"I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books, we are not owned or monogomous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps."

- Michael Ondaatje

Anne Reynolds: Undergrad, Aspiring Murderer, Sociopath.

I stared up road glancing to my sides only when necessary. I tried not to see the white sided houses. The mini vans. The basketball nets. The little boxes resting on window sills. I was the only person for miles, a stranger in a ghost town. Floods in the curb rushed toward the gutter like mice, splashing up around me with the smack of my tires. I breathed heavily as I pedalled uphill in the rain, squinting behind my soaked glasses.

If there was anything here for me in Maine I hadn’t found it yet. I pressed solitude into the back of my mind at all times. In order to maintain sanity, I removed my watch during the day. I rose above time. I read. Everyday after class, I went to the football field on campus when the weather was still nice at the start of the semester. There was no football team, the field being an illegal size, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone interrupting me.

At this time I consumed books insatiably. I devoured horror fiction -sadistic stories, meticulous murder schemes. Oh, reader, it pains me to say how I relished the detailed description of a body being slashed up and mangled. And I cant deny that I was haunted by these gruesome tales. They tormented me in my dreams and waking life. Reading was a first order desire that I was a slave to, like an instinctual urge to stare at an injury that at once horrified and fascinated me.

It was only a few weeks before I began this shameful habit that I arrived here in Maine. I came unprepared, without expectations, utterly alone. The city scared me. The air was different than Toronto and I recoiled at its warmth. I didn’t want a warm city. I didn’t want anything too close. I wasn’t the one who decided to leave. The old lady decided that we were finally strapped enough for cash that the little one would have to be hauled over to a cheaper school, accept the scholarship, become another pair of shiny black shoes to mark up a waxed floor of a dormitory sea of ponytails and glasses.

(A grim sentence for the tortured soul.)

I wasn’t like the kids at Rutherford Central University. I wasn’t cut out for students council, intramural volleyball, pyjamas and sitcoms. I loathed more than anything in this world the ripe and arrested student body especially when it came in pairs, click clacking down the courtyard of the institution, kilted and cheerful, speaking in their musical voices, ringing high over the hedges. A visual feast for the resourceful pervert. Some fucked up porno waiting to happen.

The fresh air outside the airport caressed my face and I buried my chin in the collar of my pea coat, shuffling through the crowd of travellers.

‘Municipal flat block 407B’. I read on the crumpled paper in my moms handwriting as I stood at the parking lot of the station.

Eventually I saw a black echo crawl into the desolate lot. A smiling woman waved to me profusely from inside. I lumbered over with my suitcase and ducked down to see through the passengers side.

I asked if she was Jean, my renter, as I lowered my black ray bans onto my nose,
trying to look as friendly as possible. There was a crocheted cross hanging from the rear view mirror. She answered yes. She had a slightly winkled face and it was full of hope. I corrected her, saying it was Anne, actually, mustering a suggestion of apology. She told me I could throw my stuff in the back. Her accent hit me like a
sack of potatoes. She got out to help me with my bag and I was surprised to find that, at my 5”1 stature, I felt like an giant beside her.

I hated her.

After I assured Jean I didn’t need help unpacking, I opened the window in my new bedroom and lit a smoke. Municipal flat block 407B was on the 14th floor of a high rise apartment, (the highest in Maine, according to Real estate listing) and looked over the baron wasteland that was to be my home for the next 4 years of my
university career. Inhaling the sweet toxins of my cigarette, I surveyed my bedroom. It was generally caked with dog hair, dimly lit and low ceilinged. It was
claustrophobic. I was going to suffocate in here. The walls were brown, the bedspread was brown. I had a single bald lamp on the bedside table. She was really
into kitschy stuff, like porcelain figurines of angels and framed prints of puppies. Fake pink flowers like they have at hospitals. Old ladies love shit like that.

When I started my classes I did so indifferently, with little regard for the anyone or anything around me. I disrespected the uniform code and collected 7 demerits in my first three days. I didn’t particularly care because I didn’t have to tell anyone. I didn’t speak to anyone at all. In fact I found the solitude to be empowering and I discovered a way to dominate my every acquaintance. I manipulated my every social interaction within the walls of that sterile institution. I collected
names, made mental notes of people - nervous twitch, closet case,always sits in front row, talks back. The student body was a litter of puppies to me, fragile and depressing.

