My first friend, with love and loss

     My question mark is working... who thinks I can go through a whole blog without using i... this is not promising.
     My last two blogs have been fairly serious. One was about narcissism and art, the other was about terrorism and the negative affects upon society that hate has. This one should probably be less serious.
      Maybe I should go with something funny and lighthearted! Technically I should've used a question mark there, but I went for a dramatic effect instead. Don`t question it, I`m an artist.
      Instead of any of that, I am going to share with you a section from my memoir, which is what I am currently writing. The following section is about my first real friendship, and how it shaped my entire life. Ashley was the first person to read it, and she loved it. I hope you all enjoy it as well.

Ashley was my first best friend. Probably my first friend period since we were the same age and neighbours, but saying she was my first best friend doesn’t sound as sad. I mean, I don’t want people feeling sorry for me yet. That’s reserved for future chapters!

Ahem. Back to the topic at hand: Ashley. Ashley was a lot like me. We even kinda looked alike (sorry Ash): wavy light blonde hair, bright eyes, our families dressed us alike, it was uncanny. I have a habit of showing people a picture of Ash and I when we were around three and asking them to point out which one I was. Much to the belittling of my already belittled ego, they often point at Ashley. I’m sure I would get a much different answer with a more modern picture (at least I’m sure Ashley hopes I would), but I enjoy my little game that allows people to take shoots at my fragile male ego.

(this is the picture. I’m on the right. I think)

We were neighbours with her grandparents, and through some stuff that is none of anyone’s business, she often stayed with them. All this time with her grandparents allowed us to spend copious amounts of time with each other. We would run around the backyard, eat cookies, drink lemonade, and everything else proper southern children were supposed to do.

Don’t look at me like that. Nanaimo is pretty south for Canada.

She was always there, and for those few years in Nanaimo, we grew up together. The foundations of who we would become were laid in our time spent together, and it would be evident, years later, that both of our foundations were fairly similar. We would both grow into the people that we are today based on the experiences and lessons we learnt together at that young age. She was my first best friend, she is my oldest friend, and to this day she is still my sister.

On a weird segue from that emotional paragraph, into something which may seem slightly incestuous now: she was also my first kiss. She says I initiated it. I’m pretty sure she did though. I was, and am, a gentleman and a scholar, and would never dream of kissing a lady without her express permission.

I was… three? Sure. We’ll say three. Ashley and I were hanging out in the massive backyard, sitting on one of the Harleys. I was looking fly as hell (as fly as anyone could in the early 90s) with my khaki shorts, white sun hat, and yellow framed shades (possibly the same ones I stared that cop down with). I was sitting in front, it was my Hog after all, and she riding behind. She looked nowhere near as fly I did. It would have been physically impossible for anyone else to look that fly in that close of proximity. Probably would’ve caused an explosion or something. I was looking back her, chatting it up, playing it super cool, when she had the nerve—the audacity!—to lean forward and give me a quick peck on the lips! I was flabbergasted! I was quite literally gobsmacked! She smacked me right on the old gob!

Of course, if you ask her, she will say that I kissed her, and probably a tomes worth of other vile lies about my character. Like that I thought Theodore the Tugboat was cooler than Thomas the Tank. Thomas the Tank for life son! Although… Theodore the Tugboat was pretty ballin’.

My time spent with Ashley was probably the most significant and important part of my early childhood. I’m not kidding about that. After we moved to Gabriola Island in 1994, I didn’t hear from her for nearly fifteen years. This was the 90s. Calling people on a different island was hassle and expensive, the internet was barely public, and even mailing letters was hard to do. So we fell out of each other’s lives.

And for fifteen years I forgot how important she was in my life. How integral she was to my state of being.

 Then, one night in grade 12, I was sitting at my computer chatting with friends on MSN (MSN was like Facebook chat, but way cooler) and Facebook, when I got a friend request and a message from some girl. The message was basically this: “Hey. My aunt says that we knew each other when we were kids.”

Enticing. So I added her, and we began messaging back and forth. As we messaged all the memories came flooding back. The fact that I called her Ash and she called me Yak. The time spent outside in the perennial sunshine of our childhood. The fact that we hadn’t seen or heard from each other in a decade and a half was not a hindrance. We were as in sync as we had been when we were four. We began calling each other, and would just spend hours chatting, catching up on the past fourteen years. My parents and I went out to Vancouver that summer (2008) to spend time with family, and Ashley and I made plans to meet up and hang out for the first time since we were four.

