The Void That Waited
by Christopher W. Quigley
Long ago, before stars knew how to shine and before time dared to tick there was only The Void.
It had no name, because nothing had ever been said.
It had no edges, because there was no thing to press against it.
It had no temperature, because warmth requires touch, and there was no thing to touch it.
The Void simply was, is.
Silent. Still. Infinite.
And in that perfect, endless nothing, something happened.
A rupture, a tiny tear.
No louder than a whisper.
No larger than a sigh.
A tremble, perhaps, or a flaw in the stillness.
From this shiver, a small bubble formed— not a clean or polished sphere, but a dirty bubble, a scum of hot matter and light clinging to itself in the way foam clings to filth.
It burst outward, violently, into the infinitely frictionless, infinitely cold, infinite vacuum of nothingness.
And so, It began. At first, It didn’t know what It was. But quickly, It realized it was full of things: light, heat, atoms, gravity, motion, life.
It wriggled and rolled and roared, giddy with its newness.
It called itself Something. It called itself The Universe.
The Universe danced in delight, unaware that it had intruded.
The Void watched, patient and unchanged.
It did not mind. It had no opinion.
But as time passed, The Universe grew uneasy.
It was stretching, expanding—not from ambition, or desire or hunger but because it was falling outward.
There was no thing to stop it. No walls to contain it. No friction to slow it down. It screamed into The Void, “Who is pushing me? What force is driving me apart?”
But the Void was silent.
It had no voice.
Scholars and the stars gathered to argue. “There must be something!” they said.
“A great energy! A pressure! A force we do not see!”
So they gave The Void a name: Dark Energy.
They treated it like a god, or a ghost, or a trick.
But still, the Universe stretched.
Eventually, an old beam of light—one of the first created—approached the edge where The Universe dissolved into The Void.
“What are you?” the beam of light asked. “Why do you unmake us?”
The Void did not answer.
It simply received the question, and in doing so, dissolved it.
Because the Void is not cruel. It is not kind. It is nothing.
The Void is the absence of all things.
The canvas before the painting.
The silence before the song.
The nothing before something.
As the Universe spread wider and wider and thinner and colder, chasing the illusion of meaning…
The Void waited. As It always had. As It always would. As It always will.
For in the end, all things return to nothing.
And nothing, unlike everything else, is patient.
All I Wanted Was a Toilet on Wheels: A Descent into Vanlife Madness
It started, as most midlife crises do, with a memory.
I've been obsessed with RVs and motorhomes since I was a little kid. Some kids went to theme parks; I went to the local RV retailer the Portage Leisure Centre to walk through trailers on a gravel lot. That was a fun Sunday in our house—just me, a sea of motorhomes, and dreams of indoor plumbing on wheels. I didn't say I was cultured. I said I was classy.
And now, as an adult with money (ish), taste (arguable), and a deep-rooted desire to poop in privacy while parked oceanside, I thought—why not finally do it? Buy the camper van. Live the dream. Journal at dawn in a robe. Sprinter chassis. Front lounge. Wet bath.
I was so young. So innocent. So… not ready.
Welcome to Plywood and Delusion
Apparently, the moment you type "Class B camper van with bathroom" into Google, you enter a world where logic goes to die.
I've seen "bathrooms" that are:
A bucket tucked under a plywood bench.
A "shower" that's really just a garden hose that spews spiritual defeat.
A composting toilet wedged beside the stovetop, which truly challenges one's sense of mealtime.
It seems everyone's flipping vans now. They insulate with Styrofoam, glue down some floor tiles, toss in a hotplate, and call it "Scandinavian modern." Then list it for $105,000, no questions asked.
I'm not kidding—one of them had the toilet facing the side door. For the full al fresco experience, I guess.
Mercedes Sprinter: The Devil Wears Diesel
Here's the thing: I want the Sprinter chassis. It's classy, smooth, and frankly, it's always been the dream. But the second that three-pointed star shows up, it's like someone added two extra zeros to the price for vibes.
I found a 2008 Airstream Interstate with 180,000 miles and rust that looks contagious. The listing says "needs some TLC" and then casually asks $89,900. I assume TLC stands for "This Limo's Cursed."
I'm not looking for luxury, but I am looking for basic human dignity.
All I Want Is a Toilet with a Door
Let's be clear. I want:
A diesel engine that doesn't hyperventilate on inclines.
A front lounge so I don't have to sit cross-legged on my bed like a Victorian invalid.