While it was true that I could go days without uttering a word and no one would even notice, I used this to my advantage during the select times that I did make myself heard. Last Monday morning in my psychology tutorial, for instance, two girls were sitting behind me in the classroom whispering about me. They were Sheila and Ruth. Two skinny girls, blonde, with shiny magnified lips. They sat at the back of the room so they could judge every student, compare themselves to the other girls, watch people. I could hear them whispering about me and I turned around in my seat and
looked at them with a blank expression, so as to give them the idea that I realized they were talking about me. They stopped, glanced up, and then continued whispering - “those glasses!”

I said nothing.

When the class ended and people began packing up, the two girls were silent behind me and I stood up from the table and grabbed Sheila by the lapel of her blazer. I slammed her up against the wall with a thud. Her head jerked forward and almost hit me. She shrieked as the wind was knocked out of her, distant hairspray residue and perfume escaped from her glossy lips. Her blonde bangs had fallen out of the bobby pin they were fastened up by on the right side. I lifted my face right up to hers, even though she was taller than me. Our lips were level. I told her if I ever heard my name come out of her mouth again I would slit her from her cunt to her chin. She
whimpered and I slammed her into the wall again, and let go of her lapel. Silly bitch.

Naturally, after that episode, I sat alone in tutorial and generally didn’t make any friends. My solitude clung to me like sweat, drying sometimes, only to dampen again. A residue I had no qualms with.

What I did wish to change however, was my miserable living situation. Of course, I concocted several plans to murder Jeane while I was living at Municipal flat block 407B. Any normal person would. Usually during the long, scenic bike ride home from school I would indulge the fantasy that loomed tentatively in the darkest corners of my mind. I had charts planned out in my head. Diagrams and intricate maps of her
pink frilly bedroom. I would consider the ideal time to do it, what I’d play on my ipod, what I would wear. (5 o’clock in the afternoon, Nancy Sinatra, and my navy single breasted blazer and combat boots.)

Oh, what glorious death I saw behind closed eyelids! A red sticky union of flesh and microwave, the crunch of teeth and coffee table! Domestic demise at the hands of yours truly. A few simple combinations of household cleaner would render jeans crusty oesophagus like a volcano filled with drain-o. It could be a perfect murder. I could steal her car and Dr. Phil would still be playing by the time I was in Detriot.

But how could I do that to old sweet Jean, the God fearing simpleton who welcomed me in here with open arms and puppy prints. In fact, everyone I met in Maine was exceedingly nice. They went out of their way. To be honest I had never known such a genuinely unassuming, caring population in my young life. But niceness never got anyone anywhere in this life. And everyone was so fucking shy. And one thing I cant stand in this world is the self conscious, stammering fool who hides behind the armour of his own self presentation. And within the sterile walls of my academic institution, I found myself in a sea of ungainly specimens. Their graceless young adulthood made me sick to my stomach. I wanted nothing to do with their loathsome existence.

Until I met Ryan Dunston. He was a third year biology major who lived in the single all-boys dorm at Rutherford. He was my lab partner. He took some strange interest in me, for an unknown reason as I was exceedingly unfriendly to him. He worked in the school library and I saw him frequently.

The library was massive and generally unoccupied. I liked being there because it made me feel insignificant. A humbling pleasure that helped me forget where I was. One day I was signing a book out at the front counter when I saw Ryan, who often checked me through. We exchanged the usual menial small talk. (I rarely let it amount to any more than that.) He took my student card, scanned my books, typed
something into the computer and handed me the stack. I barely glanced at him during the transaction. I said thank you and left.

On the 9th floor, in a cubicle, I opened Intro to Eco Systems and a note fell out onto the table.

‘Meet me outside the front doors after the library closes. I’ll be waiting for you.’ I was astonished at his audacity to actually write such a note. While it wasn’t particularly alluring, I had to give him snaps for his guts. I decided to entertain this idea and I did meet him outside the front doors after close.

The sun was just beginning to set in a pink sky as I walked down the stone steps. He was waiting for me at the bottom, smoking, with his headphones on. I sat down beside him and he took off his headphones. As usual, we exchanged the same small talk. He said nothing about the note at first. He mentioned Sheila’s party that night, and would I come with him? I told him Sheila and I hated each other and probably it was best I didn’t go. It was a shame, he said, because he wanted a chance to spend time with me, and Sheila wasn’t that bad when you got to know her.