She was still living in Nanaimo at the time, so she came over on the ferry with her grandma, and her aunt (the one that found me on Facebook), and we all reunited at Horseshoe Bay.

I don’t know how to explain that afternoon. When we saw each other, it was as if those fourteen years had never happened. We were as comfortable with each other as we had been all those years before. Our minds were in sync. We made the same jokes. We liked the same kind of pop culture. Listened to the same genres of music. Had the same opinion on all important matters (Harry Potter and Star Wars). We acted the same as each other. We even were dressed in the same colours (honestly, it was not planned).

We were like two sides of the same person. We even liked and disliked the same foods. It was uncanny how alike we were.

We spent that afternoon making obscure pop culture references, and some not so obscure, that neither of our families got, but we understood each and every one.

When I said that those early years laid the foundations of who we would become, I wasn’t being over dramatic, or exaggerating, I was simply stating a fact. We spent almost every day of our toddlerhood together, and then the next fourteen years apart, but when we were reunited we were almost identical. Those first four years of my life were not just the foundation; they were the complete blue print of my life. Everything that I would do, everything that I would come to love and enjoy, everything I am stems from those times spent with Ashley.

Which seems like an incredible burden to place on a four year old.

I felt like a whole person that afternoon. Like all my separate parts were rejoined. That evening, when they had to get back on that ferry, we said good bye. It’s an odd experience having to say good bye to someone that you haven’t seen in so long. Someone who shaped your very being, and then was lost for over decade. How in the cosmic realm is one supposed to say good bye to that person?

With ice cream cones.

Ice cream cones answer most of life’s most pressing and existential questions.

We got ice cream, slowly walked over to the boarding area, and tearfully hugged goodbye with promises to stay in better contact.

Saying other half sounds like I’m being romantic, but that is not the case. I have no memories of my early childhood that do not include Ashley, no important, life defining early age event that did not include her in some way. She was part of me, in the same way that siblings are part of each other.

Ashley is such a fundamental part of who I am, and I don’t know if I’ve ever actually told her that. To be honest, writing this chapter, short as it is, was extremely difficult. All kinds of emotions came into play, and I was flooded with old memories and more recent regrets.

We kept our promise for a while. Texting every day, calling once a week, but life, as it always does, tends to get in the way. Contact began to come more sporadically, it’s always there, but it’s a rare occurrence now. We needed to be in each other’s lives as toddlers, and we needed to be reunited on the cusp of adulthood, and we will eventually need each other again. But for now, we’re just stars in the night sky: always in sight, but never in contact.

About yesterday

     Yesterday the worst terrorist attack on a western city since 9/11 happened. It was a tragedy. For the first hour of the live footage I stood transfixed, my eyes barely leaving the television screen, not even a thought of sitting down. My heart broke for the people of Paris, and for the entire country of France. My heart was aching for those poor hostages inside the Bataclan concert hall, and I almost cried when I heard that most of the hostages were killed. 
     Yesterday was tragedy on a global scale, yet the outpouring of love for the people of Paris warmed my heart. And then all the hate started pouring out of people. I was expecting the hate. I was ready for it. What I wasn't ready for was hearing it come from people that I used to respect. People who I thought understood what it meant to be a decent person. People who were proud Canadians who seemed to forget how Canadians are supposed to act. 
     I know yesterday was hard to process for many people, it was hard for me too. I know that it makes it easier for some when there are people to blame. But where do you get off blaming the attacks on helpless refugees who are fleeing their war-torn country to get away from these kind of acts. These refugees, over half of whom are under 18, saw these kinds of atrocities on a daily basis! They left their country, their homes, to come to the safety and understanding of our supposed civilized western cultures. Instead they have found mistrust, hate, and blame. 
     Why?
     Because they're Muslim. Because they aren't white. Because they come from a culture that our superior minds can't understand. Because the loudest people in our cultures are (sorry for this) the most idiotic and close-minded. They look at the American media, well-known for scare-tactics and not for reporting the news, and they believe everything they see without actually checking the facts. 
     These people see that a group of people, a significantly small percentage, who call themselves Muslim doing terrible things and these people associate every living person who practices Islam with these radicals. It's stupid. Plain and simple. You don't hear people going around and saying all white Christians hate gays and think they should be killed, because not all of them do. You don't hear people saying that all white people think black people are inferior. You don't hear that all guys want to rape and take advantage of women. 
    Do you know what makes those people different from Muslims? Muslims, mostly, aren't white. 
     We, as people from western countries, have gotten so good at saying "not all Christians", "not all white people", "not all men", we hear these arguments constantly! Whenever a hate group that claims to be Christian does something horrible, everyone rises up and proudly proclaims: "Not all Christians!" Whenever some frat house does something remarkably degrading, or a person gets raped because no one stepped in to stop it, men all across the land stand erect and shout: "Not all guys!" Why do we hear the same fucking argument over and over again when it comes to white people? Because we don't want people to think bad of our culture. A culture which promotes violence, uplifts men for sexual conquests while degrading women for the same, and awards the theft of ideas and culture for your own benefit. 
     Wanna know one culture that does almost the opposite of that? Islam. 