A proper wet bath. With walls. A door. Maybe even a fan.
And a price that doesn't require I sell plasma or take up interpretive busking.
Is that too much to ask?
Because right now, for $150,000, you get a "kitchenette" that looks like a high school shop project, a "bed" made of three uneven cushions, and a composting toilet that you have to empty yourself … with you own hands!! Which I believe is the final boss in the game of "Vanlife: Expectations vs. Reality."
The Bubble Is Bursting, and So Are My Dreams
Turns out, this van life craze is a bubble teetering on the edge of a pin. RV shipments have plummeted nearly 50% year over year. Even rental startups are folding faster than I do during a yoga class.
Remember Chris Farley's iconic "van down by the river" sketch? Well, these days, living in a van down by the river is a remarkably expensive proposition. If you dream big like this, that bubble's gonna burst too—right along with your bank account.
Current Status: Hopelessly Hopeful
I'm trolling RepoDepo like it owes me money. I've got Craigslist saved searches in three time zones. I've bookmarked U.S. vans from 2008 and 2009 that are just barely legal to import into Canada.
I know more about Roadtrek models than I do about my own medical history.
And yet, the dream persists. Somewhere out there, I know there's a Sprinter van—diesel, certified, and just janky enough to fit my budget—waiting for me. And when I find it, I will name it. And I will christen the wet bath like the queen it was always meant to be.
Because I didn't grow up cultured. I grew up classy.
Permission to be lost
A close friend recently asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks: Why are you doing this? The "this" in question was an initiative I’m spearheading to convert an old nursing home property into housing for market rental units—a daunting project requiring time, energy, and a certain kind of madness. At first, I fumbled for an answer.
Why was I doing it?
Because I could? Because no one else would? Because I’m too stubborn to accept “it’s not possible” as an excuse? All true, but not quite it. The answer, I realized later, was much simpler: I want to create space.
Not just physical space—a roof and four walls—but a kind of emotional and communal space. A place where someone could breathe, settle, and thrive. I’ve been lucky enough to find that in this community, a place where I’ve rebuilt myself, stumbled into clarity, and crafted my own path forward. It’s only right to try and leave that door open for someone else. That’s the "why."
Still, if I’m being honest, I feel a bit lost. I’ve been chasing different projects—producing a play, writing missives, creating public art, and yes, dreaming up housing solutions. Each idea feels like a thread leading somewhere, but the tapestry isn’t quite coming together. Yet.
And you know what? That’s okay. We’re so conditioned to believe that every step we take must be purposeful, that every move must lead to the next big thing. But maybe life isn’t about chasing a singular purpose. Maybe it’s about experimenting, creating, and letting the pieces find their own rhythm.
I’ve learned (and am still learning) to give myself permission to be lost. To let go of the need for immediate answers and embrace the exploration. It’s not comfortable—being lost rarely is—but it’s where the real magic happens.
This initiative, this effort to create homes, feels like one piece of the puzzle. It’s rooted in empathy, in gratitude, and in wanting to pay forward the inspiration and belonging I’ve found here in Mahone Bay. It’s not about saving the world. It’s about creating one small, meaningful ripple in the place I call home.
So, here’s a thought: Being lost isn’t a failure. It’s the first step to finding something better, deeper, and more authentic. The "why" doesn’t have to come first but reveals itself along the way?
For now, I’ll keep moving forward, one experiment at a time. After all, isn’t that how we find ourselves? By giving ourselves permission to wander?
The Things I Lost in the Fire
There’s a strange kind of discipline in knowing the precise second your energy will abandon you. I didn’t have this particular skill before. Before the fire—or my stroke(s)—I didn’t clock the mileage it took to shower, to walk from the bedroom to the coffee maker, to actually drink the coffee before it gets cold. But now, it’s an expertise, a checklist of “how much.” How much standing, how much sitting, how much pretending that I’m good. Some days, I feel like I’m riding my motorcycle along the edge of my limits, savoring the thrill of pushing forward, even as I know the “fun gap”—that place where exhilaration meets restraint—is closer than ever.
Masking comes easily; it’s a gift, really. “How are you?” takes only one word—“Fine.” And in truth, I am fine, except in all the ways I’m not. Fine, except the sudden need to lie down, which can eclipse the most ironclad plans. Fine, except the limitations that shadow everything. The sound of the world itself, sometimes even my own voice, feels like an endless echo bouncing through my brain. It’s as though post-stroke, I’ve inherited an internal misophonia, a heightened sensitivity not just to sound but to life’s demands, big and small.