Ryan sucked his cigarette impassively and exhaled with his head back slightly, resting in between his shoulder blades like a life drawing model. He wasn’t really looking at me, but rather out into the darkening sky. I pretended I thought this was normal conversational behaviour. For a time, we sat beside each other in silence, specks beneath the monolithic library. During this silence I thought that maybe Ryan could be the one interesting thing in this city. I submitted to the request in his note because I thought perhaps this could be something. I could make this something special, I could make it something I want. I had no problem creating distractions.
When he did turn his face to me eventually, he smiled and surveyed my face, from my lips to me hairline. He told me I was really pretty.

Reader, allow me to explain my current circumstance on this night, in attempts to justify my actions. As an above average member of society, (and certainly among the population of the Rutherford Central,) I never would have anticipated getting along with any of my freshman counterparts. But, as you know, we all have needs, and forgive me, but I thought I saw something in this person that made me think maybe,
just maybe, I might find a friend. What did I look for? Someone to get blind drunk with, someone to skip class with, someone to loathe everyone else with. Ryan wasn’t the most intelligent specimen, the best looking, and his style was positively disgraceful, but given my existing selection of prospective friends, he seemed like the best bet.

We walked to Sheila’s party after that. It was about a 15 minute walk down Stymie road by the water. Ryan presented a flask and we drank from it as we walked. I wasn’t particularly worried that Sheila would make a scene with me or even notice I was there, since I was with Ryan.

Sheila’s house was big and white, a sprawling property. Inside, the house was full of students, none of whom I recognized. We went to the kitchen and got two cups of beer from the keg. We sat down on a couch in the living room. He asked me why I hated it here.

Was it really that obvious that I wasn’t enjoying Maine? This revelation struck me and I was at once embarrassed and ashamed. I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged.

“I do like it”

He looked at me blankly, like he could see right through me. There was no point in lying, I guess. Ryan sat back in his chair like he was ready for a long story. I thought about my words. A time passed then in which I concluded that he wasn’t trying to patronize me, or criticize me.

I told him I missed my friends. The statement came out of me like a secret, charged with intimacy. Ryan and I had only ever talked about chemistry. He didn’t know anything about me. I had told him the truth, though. I did miss my friends at home, and my family. But that was a small part of the reason for my displeasure. If I had been open to new things, new people, truly open, then I wouldn’t be sitting here having this awkward conversation with my lab partner at a shitty party. Part
of me wished I could just start this all over again.

Ryan was attentive. He noted that those people at home, although far away, will always be with me. His eyes flicked down at my skirted thighs over the edge of the couch and travelled down to my exposed knees. Shitty advice. I crossed my legs.

Someone bumped into the coffee table in front of the couch we were sitting on and knocked over Ryan’s drink. It spilled on my shoes. He bumbled, apologizing. He put a hand on my knee. He suggested we go upstairs so I could find something of Sheila’s to wear.

Then, with the meekness of someone who is blinded by the tedium of a small town, reckless and hasty from too much time alone, books, and clock watching, I followed Ryan up the stairs of the crowded party. I was aware of his every step, his every breath as he walked ahead of me, glancing back once or twice, apologizing. I didn’t really care that he spilled shit on me. I could handle it.

We reached a bedroom where the noise was muted. Ryan shut the door. We stood in front of it, facing each other in the dark. He told me that he knew that we were just lab partners, but he wanted me to know that I could talk to him, and whatever. I thanked him. Then, abruptly and urgently he pressed his face into mine. He pushed his tongue into my mouth. A fat reptile - like organ that shocked me, foreign and
unwelcome. I turned my head away, wiping my mouth free of his saliva. He tasted like hops and paint thinner. Vinegar and pumpernickel in crawling threads on my skin.

I stood there awkwardly, not quite knowing how to handle this unsexy attempt, at once tentative and certain. Was this how it was supposed to happen?

He began unzipping his pants, as we still stood by the closed door and, disregarding my rejection, Ryan grabbed my hand and thrust it toward his groin. He demanded to know what I was talking about - I clearly wanted it. Come on Anne, something like that, something like - no one needs to know. I was speechless, now pressed against the door,trying not to breath in his bitter and overpowering sweat that had now acquired a life of its own. I buried my face into the collar of my uniform blazer.

