Writing is one of the last refuges of the soul that is unable to be honest with itself. In words and punctuation, I find courage. The courage to say that which I cannot in day to day living. The courage to confront the demons inside of me. Mostly, I think I write to confront the past. An odd thing for someone so young to do, to be certain, but it is something I do nonetheless.

The truth is, we all lie to ourselves each day. We convince ourselves to perceive reality as something far different from what is intended and we tell ourselves little white lies to get through the hours we inevitably spend working at jobs we hate or in conversation with people we detest. Writing transcends these borders and allows me to come out of myself. At risk of sounding cliché, I pour my heart and soul onto the page and present it to the world. It is a cry for understanding and love. Like any serious writer, I bring people into my world through the written word and hope that they fancy staying for a while.

I feel immensely blessed to have people in my life who, upon entering that world, have decided they rather like it. Some have been a part of my world for many years now and I can say with the utmost certainty that, in that shared bond, there is love.

Apologies for not writing sooner. Lately, the days have been a haze of ceiling fans and thunderstorms. Cigar smoke and afternoon naps. I haven’t been sleeping much lately, choosing instead to while away the hours watching television and trying to remember to eat once in a while. Mental masturbation, all of it. I should be working. We’ve been on leave for the last three weeks, not that there’s anything to do around that dirty, old warehouse anyway. I suppose sitting around at home is better than hanging around the loading bays, waiting for something to happen.

I remember when I was 15, working at the movie theatre we used to have in town. Do you remember it? It used to be the place to go for a while, before all the high school kids lost interest and they opened that giant multiplex the next town over. Sometimes I miss working there. Well, I wouldn’t really want to be there now, at the age of 22, but I miss the mentality we all had.

It was a bunch of high school kids working there, for the most part. Bored, stupid, immature high school kids with nothing else to do. We didn’t have much in the way of responsibility, but nobody really paid much attention to us anyway. We’d hang out and talk about things like school and girls. We’d watch free movies and eat all the popcorn we could handle. When one round of shows finished, we’d quickly sweep up any obvious garbage, run the next group of customers through, and get back to being as unproductive as possible. The owner, an old guy with a disfigured right hand and missing a toe on his left foot, rarely left his office upstairs.

I learned how to work the projectors, the result of many a late night spent watching Paul, the projectionist, ply his craft with precision and skill. It’s a dying art form, movie projection. With the move to automated, self-threading machines, Paul was one of the few unionized projectionists left working in the country. By the time I left the theatre, at 16, he was long gone, replaced by fellow high school students. I miss the sound of the projectors at night, the machine-gun sound of 24 frames a second being beamed to the masses below. Upstairs in the darkness, surrounded by film, you could find peace.

That’s when I spotted the car in the ditch. The back bumper was stuck on the back of the ditch, while the front was wedged into the rise on the other side, facing the road. Even with how slick the roads were, it’s hard to imagine the move the driver must have had to pull in order to end up in such a jam. Concerned that someone might have been injured, I pulled over, hit my blinker, and started walking back toward the car. Running through my first-aid and CPR courses in my head (information I haven’t used in almost four years, but always seems to come back to me in times of need), I prayed everyone was okay.

As I approached the car, I realized that the driver’s-side door was hanging open, the occupant nowhere to be found. A young couple pulled over and told me they had already called 911. It turned out they had witnessed the car driving on the wrong side of the road and saw it fly into the ditch. They had been the car I saw reversing down the road — they were looking for a street name. The driver, they said, was extremely intoxicated. Apparently, he had already tried to drive the car out of the ditch a number of times. Considering the location of the accident, right in front of a house where two small children live, I was shocked.

While waiting for the paramedics and police to arrive, we watched as the driver drunkenly stumbled out of someone’s backyard and climb back into the car. He seemed to be physically fine, up and walking around. The young lady waiting with us was concerned about our safety, so we kept a fair distance from the drunk. After a few more futile attempts to dislodge the car, he finally gave up.

