Ashlandsblog

There’s a miasma of the self I can’t escape. Every so often, I return back to myself at an alarming pace. It’s almost like no change or transformation has ever taken place. To me though, it’s like being healed again. Mended back to my younger self, a self that could willingly and naturally be unreasonably upset or irritable. On days like those, my family would bend the knees. Friends alike and any around my radius, tormented by my sullen demeanour. Any sage to cast away the purple clouds of despair that at times befall someone helplessly hopeful. 

So the people that have seen me bright might wonder why the Ash they’ve come to know, eager to tease, and sweet talk his way to your cup full, seems like he’s deep in the ocean, rid of thirst for next few lifetimes? That’s the real me. I’m afflicted by vastness, not a lack of anything. Permission slips to do whatever the hell stacked in my back pocket. I’m further away from touching my toes the closer I get. Because I’m hardwired to turn to back into myself. Displeased and unaffected, what once was clear skies, is all dark with cracks of light. And I name those cracks after people I know who remind me of days past.

When I meet these people, all of you, I am again reminded of a time I can be wilful and unreasonable, and like the days when I had a village of people to be street lights to my escape from solitude, I turn to you. And this disclosure, the only sign of some gratitude.

This one’s long-lasting. He parks his car exactly along the lines. Plaid blazer, plaid shirt, plaid socks, plaid scarf, and plaid pride. This man lives in lines, and he doesn’t cross them.

There’s a measuring tape in his pocket, and even if you think he’s not measuring the distance between him and another, he’s calculating it. A respectable amount of distance. He’s the kid in school who organized his stationery and waited for the teacher to praise him. And it all worked.

There’s nothing wrong with a man who lives in lines until he meets someone who loves crossing them. Diagonally. No measuring tape needed. No filter with words, no filter with what he wants to see. And so when they meet, lovely lines wants some fire. An ember- even an ash would do. To see what it’s like to break the rules. Jump the fence. Say the terrible joke (I think he’s crossed that line many times). I wish I could tell Lines you can only come down from a pedestal. But he’s worried he’s the single pillar holding up our sky.

But behind bars, he makes imaginary lines and jumps over them every time. And that’s why I’ve never seen him without a smile.

It’s better to die. You’re going to die anyway. Have you met people who can’t help but speak? Everyone knows someone like that, and we all know how badly we wish we didn’t. It’s inauthentic. If they write you ten sonnets, they love you; if they write you three hundred sonnets, they love writing sonnets.

Have you met someone who never speaks? They walk on the edge of safety and danger, perpetually flirting with this and that. Somewhere between speaking and dying- that’s a true romantic. People who speak in code. You never know; they’ll never confirm. A lifelong game of conquest, a door that leads to stairs, and stairs that go up, then down, and back to the same spot again. A box within a box, and if you look closely inside, you fall again into the trap of their uncertainty. That uncertainty is the only certainty about them. Words push you away while their eyes call you closer. Black and white. Cardboard under dusty clouds.

Romance in care and unspoken words is love that doesn’t ask to be recognized or witnessed- just felt. What else is God, if not unspoken?

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.

“I mean it’s strange, isn’t it? Worrying about what people think? Anyone that says that is lying too. You can’t care what everyone thinks anyway. There’s about 8 billion people and I definitely don’t care what all of them think. All details of life are-“ 

she pauses for a moment and interrogates her surroundings. And quickly adjusts her crown. Eyes narrowing, a takes a mighty drag of her cigarette, like we’re in smoking lounge. Long earrings, swaying like chandeliers “- consequential and inconsequential at the same time. The answer is in everything, born one day, decaying since then. Something sweet like milk to something bitter, smiling ear to ear then slowly your cheeks are too heavy to smile like you once used to. You can make your life mean something or nothing at all, if it doesn’t mean anything? do fuck all. Who cares and maybe you’ll feel a twinge of misery. Maybe persistently, or you can make everything mean something and have a latent comforting thought that it all matters. Both come with pain. I can convince someone to go on a little longer, to grab on a little longer, to see things a different way, if that doesn’t work? Burn your eyes, and rely solely on other senses. You better appreciate what’s before you, even if you’re used to it. I can be cruel too, I can wonder. There’s better out there, but I know there isn’t. Better is in me, and it’s in you. You’ll go searching for something, you’ll definitely find something but nothing becomes part of you like what’s already made of you.

There really are no more lessons, I’ve been kind, and forgiving, passive and confrontational, direct and mean, silent and reticent, sharp and ambitious, clear and concise, calm and collected. There’s no reward but the self.

So yeah I do think- wait what was the question Ash?”

“Do you like Taylor Swift?”

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.

Wall. What do you do if you’re on set, and we agreed to play these roles and never break character but you do? Or I do, and you forget there are people watching?

I’m in another movie this time. Low light, noir, smokey, cold. All this happened so long ago, all of this agreed upon so long ago, and when you arrived, Wall, you still gave me the look. Yes, that look- the endearing look of someone who wants to remind you that he’s just playing a character, and he’s also giving you the look that look to give you a step ahead. There’s no clapperboard in real life, but your look is one. And now our story together begins.

My lovely fool, you think I’m acting. Sure, it’s Hollywood. But I’ve been in many films of many languages. When you think I’m breaking character, Wall, you laugh a little. I’m a method actor, and then another one inside of it- the snake eating the snake, the eight-turn horizontal infinity. So when it seems like the scene was tense and you couldn’t find the actor in my gaze, turn around- or actually wait for an extra to hand you a mirror.

This movie was named after you.

This part is acting too.

“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.