Some mornings, I’m ambitious, like really ambitious. There’s something about a morning, after all, that fools us into believing anything can happen. I’ll think, “Today, I’m going to accomplish something big” I’ll pick out my best outfit—something black of course—give myself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror, and make my way to the door. Then it hits. The fatigue. A wall that’s not brick and mortar but feels just as immovable , like a solid debris filled tsunami. The outfit goes back on the hanger, and I’m reminded that my dreams have to wait a bit . This feels a little like entropy—desire itself suffering a slow fade, erode not by lack of will but by pure, relentless limitation.
The Dr’s and Neurologists call it “post-stroke fatigue,” but that phrase doesn’t quite do it justice. Fatigue sounds polite, like something that shows up on a Sunday afternoon after a busy weekend or after a long road trip. This is something different. It’s an uninvited guest that takes up space, demands my silence, and forces me to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about myself. It’s not just tiredness; it’s as if parts of me are simply missing, as if the things I lost in the fire took more than I initially realized.
My work—well, I don’t work in the way people understand. That’s the part that’s hardest to explain. But if I try to imagine myself in an office, a “real job,” with a “mediocre middle aged boss,” all I see is the inevitable—the fatigue setting in, the need to lie down after an hour, the constant battle between what I can do and what’s expected of me. I feel fortunate, in a way, to have spent most of my 40s self-employed. It’s made me the kind of boss I’d want to work for. My workdays are shaped by my own terms, with flexibility to adapt to whatever the fire left behind. I’m accountable to myself, and if I need to lie down or step away, there’s no guilt, no one to explain it to. This has taught me that success isn’t just about productivity; it’s about meeting my own needs with grace and understanding.
One unexpected change has been the clarity that came from removing myself from people and projects where I couldn’t be fully present, or where an attitude—whether of arrogance, insincerity, or indifference—seemed to linger. I can sense these attitudes quickly now, and I avoid them at all costs. I suppose I could say I’m principled, though I did have to look it up to be sure. Let’s just say I have some principles, without risking insult to those with far more established inventories.
So, I focus on what I can create. It’s ironic; the fire took so much, but here I am, lighting my own small sparks where I can. Writing a line or two, sketching an idea, shaping a project that’s mine, wholly mine. The need to work this way makes me think of my project Ephemeral Monolith— a public art piece designed to transform over time, altered but still standing. The fatigue has taken something similar from me, changing me in ways that aren’t fully visible but are unmistakable to me. But just as that sculpture will erode with the elements, I’ve decided that my own evolution is part of the story, too. This life isn’t what I pictured, but I’m alive and it’s still mine, and like the monolith, it’s shaped by forces I can’t control but can still stand alongside.
Maybe the things I lost in the fire weren’t things at all. Maybe they were the parts of myself that no longer fit, that never fit. Now, what’s left is rawer, quieter, and yes, a bit more fragile. But here, with no fantasies or fictions to hide behind, I am exactly who I need to be—unmasked and honest, with all the things I’ve lost and all the things I’m still learning to find again.
From Whips to Watts
Growing up, I spent some of my youth elbow-deep in grease, helping my Aunt Wendy wrench on her ‘66 Pontiac Parisienne—an absolute beauty of a machine. Fast forward to today, and I’m driving a BMW with over 300 horsepower, offering that familiar throaty growl we all love, my cars name is “Growly”. And let's not forget my latest toy, a 900cc Yamaha from Shore Cycle that I absolutely adore. Now, I’m not exactly eager to part with my collection of horsepower, but even I can see the future barreling down the road, inevitable as a thirsty horse being led to water.
But this whole electric vehicle (EV) thing? It's not the first-time humanity has resisted change. We’ve been here before—think back to the early 1900s when horse-drawn carriages were king. There was a certain intimacy with your horse back then, wasn’t there? It was more than just transportation; it was a relationship. So, when the first "horseless carriage" sputtered onto the scene, people didn’t just question it—they raged against it.
A 1900 New York Times article called the automobile “clumsy, costly, and dangerous.” Critics warned that gas-powered engines would never replace the horse, citing lack of infrastructure and, of course, the job loss in industries like carriage-making and blacksmithing. Buggy whip makers were shaking in their boots! Meanwhile, newspapers warned of the automobile as a menace to society, predicting doom if people abandoned their beloved horses. What they didn’t realize is that people adapt—and those same naysayers were soon hopping into their own Model Ts.