What happened between Ryan and I at the party was an unlucky and confusing event. But I don’t resent Ryan for it, and it doesn’t bring tears to my eyes as I write it now. I understand life to be a succession of awakenings that present themselves in the unfolding spectrum of lips and fingers, heart and mind, bedrooms at parties.
They happen in minutes, and this particular event was so entirely fleeting that it appeared in front of me with such speed that I was helpless. I couldn’t comprehend it,let alone control it.

(Love can’t be a feeling, but rather it must be a commitment.)

I managed to push Ryan off me and leave the room. I left the party. I walked down the stairs and out the front door. I continued down the driveway and out into the street. The front lawn was littered with students drinking from beer bottles, making out, disregarding the real world. The air was getting colder now, it being near the middle of October. I left my sweater inside the house.

I stopped when I reached the water. It must have been about 5 or 6 km from the party. I struggled to get my bearings. I sat down on a big rock on the side of the road. I hated Ryan. I hated Sheila and I hated the fraternity and I hated all those students. I could barely breathe I was so full of hate. I decided to smoke a cigarette.

Then I reclined on the rock submitting to my wretched helplessness, hard and cold against my bare shoulders. I sobbed to myself under the star loaded sky. I never cried. I couldn’t stand my tears and I slapped them away from my eyes before they rolled down my cheeks and became real.

* * *

When I woke up the sun was rising and birds were chirping. The sky wasn’t fully lit, and had an eerie quality. A few joggers and people walking dogs were out. I sat up on the rock and looked over the still water. The earth was fresh. I put my bare feet down on the dewy grass and stood up. I felt the drapery of my kilt fall around my thighs like curtains. I was disoriented, and there was a lingering guilt in my stomach that I couldn’t place.

I began to walk down the road, still not knowing where exactly I was. I didn’t have my bag, or my sweater, or my shoes. I was still wearing my school uniform underneath my single breasted blazer and my boots without the required stockings because I didn’t consider any possibility of making friends, let alone taking off my clothes in the presence of a boy when I left the house that morning. It didn’t matter, because when I took them off, I felt thesame as I would in a contrived ensemble anyway, as if I was wearing some planned outfit in attempts to look a certain way for an audience. Being naked is the same.

(We are not conceptualized creatures of instinct.)

I walked back to municipal flat block 407B because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

* * *

Sometime over the next couple of days I stopped reading horror fiction. I hid the books because I was sufficiently haunted by the images behind my own closed eyelids. But I got over it.

One Tuesday morning I was sitting in the cafeteria drinking coffee when Sheila and her friends walked by my table. I looked up over the screen of my laptop in their direction. They were standing in a circle in front of my table. I made eye contact with Sheila, then I looked back to my screen. Out of my peripheral vision I saw her blonde mass moving in on me like a plastic ghost. She sat down on the chair beside
me. I still stared at the screen. She hesitated. She set down something on the table between us. My folded sweater. Then she said she heard what happened to me at her
party and she wanted to know if there was anything she could do, if there was anything I needed. She had gone on a few dates with Ryan before, she said, and he’s totally a jerk, so I shouldn’t worry, she totally understands.

I looked at her after she had finished. I asked her why she wanted to help me. She looked like she didn’t anticipate the question, that her talking to me would be out of the ordinary, something different. We clearly hated each other. She left the table.

The morning I came home from the party I walked into the kitchen at municipal flat block 407B where Jean was sitting at the table with her son, Jim, and his girlfriend Beth. I opened the door without considering the possibility of someone being in the kitchen. When Jean saw me she screamed, or sobbed, or something, and came running over to me, putting a hand on my thigh. Jim and Beth remained seated at the table. I walked past them both and went to my room, closed the door and slept.

And when I finally woke up, I went out onto the balcony of municipal flat block 407B in bare feet and looked over the city. The sun was shining brightly in its late afternoon splendour and I put on my ray bans. My sleep had been dreamless. I lit a cigarette. The tenement row houses with their historical plaques stood below me so fucking proud. Their plaques meant nothing. Where is the merit in antiquity, in what
is inevitable? No sooner do I write these words than they are history.