The police and paramedics arrived in force. I later commented to one of the firefighters that they had “brought the cavalry out”. He informed me that any car accident automatically brings out two trucks, in case they have to peel someone out of the vehicle. Once the driver saw the flashing lights, he feebly tried to crawl behind some nearby trees. He was quickly retrieved by the paramedics. Unfortunately, my statement wasn’t all that helpful to the police, as I was unable to place him behind the wheel. So, thanking the young couple (I regret never asking their names) for stopping and making the call, I climbed into the van and headed for home.

It’s a shame that people still drink and drive, putting the lives of themselves and other at tremendous risk. Especially on a residential street where, at any time during the day, children are running about and riding bikes. It is only because of luck and circumstance that no one was hurt tonight. It gives me tremendous hope, however, to know that there are still people who will stop and do the right thing, even if it means standing in the pouring rain at 2:00am. So, to that young couple, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Opening with a thunderous rendition of Giant, Matthew Good put on one hell of a show at Le Skratch in Oshawa, last night. Joined by openers The Spades, Matt and company took to the stage with incredible energy. Flowing from one song to the next, mixing material from his previous albums with singles from Hospital Music, Matt spent very little time conversing with the audience — stopping only once to comment on the televisions that had been left on in the back of the bar. The new band, despite having so little time to rehearse, sounds great. They clearly have a passion for Matt’s material and that passion comes through in the live performance.

Personal favourites from the show include Weapon, Apparitions, Alert Status Red, Born Losers, Black Helicopter, and I’m a Window. I would’ve loved to hear songs like Song for the Girl and It’s Been a While Since I Was Your Man, but it’s impossible to play everything the fans might want to hear. I’m a huge fan of Matt’s work and, all told, it was an amazing show. Hopefully we’ll get to see him roll through our little town again sometime soon. Photos can be found, as always, on my Flickr account.

It dawned on me recently that this is the first time in my life that all options are open. Everything up to this point has been “the next step”. Elementary school turned into high school, which turned into two years of college, which turned into two more years of college. So, three diplomas later, I’m at a point where I can truly decide where my life goes from here. It’s all up to me. It’s an odd feeling, and I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to come to grips with it.

It’s not that I’m afraid of screwing it up, although I am a little. I guess I just don’t want to waste the opportunity. I don’t want to wake up one day to find myself in some job I hate, surrounded by a wife and kids, pushing 50, and feeling like I haven’t done anything with my life. Not that having a wife and kids and a job is a bad place to find yourself, it’s not. But all in due course. Call it whatever you like, but this definitely feels like some sort of quarter-life crisis. It’s time, I think, to get out some of the ideas that have been bouncing around my skull for the last four years. Time to travel a little bit. To focus on photography and writing and web development. To really give this life a fuckin’ go.

As always, it’s going to be a hell of a ride.

When it was over, we departed and found ourselves sitting around drinks and food. Laughing and joking, we told stories of high school antics and adventures. We remembered good times and bad, talked shit and made connections. Time stopped. We talked until night turned into morning and we realized that, in no time at all each one of us would have to wake up and begin a new day. We said our goodbyes, hugged, and drove away. And I realized, as traffic flowed around me and the city began its slumber, that I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening.

My bedroom is dark and my feet are propped up on the small green table beside the bed. The blinds are open and I’m watching the neighbours fill the sky with fireworks. Explosions of colour and sound. This is the first time in three years that I haven’t taken part. Last year saw a $250 fireworks purchase. This year I’m feeling a little bit left out. And broke. The neighbours are putting on a fairly good show, though, so it will have to do until Canada Day.

There are plenty of things coming up to occupy myself with. The end of placement, graduation, and a Matthew Good show. What an odd period of my life. Everything is in some sort of transition, except nobody seems to know what any of it is transitioning to. It’s exciting and frightening and all that other stuff everyone my age seems to be going through. We’re all exploding. Like fireworks.