Now, in 2024, we hear the same old song but with new lyrics. The critics of EVs sound eerily like the ones who protested gas engines more than a century ago. No infrastructure! Too expensive! What about all the jobs? People act like they’ve never seen technological progress before. But if we look at history, we know how this goes. Just like the gas-powered revolution, the EV revolution will create new industries, jobs, and, yes, infrastructure. It just takes time, just like getting those gas stations built all over the country did back in the day.
There’s a certain comfort in that old-school combustion engine—trust me, I get it. That’s why I still enjoy the thrill of my rocket roaring underneath me. But this shift toward electric is inevitable, just like when people traded in their reins for steering wheels. Whether we like it or not, history is driving us forward.
Back in 1917, one man wrote to The Washington Post fuming that the "horseless carriage" would be the downfall of society, claiming we’d lose our connection with the world by abandoning horses. He wasn’t entirely wrong—our relationship with transportation changed forever. But instead of losing something, we gained more than we could have imagined: faster travel, more convenience, and eventually, the ability to cross continents in hours.
Today, it’s not about the loss of the combustion engine; it’s about embracing a new future. Much like those early 20th-century folks who saw their way of life changing, we’re at a turning point. The gas engine isn’t dying—it’s evolving. And if history is any guide, those who resist this evolution are, once again, on the wrong side of progress.
So while I may not be ready to part with my toys just yet, I know where this road leads. The critics may cry foul, just like they did when Henry Ford started rolling out the Model T, but the rest of us? We’re already looking ahead. Because, as they say, you can lead a horse to water—but eventually, even that horse will be replaced by something with a little more horsepower
Do I just need better lighting?
You ever get that feeling, like you’re a backup singer in your own life? You’re there, giving it your all, but somehow, people only seem to notice when you trip over the mic stand. It’s a wild ride when you realize the world isn't waiting for your grand debut with a spotlight ready to catch every twirl and pirouette. Nope. Sometimes, you're just standing under a flickering fluorescent bulb, trying to get anyone to even glance in your direction.
Let’s be honest—there’s this bizarre pressure to be enough for people. As if your worth depends on their ability to see you, validate you, and give you a hearty thumbs-up like you're a product on a shelf at Costco. But what if you’re not in the mood to hand out free samples of yourself? What if you’d like to be noticed without having to perform some metaphorical cartwheel every time?
Here’s the thing: sometimes, being “enough” means being enough for yourself first. It’s like when you make a sandwich and halfway through, you’re like, “You know what, this is good. This is my sandwich. I don’t care if anyone else approves of my choice of bread or whether I smeared the mayo correctly. I’m going to eat this, and I’m going to enjoy it.” (Or in my case, probably throw it at someone if they’re chewing too loud, but that’s another story.)
The point is, we get so tangled up in wanting to be seen—really seen—that we forget to appreciate the person staring back at us in the mirror. And maybe, just maybe, that person’s enough.
Now, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy a little attention here and there. We all love a good audience. But if no one’s applauding, maybe it’s time to clap for yourself. Or better yet, find a better crowd.
Because, darling, sometimes it’s not about being “enough” for them—it’s about being more than enough for you. And when you get that down, the rest of the world? They’ll either catch up or be left blinking in your glow.
So yes, go out there, shine—whether it’s under the spotlight or a dim, flickering bulb. Just make sure you see you. That’s enough.
-Christopher W Quigley (still looking for better lighting)
Guide to Loving Fiercely
Growing up as a gay kid in the early '90s, I always had this nagging feeling that my time on earth was on a countdown. Maybe it was all the doom and gloom in the media about AIDS, or just a gut feeling, but I lived like there was no tomorrow. As a young g man I drank, I smoked, I did drugs, and I partied like there was no end in sight. And honestly, I had a blast. I figured something was going to take me away sooner rather than later, and I thought I’d rather be in control of it, be the perpetrator.
This feeling wasn’t just paranoia. I had spent many years cleaning myself up, getting clean and sober, getting married, and living a really good life. Yet, several family members and friends were diagnosed with cancer and died. Watching them go through that reinforced my belief that life is fragile and fleeting. It was like a constant reminder that my time was limited too.