I felt older standing on the patio. If being in this nightmarish town was going to deal me shitty cards that bore no fruit, what was the point of being here? I sat down cross legged on the stone patio to contemplate this, putting my head against the wrought iron bars. The row houses glared up at me in their self righteousness.
Fucking plaques. I wanted to wrench them off the brick and throw them into the street. I pictured them catapulting into the air as I threw them zeal. I imagined explosions of great shimmering fire illuminating the city and rendering the buildings unrecognizable. In an instant I saw the city below me destroyed. I exhaled. My gloomy fantasy escaped. I wanted to erase the party, skip the next 4 years of my life, crush the city. Looking at the true city with its souless face, I recognized the fact that it was much bigger it was than I.

Jean opened the door of the balcony. “Oh Lord dear don’t smoke those terrible things, your pretty skin will look like a wallet in 5 years!”

This, this was true.

A Rant.

Winter sucks in Toronto. Of this, we can be sure. But on this June day, I have concluded that summer isn’t all rainbows and spanish whores, either. Call me a negative Nancy, but this heat is unacceptable. Even worse is the fact that garbage is acummulating in the city faster than vanessa hutchens PR people work. Where the hell am I (and my 3 other dirt squirrel roommates) supposed to put our garbage? Are we supposed to just drown in empty pork rind bags and beer cans? How can city workers refuse to clean up after us? I understand that the point of a strike is to make a statement, but really when it comes down to it, I’m going to drown in fruit flies in a sweltering apartment and subsequently be eaten by the rat-king I currently co-habitate with.
While I’m at it, I feel like lately every single streetcar is being diverted for reasons unknown. And don’t even get me started on the liquor store strike. How can Allah not allow us to get trashed when the city is covered in trash?!
I can see it now – in about a week, kids will be eaten alive by snakes in tall grass, racoons will take over our garbage filled domiciles and we will literally have to wade through sweaty decomposing organic material in the scorching streets. What an ideal time for a liquor store strike! Luckily I keep a bathtub full of moonshine at all times. I can't help but think - what’s next? Power outage? In which case, I have gee-haw-wimmie-diddles and moonshine for all.
In the meantime, I’ll be distracting myself with Perez Hilton in my inferno of an apartment as I’m forced to endure the ceaseless flames of my disgraceful young adulthood.
FML.

I don't want to wear a tie.

Lately I’ve been beginning to think that getting really trashed is just not worth the overwhelming self loathing I endure the next day. Yeah I like beer bongs just as much as the next aspiring artist, but as I grace the ripe age of 21, the time has come to straighten up and fly right.

There comes a time in a young woman’s life when she must be conscious of her self - presentation. That can translate to her Facebook profile, her blog, the people she surrounds herself with, and her manners. That means no wearing her entire work uniform to the bar - name tag and all - so she could pass out somewhere and go to work the next morning without practically even opening her eyes. I’m putting my foot down. From this moment forward, I declare myself an adult. But first, a lament of my lost youth and blathering of a quarter life crisis:

I have thought long and hard about this question - What does it mean to be an adult? Not being able to eat an entire can of aerosol cheese for lunch? (guiltlessly?) Simply being responsible? Pulling out drain residue with your bare hands?
One of the biggest hardships I face as I enter the world of adulthood is the idea that I have to put on a happy face even when I hate life. Especially if I have children. They can scream and cry all they want about anything, but when my ice cream scoop falls on the ground, I have to suck it up and push on. I just don’t know if I can bear to do that. I’d much rather make a scene, cursing the lords of gravity and demand that someone, anyone, buy me another one. But how many adults to you see doing that? None. All in the name of setting a good example.

Here we are, at a strange time in life in which we don’t need a good example set for us, and yet we don’t necessarily need to set a good one for anyone. I’m terrifyingly aware that I am at a point in my life where I have very little obligations to anyone or anything.

Let me tell you a story about a party (tour) I attended once. My two friends Macey and Kate and I went to Europe for four weeks last summer. We were in awe of the fact that our sole responsibility on the (party tour) was to remain alive. While this was trying at times, we fulfilled our responsibility with flying colours and patted ourselves on the back for being so responsible. Of course, we also found some time to eat some waffles, party with locals, fight off ghosts and write freestyle raps. This voyage wouldn’t have been possible if we were in our thirties and had families. I know this. The demand for responsibility would have been much greater, and perhaps even a hindrance, particularly to the second activity, which was most time consuming. Hence, part of me looks to the future with a grim nonchalance.
As I drag myself towards adulthood with the same enthusiasm as St. Augstine sought God after throwing all those damn pears around, I struggle to find footing on the rock wall of maturity.

