Monday 19 December 2011

Him and the Night

               “It’s dark,” said the night.
               “Oh, is it?” he responded, “I can’t tell.” At least, he was pretty sure he was a he. He couldn’t actually imagine being anything else, so he decided that for the sake of convenience he would stick with what he thought he knew.
               “Are you sure it’s dark? How do you tell?”
               “I don’t really know,” the night thought out loud, “That’s just how things are, I guess. People have always said that it’s dark when I’m around.”
               “What do they say when you’re not around?”
               “I have no idea, because then I’m not close enough to hear what it is they’re saying.”
               “Hmm. Well, this is all very interesting,” said he, “Really, it is. But I feel like I really must be going.”
               “Yes? How do you know that?”
               “Same way that you know it’s dark. Because that’s just how it is. We know about ourselves because of what people say about us. So I know that I must continue walking because I say so.”
               “I see. People logic never really made any sense to me, but I suppose it would make sense to people. Else, why would they keep using it?”
               He felt like he was moving, and that was more than he had felt before, so he decided that it would be progress if he continued feeling that way. “Goodbye, night. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
               “Bye. See if you can find me once you’ve gotten where you’re going. Good luck.”
               He imagined himself gesturing in a way that would indicate that he was leaving, but none of it really made any sense. Anyway, the night was getting fuzzy, and this strange bright sensation began to cover him.
               “Hm, this isn’t night,” he was getting concerned that he would never arrive because everything was so confusing, “Now it’s not dark, it’s messy. This new night is messy.”
               And he was right. The area he was moving into was cluttered with all sorts of things that were coloured, and had mass. Now this was most confusing. The objects seemed to be separated, as if this new kind of night had hardened and then been smashed into a bunch of incongruous bits. And the bits obviously repelled each other, else why were they not sinking into and fading through each other?

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               I enjoyed writing this.
               I am slowly becoming more and more peeved that the blogger posting system does not contain an adequate indentation system.
               Also, I only really write from a male standpoint because I have never experienced life from any other perspective.

Friday 16 December 2011

7 Things I have Learned About Blue-Collar Work


  1. It sucks
  2. Be polite to everyone and your job will be much easier
  3. It's a lot more fun to work with people who don't care too much about their jobs
  4. Canadian winters are not terribly compatible with construction
  5. Coffee is essential
  6. Nobody seems to understand that radio stations exist which don't just play the top 40 songs
  7. Blue-collar work (at least in construction) is dirty. I hate being dirty
  8. The vocabulary of most workers is about Grade 7 level, just with more swearing
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I've decided that I don't like the name of my blog. It was made in haste and was a desperate attempt to sound original. Alas.

Sunday 11 December 2011

A Man on his Porch


            It was a pleasant winter evening. The elderly gentleman stood on his porch, watching the cars as they went by and occasionally glancing at the construction going on across the road from his quaint, attractive townhouse.
            The hedge around his garden was well kept, and gave the man a nice sense of privacy, even though it was only about a hand’s breadth above waist height. His gnome bustled around the hedge, trimming a leaf here, a wayward branch there, helping the shrubby wall keep up the illusion that it had in fact grown to be as orderly and mathematical as it appeared.
            The man was very pleased with his life at the moment. Heat emanating from a mug of mild black tea teased his hand and prompted a satisfied smile. He had a good life, after all. He kept a clean, prim house that was but a short distance walk from the town’s small commercial district; he didn’t struggle to make ends meet; and he had reached that stage in life where he had both the means and the time to take things slowly, and fully enjoyed doing so.

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            Hello again. I have finally decided that I will continue to post updates, but the focus will no longer be on travel, rather it will be a place where I dump pieces of creative writing I've made. I don't know how often I'll update, but it will probably be more than once a month.