Oscar and Shopping

"We live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities"
- Oscar Wilde

I have been thinking today about something my friend Jillian (an incredible yet highly unexpected source of insight) said about, well, consumerism: "I feel happier when I have pretty things" (this is possibly a female conclusion, the other half of the population may have to bear with me here), "and I get sad when I lose them. They just make me happy."

This is not a difficult concept for me to relate to; one only has to look my closet, jewelry box, or CD collection to know that this is very much the truth. But, does this necessarily make me vain? Does it make me an incurable consumer? Or, am I just trying to have the things I think will make me feel more like myself and appear more like myself to those who see me. All of this deep and philosophical thought was brought on by today's attempt to purchase a new pair of glasses. I wear glasses. I wear glasses everyday (not all day, but for quite a bit of it). Is it purely vanity that I want a new pair of glasses simply because I think they will look better than the ones I have (which, by the way, still work and fit fine), or, will having red glasses actually make me happier? I think that they will. This may be a specious conclusion based on Jillian's VERY vague evidence, but hey, I know what I'm trying to convince myself of. I think that every morning when I woke up and put on my new red glasses I would have a little flash of happiness. But, is that happiness enough to justify an entirely frivolous purchase of over $300? This is where my dear friend Oscar comes in. Mr. Wilde has written the above quote to persuade people like me that there is nothing wrong with being frivolous. In fact, I don't think there is a bit of dialogue in any of his plays that is NOT completely frivolous (however they do contain a lot more social insight than I really feel like writing about right now, as this is about ME, not Oscar). So, if we believe that I will actually be a happier person if I spend money and fill my life with things that I like, I should feel no buyers remorse and proceed to buy gas drive back to Moncton and buy my very sexy red glasses. However if we disagree, I should shut my mouth, save my money, and think more along the lines of my hero Friedrich Engels.
Am I simply perpetuating a fruitless capitalist glasses-buying cycle?

Political Philosophers Battle to the Death: Machiavelli vs. Engels

My dear friend and fellow student of politics Mark has recently called me "lame" because my blog is about, well, nothing. In honour of Mark I am going to write just a little about two of our favourite politicos, Nicolo Machiavelli and Friedrich Engles.

Mark is a staunch follower of Machiavelli, although I cannot determine why. I see very few similarities between a theorist who advocates violence, force, absolutism, oppression of the citizenry, and propaganda and my friend. Yet, there is one possibility: logic. Machiavelli proposes the most logical, most expedient, and most direct route to power. He is a proponent of the swiftest possible means to an end. And although I do not agree that destroying a population is the most morally sound way to commandeer their lands, or that allowing the population to legally and publicly kill the ambitious is an ethical way to prevent murder and crime, both work. Both work quickly. Both work well. At work today I was reading an article equating the logic and ethical principles portrayed in The Sopranos to the principles and theories listed in Machiavelli's The Prince. No one says that the Mafia is a good institution but hey, they get the job done, they get it done right, and they get it done fast; it's worked for centuries. Machiavelli must be on to something. So, Mark, although I do not believe that you are morally reprehensible, or even the slightest bit Machiavellian, I understand and appreciate your respect.

My love for Friedrich Engles exists on another plane entirely. I root for the underdog. I have a tendency to see those who have been ignored and try to give them some recognition - My favourite holiday is Groundhog Day. I feel that Engels has existed in the shadow of Karl Marx for long enough. This is not to say that I do not respect his politics. While I am not technically a socialist, I understand the principles behind the theory and do believe that they hold great potential for improving the state of the world's populations. However, strict socialism goes against most of the instincts of humankind and while it works in theory history shows that it rarely succeeds in practice

A little ditty

This one is pretty old-school. I thought it was pretty funny, though, so I am going to post it and open myself to vast amounts of mockery. Hell, what else are these things for. I believe this one was once part of a song, but I forget how it went.

Apparently Canadian Accents are Sexy/ What I've Given Up

A little bit of Mystery
A little bit of flirt
Just a little bit
of a too little shirt.
A little bit of who
A little bit of when
A little extra comfort
'Cause I won't see you again.
A little bit of no one knows
Even more of I won't tell
And an awkward night with all your friends
We never hid it well.

Little Miss Popular...

70 people have looked at my profile and read my silly online journal. Who are you? Let's solve this mystery once and for all.