I really dont have any qualms with remaining free and whimsical in this life until the day I croak. But then the voice of my mother comes into mind, and the image of the family tree, (showing twin boys in my future), and I know I must fulfill my duty to the Fowlie heritage and carry on the name. Or something. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to be my sole decision whether or not I have a family. Neither is it mine to decide whether or not I grow up. Father time shakes his wrinkly fist at me every time I so much as glance at a boy from Royal St. George.

When I think long and hard about it, I cannot deny that it would truly be better for my health to give up the frivolous vices of my youth, including but not limited to thug gangsters, Bistro 422, and excessive aerosol cheese eating. I guess I could just switch to more classy substances, like Hennessy and cocaine. And I could wear a pants suit while I abuse them. I think that might be the first step to gaining a foothold on the mountain of responsibility I stand before.

Furthermore, looking back on all the shame and profanity of my high school years, I really don’t reckon I’ll have the desire to participate in house parties with a giant sponge finger when I’m 35. And no one can deny that waking up a bare mattress is as grimy as sleeping on a preteen’s sweaty moustache. Sigh.

I have no idea what any of this means.

Wacky creations from the silver and gold studio.

Fight crime.

During the last semester in my criminology class, my professor asked the class if diet should be considered a factor in criminal motive. Usually I keep to myself in lectures, but, as a (recent) vegetarian, I do believe that diet is an enormous part of the behavioural world, affecting the way we think, act, and feel.

I put up my hand to give my two cents. I explained that its a common philosophy among vegetarians that you are what you eat - one of the many possible reasons people choose to not eat meat or animal products. Animals obviously endure a lot of fear and anxiety when they are killed. Some people don't want to consume that.

The class thought this was really halarious and everyone laughed, including my professor.

"I guess I just had a huge plate of anxiety for breakfast, then" he said.

Thanks for being so open minded, Professor.

"I wish the whole world was dead serious about food instead of silly rockets and machines and explosives using everyones food money to blow thier heads off anyway"
- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

Kicking the habit.

In past years I have had the displeasure of being close to several people with addictions. I was there for the hundredth last cigarette, the endless stream of liquor, the ugly hangovers. I was begged to be an ethical watchman. It made me uncomfortable, and it broke my heart to see the people I loved suffer. But how can a conscience be forced upon anyone? To be sure, we all struggle with addictions in some form or another, often times without even being conscious of it.

When we look for things, seek alternatives, when we are unhappy where we are, perhaps it’s time for an intervention. In the excessive western world I think that a lot of unhappiness is rooted in simply too much. We don’t appreciate things because we have never had to work for them. And we are too far into it to gain perspective. We don’t know anything else.

Should I feel sorry for those who can’t stop gambling / smoking pot / meeting married people in motels on their lunch break ? I have always wondered if the idea of an ‘addictive personality’ is a true phenomena, or if people simply say that to take the problem out of their hands, to justify their habits. I’m not insensitive to people who struggle, and I don’t doubt for a second that it totally sucks to quit smoking. In fact, someone once told me that I was ‘just like them – easily addicted’. I disagreed with this person and I still do, but addiction is in the eye of the beholder. Where is the line between a bad habit and the point where we throw our arms up in frustration and say “‘I’m addicted! Rehab, here I come!” We can justify anything to ourselves. It’s easy to believe that one more time won’t hurt, or that we ‘deserve this’.

Many religions view the flaws in our behaviour as earthly distractions, external factors that sink in as we get caught up in daily life. Confucianism, the Chinese philosophy and religion, places an enormous emphasis on the infinite potential of human beings. Perfecting the self through values such as filial piety, compassion, humanness is entirely possible. But how?

Two Confucian philosophers, Hsun Tzu and Mencius, both agree on the possibility of human perfection, but also acknowledge the existence of evil within human life. Hsun Tzu believed that man is inherently wicked, but can use outside factors to cultivate inner goodness. Mencius believed that everything is complete in the self, and he who knows his own heart knows heaven. We have to look no further than our hearts the find righteousness.