It’s been raining all day today, making everything feel miserable and gray. In the warehouse, all day long we could hear the raindrops pit-pattering against the metal roof. It sounded like little footsteps, like kids were running up and down the length of the building all day. When we weren’t busy finding pails to collect the water coming down through the rafters, we worked in silence. Like I said, it was a sad sort of day. Not even a hot meal at lunchtime could cure the blues.

A new guy started in my department today. The Lad. Lad and I opened things up, first thing this morning. I showed him the ropes, how to warm up the machines and get everything ready for the day ahead. After, we told each other stories. He told me about moving here from British Columbia, about how he spent time in prison there. He calls everyone “boss”, an old habit he says he can’t seem to break. I wanted to ask him what landed him in prison in the first place, but everything in time I suppose. We stood in one of the loading docks and smoked cigars, watching the drops come on down.

The rain has made everyone antsy. The young couple, in the house across the road, tried to get a fire going during a lull in the downpour but everything was already too wet. I watched them drag sticks and lumber across the front lawn, only to fail at producing any sort of flame and drag it all back again. I opened up the window in my bedroom, Linus and Mary had the place closed up all afternoon. I need fresh air to have any chance of sleeping soundly tonight.

I received a letter from Taryn today. It didn’t really say much of anything new, just a re-hash of everything we’ve said before. I don’t know where her head is at and it’s unsettling. We’ve both grown up so much in the last four years. We’ve changed. She’s changed. She’s different now. More confident, more sure of herself. Her words have more meaning and passion than before. No matter what happens, I’m glad to have known her. Kind, generous people are in short supply these days. Especially out here. Around here, it seems, everyone is running from something. Actually, most people are running from someone. But, in the end, we’re all running.

Mike and I went out to the old bar last night, the one down the highway into town. It’s the kind of place where you can watch hockey on giant television screens, but I’d rather watch people anyway. Isn’t that why people go to bars? I mean, sure, we all want to drink and be with our friends. But some of the most memorable introductions I’ve been a part of have been over a pint of Keith’s, in some shit hole of a pub. The old fuckers, with no wife and no one to go home to — they’re the ones who have the best stories. In a lot of ways, I think they must be looking for someone to talk to. Otherwise, why not just drink at home, in your recliner? We’re all looking for human contact.

I have to work at the warehouse again tomorrow. Bright and early. I’ll rise before the sun, body weak and brain fuzzy, and begin another day in the freezer. That’s what we call it now, the “freezer”. It’s colder than anything I’ve ever felt before in that place. All day long we stand at those machines, trying to stay warm. I tried asking the owner to turn the heat up, but his heart is as cold as his warehouse. In the end, it’s a paycheck.

Nobody ever pays attention to the sort of people who work at the warehouse. Quiet, forgotten souls with no desire other than to work and feed their families. They are the silent heroes of our towns and cities. Without them, and their ilk, our society would grind to a halt. The buses wouldn’t run. The mail would sit undelivered. The grass would overtake the sidewalks and the heavy lifting wouldn’t get done. They work the hardest for a society that shits on them.

I apologize if my letters have been a little disorganized. I’m writing them every night by the window in my room. At night, I watch the neighbours burn leaves and brush from their lawns. Really, I think they ran out of leaves a long time ago. But I hope they enjoy the flames as much as I do and continue to burn their fires. I like to watch the flames jump and dance, lighting the night. Down the street, the drunks yell and complain, but nothing ever seems to change.

That’s the way it is ’round these parts. Nothing ever changes.

The last time I was there, almost a year ago, the lovebirds were discussing paint schemes and unpacking boxes. Now they prepare to move nest to an apartment above a Jamaican record store.

She was in her pajamas, flipping through the television channels looking for an episode of CSI. We shared a beer, along with some good conversation. It felt exactly like what summer weekends were meant to be. We talked about a lot of things, but mostly about love. Having it, finding it, and keeping it. My misadventures in dating and past relationships. I told Jessica that I thought love, and the search for it, had shaped the last five years of my life.

We both agreed it might be time to find a new theme.