Jump ahead a few years and conveniently forgetting how life goes …Then came the stroke when I was 50. It was like a slap in the face from the universe, confirming my suspicions that my time here was indeed limited. But it didn't kill me. It knocked me down hard, really hard , but it also made me realize something important: I have a lot of love to give, and there are a lot of people who need to know that I love them.
It's one of those things that not everyone gets to experience . When you face your own mortality over and over, you kind of get numb to it. But when something concrete, something completely out of your control, hits you, it’s terrifying in a whole new way. Suddenly, all those brushes with death feel like dress rehearsals for the real thing.
I've got a lot of people in my life who need to know that I care about them. And if the worst ever happens, I want the last thing they know to be how much I love them. So, I’m putting it out there, making sure my friends and family hear it loud and clear. I love you all, deeply and fiercely. Life is too short to keep it bottled up, and I'm not taking any chances…well I did buy a motorcycle recently … so there’s that .
So here's to living, loving, and making sure those we care about know exactly how much they mean to us. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you never know how much time you really have. Should you ?
Drunk Debutante Garden Gnome
It was a crisp Thursday morning, the kind where the sun kisses your cheeks but the air still carries a hint of a chill. I awoke with a sense of purpose, an almost regal aura set about me as I slugged my way out of bed. Little did I know, today was the day I’d fully embrace and understand my true essence.
I've always known I wasn't the stereotypical "flouncy, lispy" gay guy. You know the type: they can out-dance a Broadway chorus line and their fashion sense is sharper than a chef’s knife, not that there's anything wrong with that. No, my style is a little different, more subtle, a bit morose and dark, but no less fabulous.
After a leisurely coffee, I decided it was the perfect time to tend to my new garden. But this wasn’t going to be any ordinary gardening session. Oh no. I had a sudden urge to channel my inner diva. And what better way to do that than to don my 3/4 length black silk robe from Christian Dior?
I slipped into the robe, feeling its smooth fabric against my skin, and tied it “securely” at the waist. The transformation was instant. I was no longer just me; I was a glamorous figure straight out of a vintage Hollywood film. I picked up a martini glass—gin, naturally, because dear god there are still standards to uphold—and I strutted out to the yard.
As I sauntered down the garden path, martini in hand, I felt like a drunk debutante descending a grand staircase. Every step was a performance, every sip of my martini a testament to my sophisticated taste. I could almost hear the imaginary applause of an adoring audience as I made my way around the yard.
My neighbor, bless her, peeked across the trees, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and confusion. “Good morning!” I called out, giving a little wave with my free hand. She blinked a few times, probably wondering if she’d wandered into an alternate universe where garden attire includes designer robes and cocktails before noon. But hey, who am I to deny the world a bit of glamour?
I spent the next hour picking weeds, pruning plants , and adjusting my robe, while striking poses like I was in a photoshoot. There’s something wonderfully liberating about embracing who you are in such a theatrical manner. No longer was I bound by the expectations of what kind of gay guy I should be. I was, and forever will be, the type who enjoys the finer things in life—even if that means looking like a tipsy socialite while doing yard work.
By the time I finished, my martini was empty but my heart was full. I had discovered a new layer of my identity, one that involved elegance, a touch of drama, and an unapologetic embrace of my true self. And honestly, I think we could all use a bit more of that in our lives.
So, here’s to the martini-sipping, robe-wearing debutante in all of us. May we always find the courage to be exactly who we are, even if it means bewildering the neighbors along the way.
Cheers
Spaghetti Linguistics
Humans have mastered the art of saying a lot without really saying anything at all. It's like we've enrolled in the School of Subtle Speech, where the syllabus includes mastering the art of keeping our hearts on lockdown.
Take, for instance, the classic "love you" versus the poetic and beautiful work of art that is "I love you." One is a quick verbal drive-by assault, while the other is a testimony worthy of a thousand verses.
And let's not forget the casual invite to "swing by if you want." That’s the verbal equivalent of throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks, it’s a dull wet noodle of a comment. But imagine the difference when someone hits you with a "I miss you, and I’d like to see you." Suddenly, you're not just an afterthought; you're the star of the show… enter with jazz hands!!
Then there's also the dreaded "you can come if you like." You’d be better off just shrugging your shoulders and saying, "Eh, whatever." But swap that out for a hearty "I would love to have you join me," and suddenly, you're rolling out the red carpet.
