it and kicked it and it slid right under the shelf. I walked out of the store with nothing. No surprise my name rhymes with rash.

I have never seen him shy.
When I was young, he would swift away The curtains deftly, without a word — Urging.


Just before we would leave the hotel,
He would pat down my coat,
Summon a tissue to wipe an invisible stain.
Always preoccupied, him and me.
We spoke different languages,
And I could barely stand to look him in the eyes,
Though he demanded.
I learned to draw out the details in the silence we shared.


I’m at the Blue Hotel in San Francisco, Gently drawing the curtains open—
Though it makes no difference; the room is grey.
I’m hoping she takes the hint that the sun
Hides behind its own curtains on this side of the world.
Elevator music escapes the revolving doors,
Rain-slicked roads are wearing the night lights.
My sister and I are ready to head out, And I’m fighting the urge to wipe
The stain off her coat.

I met my Al at my best,
Lines raking the edge of his eyes,
Burnt at the neck,
An old cat.
I wish I could say beautiful,
But he was invasive, warmth creeping in.
If I looked away, his voice unbuttoned
My being.
It’s always cold in this city,
The moment I step away for
My beloved cigarette.
She reminds me I have to buy her,
Pay in tar under my teeth,
And at the tip of my fingers.
But my Al is the relief
That doesn’t come in a box,
Someone I can’t
Throw a twenty at.

My friend, Jordan. One of those moments you don’t remember the first time you met. But you guys know I remember.

He’s my reference point. When I think about him, I think about Florida and ordering take out, and walking to Dunkin’ Donuts in the evening and no matter how hard I tried to blow the smoke away from his face, it would just follow him. He gave up swatting it away and instead just tolerating it for my sake.

Jordan is Jewish and he would teach me all about it. I was, as I always am, actually a reference point for most people, the exception, the outlier in most relational and social dynamics. And that was the fatal flaw, the Achilles heel. Back then? I wasn’t worried about softening myself for anyone, I was forming. Jordan wanted a friend, I was trying to be a spectacle. No matter how many times he adjusted, I introduced a new side of myself. I was a complicated card game, and he had just figured out how it all worked. We both lived on campus in Florida, our ritual was ordering Denny’s breakfast in the evening. He sent me a lot of his writing, and I read it and I held my tongue.

He didn’t hold his. Eventually he wrote me a poem and I have to say I loved him more for it. Because he’s not wrong at all. And we’ve stayed friends after too.

“Dear Ash

How can I say goodbye without thanking you? 
Have to know I’ll never go a day every mistaking you 
As a curse
Because yes, we got what we deserved 
But no, you’re a blessing 
A well-learned lesson 
In how not to treat others
We put up with each other for too long 
Always knowing where the other was going wrong 
But you’ll live forever in me 
Focus on the guy to really remember
Focus on the guy to really see
You’ve helped shape who I am till now 
Influenced me in the moments where you weren’t around 
Crossed the line between vanity and self love
Made me question my sanity more times than enough
Facing down your demons
While knowing every meaning 
Curiosity killed the cat
I guess that is that
Too great to change 
So you’ll just stay the same
Making people adjust to you
Smiling when they come up to you 
But let me just say I’m done with and through
In your mind you are always right
But here’s something you never knew 
Your presence always leads to unsettling despair
So in essence I have begun not to care
Thinking the world will bend at your will
That nobody is as close to as skilled
Everyone else is two degrees lesser than
Happy to explain so they can understand 
Some people stick some people fade
The person I like is there but in spades 
Not a frequent visitor to the civility club
So I’ll hold on to my nobility and say enough is enough

– Jordan Davis

I have this one customer who keeps me sharp. I have the second one to test it out on. These two, black and white foxes, orbit me. And though my posture is steel, it softens around the two. People don’t like jokes – they either like the person who makes the joke, or maybe we’re naturally inclined to give in to our sentiments and senses and find someone funny simply because they think they are. So when the guy with the bad joke once again throws his hook into water, all the fish in the world scatter away. You don’t laugh at his joke? Oh, he’s ice fishing for it.

However, after a thousand bad jokes, a couple have landed. The best one being the time he reluctantly explained how, over the weekend at a different store, he spilled his drink as soon as he got to his driveway. Now I’m not a nice guy – I’m spectacular.

No, no, you’re not paying for this, you dropped it, mistakes happen. Don’t worry about it!

Upon getting his freebie, he snatches it and says, “That works every time!”

Any time he’s hanging out longer than he would, any time he’s waiting for a reaction to his joke? I know it won’t be funny. The couple of times he has been, he walks away. True winners don’t care for the applause – the reward is intrinsic. And some part of him knows this. On days he doesn’t have a joke, he acts busy – files dropping out of his briefcase, calculators falling, the numbers at his desk threatening to board flights unless he accounts for them right away!

His partner in crime is a bit more savvy. He’s dry. More attentive. A lesser man might miss it, but he’s familiar with disruption. And so am I. This one’s caught me off guard more than once. One time I joked about getting surgical work done – I was getting my teeth whitened – and he simply saw me, a slight pause and straight face: “So you’re finally getting some work done.”

And after I’m done laughing, he adjusts his comically large collar and grunts like he got a lion to jump across a ring of fire.

Now I have to wonder how one is funny and the other tries to be funny. But if you look close enough? Mister Bad Joke is exactly why the other one is funny. He takes the initiative and makes the joke. Mister Dry Wit and I are simply editors. Our humour relies on his. Otherwise, we come across as too jagged and sharp. The people with the bad jokes, or the ones that try to be funny, are foundational. They’ve got broad shoulders and no gym membership. 

People with a dry sense of humor rely on timing, place, person, precision – and although that’s not easy and a whole thing of its own, the guy with the bad joke simply has that one joke in his back pocket. No relation to time or audience.

Interestingly, the bad jokers are also never going to laugh at your joke. Their directive is simply to be the funniest. Someone else’s joke might as well pull the wake down on itself. The attendees won’t even look up from their phones.

My brother was like this too. You could never get him to laugh at anything I’d say. Perpetually unimpressed. He was also just like Mister Bad Jokes – chronically on his phone, probably stealing jokes. I guess where there’s lions, there’s hyenas too.

Meanwhile, Mister Dry Humour and I roll dynamite under each other’s doors. Our noses are red from the cold — it’s not paint.

I have this one customer who keeps me sharp. I have the second one to test it out on. These two, black and white foxes, orbit me. And though my posture is steel, it softens around the two.