Each individual is a government in miniature, ruled by the mind, informed by the faculties, and guided by a heavenly directive. This comparison serves to explain the integration of all things – the self, the universe, heaven and the infinite potential of human beings. In order to understand ‘the way’ (of the Tao – a concept used in Chinese philosophies like Taoism and Confucianism and to illustrate the true nature of the world. Often compared to water – silent yet strong, clear, neutral),
we must make our minds tranquil and empty.
In his teachings, Mencius uses the analogy of seeds to explain the susceptibility of humans to be led astray by earthly factors. If children act out, it isn’t because heaven has given them different natural ways, but because their minds have been inundated. Seeds are sown in the same soil and planted at the same time will grow and ripen similarly. But if they don’t turn out all the same, we would say it is due to the difference in the fertility of the soil, or amount of rain, or because they were tended differently – How are humans any different?

The oppositional teachings of Hsun Tzu provide a practical way of attaining self perfecting in the employing of outside sources. Gathering information and internalizing it can achieve perfection. His texts employ analogies of craftsmanship, putting forth the idea that it is up to each individual to hone themselves. Without teachers, humans could never escape their evil nature.

I find these Confucian ideas refreshing. Inherent or not, they assure us that we can aspire to greatness – we just need the will to do so. Earthly distractions are cloying, and whether or not you believe that goodness is in the heart, or the answer is out there somewhere, it is a challenge to penetrate the layers of unimportant yet consuming details of life on earth.

The Jonas Brothers vs. Me

The Jonas brothers came to Toronto the other day. I was walking to work at 9 in the morning, weaving in and out of the massive lines of preteen girls, some boys, some parents. Kids slept on the street to secure a place in line to get a glimpse of those three humans. Yeah their pretty cute, I guess, and wear nice clothes, but they are they’re not particularly talented by any stretch of the imagination. What is it that dragged all those kids out of their postered bedrooms to the city to line up for probably days?

Are the Jonas brothers Gods? Do these kids know something I don’t?

I don’t know if catching a glimpse of a 15 year old pop musician reveals any penetrating truths - in theory, we know this. But still,people pilgrimage great lengths and endure unfavourable sleeping conditions to even get a quick glance at stars in the flesh. People like the Jonas Brothers have become so entirely dehumanized to the point that I’m not even sure if they lead lives anymore. They lead more of a packaged existence, much like a preservative laden can of parmesan cheese with an expiry date. They are equally cheesetastic and probably equally as musically inclined. Celebrities must have such a skewed sense of self identity.

When the Brothers careers come to an end (at the dried up age of 30), will the world turn a blind eye to them? deem them has beens and consider them barely even a distant memory? Insofar as celebrity culture goes, life is lived for validation of others.

While the untouchable and god like celebrity may always exist, celebritydom is becoming more and more accessible and oriented toward reality. In strange and overwhelming reality TV phenomena, everyday life is glorified. Viewers want to see the relatable struggles of the mundane and domestic.

Britney Spears – an invincible icon of our time who serves as a metaphor for the world, fills the void in many lives as a higher being providing an example, inspiration, a model of success. The sheer intensity of her fame is horrifying. I cannot imagine not being able to go to restaurants, not being able to leave my house without a disguise.

But the truth is, anyone can be a celebrity on Facebook. The contrived self promoting pictures, favourite books, sharing ‘whats on your mind’ ... who gives a fuck what Pam Beth and Sherry are doing every 5 minutes of the day? But how is Britney any different, really? Under all the drugs, sequins, trashy relationships, she’s just a person with a troubled childhood and an aimless future, just like you and me! In the Facebook world, we see profiles as people. In truth they barely even represent people. You can manipulate every detail according to your every whim. To me, that sounds more like the packaged existence led by our aforementioned Brothers than ‘real life’.

But with the increasing multitude and popularity of Twitter and networking sites, new heights of self promotion, controlled self presentation, new avenues to popularity, and essentially, stardom are made totally accessible. It seems like a fairly natural progression.

The self conscious celebrity has always existed. Andy Warhol and his ‘medium is the message tactic’, providing a mirror for culture, and in turn, himself, Paris Hilton and her ‘in on the joke’ idiosyncrasies (which, for the record, I do believe. Was there ever a time in history that beautiful blonde women didn’t get anywhere being exceptionally ignorant? Genius!). We are all guilty of a contrived self presentation at some points in our live, especially when money is involved.

On that note, I’m going to go get ready for my hot date with Joe Jonas(‘s facebook profile). I only exist on the internet, after all.