     "For that cause We decreed for the Children of Israel that whosoever killeth a human being, it shall be as if he had killed all mankind, and whoso saveth the life of one, it shall be as if he had saved the life of all mankind." 5:32, of the Quran. These terrorists aren't Muslims. The refugees you're blaming aren't terrorists. They are people begging for help. They are our brothers and our sisters, and they need our love right now. Not our hate. 

      All of you who are preaching hate right now, I need you to look deep into your hearts and ask yourself why? Why would you spread lies and hate about defenseless people? These people have had their homes taken away, and have had their lives ripped out of their hands! 

      When did Canada become so white-centric? When did xenophobia start to rule this country? 

       I am disgusted at my country right now. I used to be proud to call myself Canadian, but I am slowly having my country taken away from me.

      Canada, these refugees need our love and support right now. They need us to be the Canadians the rest of the world remembers. The ones our fathers and forefathers fought and died for. Not this place we are becoming. 

     Yesterday was a tragedy, but the fallout from it is endemic of our culture. Hate and suspicion have replaced common decency. 

     To all those calling to stop the 25 000 refugees from coming into Canada, can you sleep at night knowing that you are condemning those people, 12 500 of which are children, to death?

     I couldn't, but I still have a soul. 

Narcissism and Art

     I said yesterday that art and narcissism go hand-in-hand, and I'm here today to explain this probably controversial theory.
     Controversial, that is, to anyone who is not a serious artist, or that invested in the art community.
     Art takes many forms: the various types of painting, sculpting, drawing, writing, poetry, game design, theatre, film, television, etc.. It is all art. What drives all artists, no matter the genre, is the burning belief that they have something to share with the world. They believe that there are people out in the wide world that are interested in what they are creating, and will invest their precious time, and even more precious money, into consuming those creations.

     The average person doesn't think that way. The average person doesn't behave so selfishly to make people spend money on something that could boil down to ink and pulp. But artists do. 

I'm an artist. I believe that there are people who want to read what I write, who want to watch what I film and perform, and I believe that there are people who will experience profound emotions upon experiencing my various works.
     Hell, I'll be extra honest: I know that people will experience emotional revelations from my work.      Because I experience emotional revelations from my work. And if I can experience something like that from the art that I myself have created, I know that other people will. People always experience emotions from something new.
     To be successful in these fields, and I am no where near a success (I will be), you need that undying belief to be able to put yourself in the line of fire. You need to believe that what you are creating is important. Without that belief, whatever you have created will sit on a shelf gathering dust until one of your descendants finds it long after you are dead.
     This insane belief that people want what you're creating helps to deal the stress too, because being an artist, especially at the start of a career, is one of the most stressful things you can do. You know that what you're creating is important and groundbreaking, but is the rest of the world intelligent enough to realize it? Is the rest of humanity advanced enough to realize what is happening? These things are impossible to know until you finally take that leap of faith.
     Devoting your life to your art is a daunting prospect. One that I am facing right now. I know that authors face rejection on a daily basis, I know that many authors struggle for years before they get their first break. Do I have the mental fortitude to do this?
     I'm not a confidant person. I have very low self-esteem. Except when it comes to my work. To my art. I don't give a fuck about what you say about me, but as soon as you mock my art, I will end you. My art is my child. It is what I am proud of in this life. It is what brings me joy. It is what truly allows me to be myself. To be free and escape from the capitalist hellhole that is modern life.
I know that my art is important to the world. I know that the stories I'm going to tell are going to make a difference in people's lives. I know that what I create will be important.
     These beliefs, coupled with the confidence in one's art, is a type of narcissism. A very necessary type. I never argue with people when they call me a narcissist, I simply agree. 