"I'm Gonna' Quit These Rambling Ways"

(this works best if read while listening to "Don't Think Twice" by Bob Dylan)

I have become very fickle in what I consider "home." While watching a band from my town play in another city this weekend I became a proud Sackvillian - glad that I knew the words to the songs, that I knew the band members, and that I got the jokes about life in Sackville that the rest of the audience didn't understand. Yet, when I am in Sackville there is very little sense of "home" here for me. Yes, it is where my family lives (well... My parents anyway) and where my house is, but it is not where I find most of my friends, any history, or any sense of my identity. I have been rather nomadic for most of my life, and have always had difficulty with the concept of "home." In all of the traveling I have done I have visited places in which I have felt more at home than anywhere I have ever lived. On the other hand, I visit Halifax and feel at home in a city where I haven't lived for 10 years - yet I felt no sense of permanence when I did live there. I have heard people speak of the concept of a "spiritual home" which is a little bit out-there for my usual tastes, but it is actually something I can relate to very well. So while I root-on Sackville musicians, cheer when a Saskatoon sports team wins, and am proud to show any of my friends around Halifax, these are not the places where I want to spend my life. Look for me in Edinburgh.

Poetic Phobias...

(To be read as a recitation to small school children)

The Monster that Ate Sackville
A-A-Ahem

I see them everywhere I go
Parading down the street;
Obsequious rubber rainbows
On other people's feet.
Without a thought for style or taste,
In hole-filled shoes they walk;
One day will all of Sackville
Be a victim of the Croc?

Sackville in the Summertime

ENNUI. Always one of my favourite words, which I am only now beginning to grasp the meaning of. Something that is not quite boredom; it is less immediate than boredom. It is a general disillusionment with daily life. A constant feeling of "been there, done that" that can plague the kind of quiet day that we all wish for at other times of the year. Three weeks in a small town in summer provides the perfect image of ennui. Come September I will be thrilled to have any day in which my biggest plans involve walking for a coffee and sitting for two hours in the sun. Yet today, this idea hits me with the sense that a little bit of stress, or speed, or drama is necessary to keep me going, and to keep me interested. As much as Bridge St. will always provide me with coffee and conversation, and that a quiet walk is guaranteed to put me in a good mood, I have begun to avoid my favourite school-year pastimes of relaxation. I am creating for myself the elements of drama and conflict that are such constants for me in situations where they are not present. The part of me that remembers Saskatoon and the exaggerated importance of the smallest events has spoiled me for complicated experiences. I realize (with the most logical and reasonable part of me... which does not always receive the most attention) that I should be perfectly content with this month of respite from stress and action. I should treasure spending my days working and writing and sitting before I have to deal with all of the other people and activities who will eventually and undoubtedly demand my time. Yet I also feel like I am missing out. I am missing out on the kind of social contact that keeps me sane throughout most of the year. But for now I will continue to remind myself that slow can be good, that I don't always need drama to survive, and come November I will be glad for even three hours spent as I have spent this week, let alone an entire day.

Slanted

I should begin this with a warning, Occasionally very bad poetry will be posted. Most of these are pretty old; I recently found them in a journal in my bedside table. I thought I'd get them out in the fresh air and see if they improve with the new perspective.

Slanted

It's amazing what sharing a bed
Leads one to realize
About a foundering relationship
Sleeping with you,
Your mass
In the centre of the bed
Made me roll closer.
When you moved away
(When, not if)
I still rolled;
Making myself uncomfortable
Trying to resist
Lying awake on my slant
Thinking of ways to keep my distance.
Neither of us wanting to meet in the middle,
Both victims of your gravity
Your bed became the perfect metaphor
Of an imperfect balance,
Of typical,
One-sided love.

The Beginning

In considering the thought of starting a blog I realized the three ideas, or possibly fears, that made this a rather daunting process for me. One, which is the most likely scenario, is that no one will read anything I write here and that that my attempts at recognition and permanence will useless. The second is the exact opposite, that my words will be read; automatically opening myself to the judgment and criticism of others. My final worry is that of my thoughts and musings becoming permanent. The words that I write here will be permanent. They will last long after I have forgotten them and long after the emotions that inspired them have passed. But, In my own vanity, I will continue - and be constantly curious about whether I am still as anonymous as I believe myself to be.