So, why do we do this dance on verbal tiptoes? Perhaps it's a defense device, a way to shield ourselves from potential - heartache and pain, I don't know, if I can face it again…
Or could it be a lack of emotions, lest say a decrease in affection? Or maybe it's just easier to give the absolute bare minimum and call it a day.
But here's the kicker: these lazy linguistic gymnastics only serve to create division. Deep down, we all crave genuine connections—not just surface-level pleasantries. It’s up to each of you to play your part with intention and truthfulness. If you desire genuine connections and heartfelt exchanges, then you must lead by example. It starts with speaking the way you wish to be spoken to. You create this by weaving sincerity and warmth into the fabric of your words. But be clear and decisive, by asking for what you want it becomes the key in the dance of communication. Yet, if despite your efforts, the tune still feels off-key, it's crucial to explore other considerations. Perhaps it's time to reassess the dynamics at play, don’t just listen to the words but listen to the unspoken currents beneath them. In the search for genuine connection, understanding and adapting to the complexities of human interaction are essential.
So, tear down the language barriers and start speaking from the heart. After all, life's too short for a half-hearted howdy and an indifferent invitation. Dive headfirst into the sea of genuine communication and see where the currents take you. Who knows? You might just find yourself swimming in a sea of meaningful connections.
Not Just Pocket Change
Change is like that unexpected guest who barges into our lives uninvited, disrupting our carefully laid plans and routines. We often find ourselves caught off guard, scrambling to maintain our balance in the chaos of shifting circumstances. However, hidden within the messy waves of change lies a secret—a secret that holds the key to not just surviving, but thriving in the face of all that chaos.
Imagine that you're standing at the crossroads of life, facing the daunting prospect of change looming ahead. Your emotions and feelings might urge you to brace yourself, to resist the impending shift with all your might. After all, isn't change synonymous with upheaval and discomfort? But what if I told you that there's a better way—a way that doesn't involve futilely battling against the currents of the past?
While the wisdom we're about to explore is often attributed to the renowned Socrates, however its true origins trace back to the author Dan Millman. In his book "Way of the Peaceful Warrior" (1984), Dan Millman introduces us to a character named Socrates, whose teachings like his namesake serve as an inspiration of insight amidst the chaos of life's trials and tribulations. Now, with our compass adjusted and our sails set, let's dive headfirst into this boundless sea of change.
"The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new." Let's unpack this nugget of wisdom…
Firstly, this reminds us to direct our energy towards constructive efforts rather than futile resistance. Imagine trying to wrestle with a stubborn mule—it's a futile exercise that only leaves you exhausted and no closer to your destination. Likewise, spending all our energy on resisting change only serves to drain us of our strength and enthusiasm. Instead, channel that energy into something productive, something that drives us forward towards growth and renewal.
It reminds us to shift our focus from living in and dwelling on the past to embracing the possibilities of the future. It's like cleaning out your cluttered clothes closet to make room for new treasures to love—you can't hold on to every dusty moth ridden remnant from the past if you want to make space for fresh experiences and opportunities. By releasing the grip on the past, you open yourself up to the endless potential that lies ahead.
Now, I know what you're thinking: 'But what about all the fond memories and cherished moments of the past? Fear not, I'm not, and the quote is not advocating for wholesale abandonment of our past experiences. Rather, it encourages us to honor the past and those experiences while also embracing the ever-changing landscape of the present moment. It's like enjoying a delicious slice of cake while eagerly anticipating the next culinary masterpiece that is approaching on a silver platter. As the saying goes, 'you can have your cake and eat it too. We can cherish our memories while eagerly embracing the opportunities that lie ahead. In essence, the secret of change lies in our ability to adapt, evolve, and dare I say, improvise. Life is like a n improvised theatrical production, with each scene unfolding unpredictably before our eyes. And just like any seasoned actor, we must learn to embrace the on-the-fly script revisions, the unexpected plot twists, and the occasional wardrobe malfunctions with grace and style.
Change is a dance between what we remember from the past and what we don't know about the future. Think about yourself and dealing with big changes in own life. Your own story shows you how strong and flexible you are, turning tough times into chances for happiness. Then there's the wisdom from your own history that helps you see through the confusion of change. It becomes instinctual and it tells you to stay calm when things are different and to accept that things don't last forever. Learning from these helps you handle change with strength and bravery, by finding comfort in truths that are always true.
