No Punchline

This is a love letter to all snarky fucks out there like me: "Get over yourself".

"Get over yourself" seems like an odd way to start an aimless, long-overdue blog post... especially this one. But there you go.

It occurred to me recently that I have trouble with sincerity, and adequately expressing myself with words that make sense. When trying to earnestly do this I throw in so many long pauses or 'ums' and 'ahs' that what ends up coming out can't possibly be considered English, legally.

Then I usually follow it all up with something akin to 'your momma'.

Funny? Probably not. Annoying... fuck, yes.

I certainly think sincerely, but the mental wall from what I think and what I eventually say is gargantuan.

Check out my ego, yo.

Because, ultimately, that's what it is... Ego. You don't want to sound silly by really truly earnestly expressing yourself... when, in fact, it's not silly at all. I shouldn't even be calling it that, I just can't think of a better word to use, contextually.

When a person says exactly what is on their mind, it's something to be admired. When they put themselves and their thoughts into the open, it's beautiful. Chances are, I'm preaching to the choir. You know and admire this... but it's always great to have the last laugh! 

Right? 

Wrong.

Well, it's just not what I do? I'm a close book. I'm dark and mysterious and...

Get over yourself.

What if it doesn't work out? 

Well, what does that even mean... 'work out'? You're not lifting weights, you're trusting in the people around you. If you can't do that, why expect that they would or could trust you...?

But, but... 

To blame it all on our upbringing or generational influences is lazy. Ultimately, it all comes down to the person and how willing they are to improve themselves rather than attribute to others.

But, it's not a bad defence. Look at what is called funny nowadays -- crass, demeaning, dismissive, sarcastic humour. Sincere moments are constantly punctuated by a punchline, characters are typically set up in a hierarchy where at least one or more are regular joke-butts.

Even the tone in our advertising is challenging, when it's not being unrealistically sexy. "Prove yourself by buying this product!" it screams, with the snarky "yeah right, as if" attitude of a playground bully -- mostly radio and TV for this, by the way. It's all about tone.

But.. that's irrelevant. We can be better. As much as "get over yourself" should be a daily mantra, "get over it" needs to be a close second -- applicable to upbringing, environment, or whatever sense of humour you think you have. Get over it, be better.

Unless you're a science experiment, your reactions are entirely under your own control.

So, to be dismissive or snarky.. it's not a part of your 'nature', it's a choice. It's a crutch.

Now, don't turn it off. It's a great way to express yourself when you're finally comfortable with someone, but not at the cost of sincerity. Allow yourself to be silent when it's most appropriate -- you don't have to be the loudest person in the room, looking for a joke around every corner. Some of the funniest people I know have also been the most helpful and sincere, when times required...

For some reason, this excellent blog post comes to mind: A Better Way To Introduce Your Friends At Parties. A person is not what they do, it's who they are. Listen to the message of every morality tale you've ever heard!

It'll require a little vulnerability, a little bit of silence, and some more eloquent words than 'fuck', but it's entirely possible.

Now comes the apology -- to those who have known me, and experienced this, I am sorry. I am trying to be better, more courageous, and more vulnerable.

I promise.

Oh Right, a Titile

Beginning to enjoy this school.

For those of you not up to date (assuming, of course, that there are any of you.) I am currently attending the University of King's College one-year BJ program.

Please hold your laughter 'till the end.

This is the sunset I had the pleasure of seeing last week while heading to an interview. Yes, I definitely miss the end of day on Newfoundland's West Coast, but in a small way this managed to adequately fill in...

Plus, yaknow, the school is damn pretty.

Nothing to add here -- just jumpstarting ye-olde blog today, in the hopes that making a photo/ film a day might help me keep this going on the regular.

Wish me luck.

Old Post

An older travelogue account of my time in Scotland. Wrote it for a creative writing class... and BOOM! Came across it today. Decided to blog it. Here you are. 

A massive wall of jagged rock stood before me, reaching up into a thick mist that was slowly working away at the snow that had for some time frosted the very cliff on which I stood at that very moment. The snow was had only recently melted, evidenced by patches of white that still cascaded down the mountainside to my right. This trip had been intended as an ice climbing expedition, but that idea was shelved when it became apparent that the ice was not safe enough to trust with our weight - myself and my guide, Chris - so it became a simple rock-climbing adventure instead. The crampons and ice-picks we had decided to carry just incase were all now dead weight which we were laboriously carrying to the top along with other survival essentials (also packed just incase) that were by no means light, even without the climbing gear. I peeked over the edge and took in the expansive valley that I had just vacated only a few hundred meters previous, and briefly considered how very fortunate I was to be rock climbing in the Scottish Highlands. 

The process had begun a few weeks previous, and was a fairly difficult one due simply to indecisiveness. The circumstances were more ideal than they would ever be again-- I was studying Theatre in England at the Harlow campus of Memorial University Of Newfoundland, and midterm was approaching. There were numerous options for what I could do with a week's worth of free time in a foreign country, but one that kept calling back to me was the relatively cheap airfare that could bring me on a pilgrimage I'd dreamt of since childhood: Loch Ness, Scotland. It was enticing, but why spend the money? In the end it was decided that the money should be spent because it could be spent, simply because the chance would never arise so cheaply again. With that in mind I booked a return ticket to an adventure that would deeply affect me, probably for years to come. 

On the morning of the climb I found myself waiting on a bus stop at 7:30am, munching on toast and honey provided by Morag's Lodge, the Hostel at which I was staying in Fort Augustus on the banks of Loch Ness. The bus ride to Fort William (where I was to meet Chris) was slow and oddly laborious, constantly stopping to pick up schoolchildren who lived on farms and fancy-looking, stone-built estates. Sheep dotted the luscious land as the vehicle occasionally broke down and had to be restarted by the driver, more like a computer than any bus I'd ever ridden in before. During these moments I took the time to lament the rain that dripped down the window on the outside and could very well have meant I wasn't going anywhere high that day. Providing a ray of positivity in these moments was the rolling hills of the Scottish farmland that lay on either side of the tiny highway where my bus sat, puttering away in an attempt to start. 

After dropping off the children at their school, I found myself in the parking lot of a grocery chain, greeting Chris- lithe and muscular in the way you always imagine your adventure tourism types to be. He sported a friendly smile and chatty attitude, setting me at ease concerning the upcoming adventure. We swung by some friends of his to pick up the Crampons and Axes, just in case. 

The journey started with a hike along the inside of the horseshoe valley, snaking up and down along green grass now wet with the same rain that was slowly beginning to soak its way into my bones. The trail weaved criss cross up and down at times, and each time you looked right it took all your being not to hold on to something for dear life. The hike developed a rhythm that allowed constant progress around the grassy green and beige Highlands, eventually finding the rocks on which I now found myself with short-term nostalgia. It was a long way down, and at times daunting to think how high I had come to have not reached the halfway point yet-- according to Chris. The reverie was interrupted by his Scottish accent tickling my eardrums, informing me it was safe to climb now that he had gone on to establish a route. Without any hesitation I turned from the vision and moved further up the jagged stones into the mist and fog.