Thank you! / How to get one million views!

To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing here.
Like, I don't have an idea for this post. I'm literally just typing and words are coming out. It's like stalling, but digitally.
How many people are actually reading this? and how desperate and needy did that sound?
A million. The answer is a million. Which is how many views this blog will get!






in around a thousand years. Don't get your hopes up John.

I wanna thank you guys, the ones who read this and watch my videos. You guys are amazing and awesome. The only reason that I do this is for you. That and I'm huge narcissist. Remind me to write a post on the relation between narcissism and art. Because there is a huge one. I should know after all.
I'm thanking you, and I'm talking about myself. Typical.
I'm in the process of filming my 30th vlog today! Not my 30th video, that was passed a few days ago, but my 30th vlog! Which is awesome! I never thought I would become a youtuber, and yet here I am. Posting videos on a daily basis, and loving the experience. I would love it way more if more people were watching, but I'll get there. Once I start doing more interesting things... But come on! Who doesn't want to watch the extremely boring exploits of a struggling author who isn't making money? That's entertainment gold right there.
Anyways, I should be writing... 

Writing a Memoir: Day ?

Ok. So, I am currently writing a memoir.
Which may be insane considering how low the views are on both my vlog and here on my blog. But I'm doing it anyways. Why? Because I am a damn good writer, and some parts of my life may help people with parts of their lives.
How? You ask condescendingly.
Because my life has been filled with a billion ups and downs and twists and turns, you ass. I've been mega religious, I've felt betrayed by the people I've trusted, I've lied to myself about my sexuality and gender, and I've come (in the process) to terms with who I am. No one is more qualified to write this story than I am, and no one wants it published more than I do.
Do you know what the benefits would be to have an asexual author publish their memoir would be? It would bring asexuality into the mainstream. It would educate the masses on its very existence! It would help those poor youth who think they're broken realize that there is nothing at all wrong with them, and my god I would look good on a book jacket. Have you seen some of my selfies? They're basically calling out for a book jacket to call home!
I'm only 4000 words into this thing, and I'm already getting emotional.
And I need to remember to post here. Because this is helpful. And brings in the views. And money? Anyone wanna give me money? No? Okay...  

Taking a leap of faith

Ugh. So my life got flipped-turned upside down and I'd like to take a minute--just sit right there!-- I'll tell you how I came to the idea of starting my own consulting firm.
To be specific, a social media consulting firm. For small businesses. In Saskatchewan. And hopefully the rest of Canada, eventually.
Why have I decided to pursue this? Simple, I like helping people. I like social media. And I like the idea of being my own boss. Plus, the start-up fees are not going to be insurmountable.
Today I'm going to expand upon my very basic plan of:
          1. start consulting firm
          2. post ads for free on kijiji
          3. make money
Very basic. Too basic for me to pitch to anyone.
But that's alright.
Because I'm going to fix that.
I've started my day by reading established social media consultants' thoughts and methods of getting started, and it's been very educational. This is going to be a long and hard process, but I'm ready for it. I don't want to take steps backwards in my life anymore. I am ready to move on and forward. I'm ready to create this better future for myself.
I've discussed it with a few of my friends, and they're on board with it, and willing to help me out with it.
I need a name.
I need clients.
I need to build successes with those clients to garner more clients.
I need a laptop with a battery that lasts more than ten minutes...

I can do this. I know that I can. 

Oops

I assure everyone who read my last post and misconstrued it, that I am not contemplating suicide. It was a stream of consciousness piece dealing with all the stressors in my life right now. Nothing more. I apologize to those who took it the wrong way, or read too much into it. I did not mean to cause you worry.