But change isn't just about big ideas—it's about how we feel emotionally and react instinctually, too. Knowing how change affects us can help us deal with it better, from not wanting to believe it's happening to finally accepting it. We can also use practical tips to help us deal with changes, like setting goals, making actual vision boards of the future we want and trusting your instincts by staying strong when things get tough. When we stay open to new experiences, change becomes more like an exciting journey rather than something to be scared of. By looking back and thinking about our own experiences of change, we can learn things that help us move forward. So, in the end, change isn't just about throwing coins into a wishing well—it's about growing and finding what makes life meaningful to you.
So, the next time you find yourself standing at the edge of the ocean of change, remember: Focus your energy on building a new history, rather than hopelessly fighting against and holding onto the old. Stand at the edge of the sea and embrace the waves of change, let them wash over you, they carry with them the promise of endless possibilities and countless new adventures.
Life's greatest joys often lie on the other side of fear and uncertainty.
A Neighborly Intervention
A Neighbourly Intervention
Hidie ho there neighbour!! Can I have a quick chinwag with you about a few quirks that have us Canucks scratching our heads? To start, as your maple-leafed neighbour, I come in peace, armed only with a good sense of humor and a dash of concern. To paraphrase and edit the quote from Robin Williams to suit this diatribe “The world is laughing at you, not with you.” So, let's dive into this bubbling melting pot of chuckles and contemplation, shall we and bring up a few points?
Firstly, let's chat about this flat earth theory that seems to be popping up like a bad weed. Now, I'm all for thinking outside the box, but suggesting our planet is as flat as a pancake? I'm not one to poke fun at the misfortunes of others, but when it comes to flat earth theories, I can't help but chuckle. You have a group of grown adults, earnestly arguing that our planet resembles a giant pancake, floating aimlessly in the cosmic syrup of space. It's enough to make even the most stoic among us break into fits of laughter. Come on, folks, we've got better things to do than ponder whether the horizon has edges! It's like trying to find the corner of a circle—it’s absurdly amusing, but ultimately fruitless.
Next up, the moon landing hoax. We’re talking about one giant leap for mankind here, not a Hollywood stunt gone wrong. The moon was no stage for theatrics—it's a cosmic rock that deserved a walk about. So, let's put those conspiracy theories to bed and focus on the real achievements humanity has pulled off. Not to make fun, but would it hurt to eat a salad every once in a while, you’re supposed to explore the cosmos, not fill it.
Ok, hold onto your red hats, because here's where things get a tad serious—you need to clean your yard up, your peculiar choice of priorities and choices are not fitting in with the neighbourhood. Drag queens getting more side-eye than firearms and school shootings? Now, that's a plot twist any writer would reject for being too far-fetched. Let's get real, sequins and men in high heels may be dazzling, but they're hardly as deadly as a nut job roaming an elementary school hallway with a loaded assault rifle. It’s about time to shift the spotlight to what truly matters—keeping your house safe and sound for those living in it. And don't even get me started on the notion of your American superiority. I love a good dose of patriotism as much as the next person, but there comes a point when confidence crosses the line into comedy. To claim that you are the pinnacle of intelligence and the greatest neighbor on Earth is, well, a tad presumptuous, wouldn't you say? It's like proclaiming yourself the world champion of a game you've never played.
And hey, while we're on the subject of priorities, I couldn't help but notice a few weeds sprouting up in our shared backyard that could use some attention. From climate change concerns to healthcare debates, there's a whole garden of issues clamoring for our collective green thumbs. So, let's not get too tangled up in the weeds of flat earth theories and moon landing shenanigans and men in dresses when there's a whole yard waiting for us to roll up our sleeves and start gardening. Let's spruce things up together, shall we?
So, dear neighbors, alright stop, collaborate, and listen—to reason, to evidence, and to the collective wisdom of your global neighborhood. Because, honestly, my sides can't handle much more laughter, and I'm starting to worry my ribs might just stage a walkout.
And let's face it, you’re our neighbour and you are a big player on the global stage, but you’re not the HOA president here, dictating the rules on this cosmic cul-de-sac. So, you need to loosen our grip on the gavel of self-importance and embrace a more down-to-earth perspective, shall we?
Thanks for indulging my Canadian candor, eh? And may the truth, whether it is as round as a hockey puck or flat as a pancake, guide us toward brighter days and fewer head-scratching moments.
Cheers, pals!
The Sneaky Linguistic Trickery of "Right?"
I want to bring to the light something in the curious world of conversational dynamics, where the seemingly simple word "right?" hides a world of subtle persuasion tactics.
You know the scenario: you're chatting with a friend, colleague, or perhaps a salesperson, and they drop a statement like, "The sky is blue, right?" It's a simple enough question, but have you ever stopped to think about the implications lurking beneath the surface?
Allow me to explain my thought on this. When someone uses "right?" at the end of a statement, they're not just seeking confirmation; they're subtly nudging you towards agreement. It's like they're saying, "I'm so convinced I'm correct that I'm sure you must agree, right?"
But here's the kicker: in reality by ending a statement with "right?" the speaker is actually planting a seed of doubt in your sub conscious and conscious mind. Suddenly, you're not just considering the statement itself; you're also evaluating whether you should agree with it. It's a sneaky little linguistic trick designed to sway your subconscious towards alignment.
But if you think about it. If someone truly believed in the validity of their statement, why would they need to seek confirmation in such a roundabout way? Wouldn't the statement just speak for itself? It's as if they're trying to compensate for a lack of conviction by roping you into their uncertainty.
Now, I'm not saying that everyone who uses "right?" in conversation is engaging in Machiavellian manipulation tactics. Often, it's just a habitual linguistic quirk picked up from social interactions. But awareness is key. The next time someone drops a "right?" bomb on you, pause for a moment and consider whether you truly agree with the statement or if you're just being subtly nudged in that direction.
So, let's strive for clarity and conviction in our interactions. Let's resist the temptation to employ linguistic sleight of hand and instead engage in honest, open dialogue. And remember, just because someone ends their statement with "right?" doesn't mean you have to blindly agree.
After all, critical thinking the true mark of intelligence? Right?
Baking Bliss: A Stroke of Genius in Rum Cake Revelry
Hello, fabulous people! Today, let's slosh into the delightful world of baking with booze, where the sweet scent of success is as intoxicating as the aroma of a freshly baked rum cake. I'm your host, the not-so-masterful but b-utterly enthusiastic baker who believes in the therapeutic magic of the kitchen.
Now, I've got a little secret to share with you all. Since my stroke, my freestyle baking skills have taken a bit of a hit. I was once a fearless flour aficionado, but now cautiously measuring out ingredients like a scientist in a lab. But fear not, my fellow bakers, for out of this challenge emerged a newfound love – a love for crafting the perfect rum cake.
You see, the stroke might have taken away my ability to whip up spontaneous baking masterpieces, but it couldn't dull my passion for creating something scrumptious. And what better way to bounce back than with the warm, boozy embrace of a homemade rum cake?
Now, I'm not claiming to be the Julia Child of rum cakes, but I've stumbled upon creating a recipe that even Mary Berry might raise an approving eyebrow at. The secret, my friends, lies in the perfect balance of buttery goodness and a generous load of rum. A stroke of genius, you might say!
Creating this recipe was like composing a sweet symphony – a dash of vanilla here, a sprinkle of nutmeg there, and a chorus of rum singing in the background. It's the kind of baking therapy that makes you forget about life's little hiccups and focus on the important things, like the golden crust forming on top of your masterpiece.
Now, I won't bore you with the nitty-gritty details of my rum cake escapades, but let's just say that my kitchen has become a laboratory of experimentation and a shrine to the power of perseverance. There were a few burnt bottoms of bundts and gooey centers along the way, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was the perfect rum cake.
So, why rum cakes, you ask? Well, besides the obvious allure of a cake with a rosy cheeky kick, there's something about the rich, molasses-infused goodness that transcends the ordinary. It's a dessert fit for celebrations, commiserations, and everything in between. Plus, if it can bring joy to my post-stroke baking adventures, imagine what it can do for your taste buds!
So, my baking buddies, let this be a testament to the cathartic wonders of the kitchen. Whether you're a seasoned pro or a kitchen rookie like me, there's magic in the mixing bowl, and rum cakes are the boozy wand that can make it all happen.
Until next time, happy baking, and may your rum cakes rise as triumphantly as a phoenix from the oven!
“Grow”er not a “show”er
Let's talk about love, folks – no fancy words, just real talk. Today, I’m “diving” into the idea that love isn't just about sweet romance. It's about building a strong friendship, like those old oak trees that have stood the test of time. The love we grow with our friends that is the rock-solid foundation for all our important connections. It's the reliable friendship that sticks with us through thick and thin, a constant support no matter what happens. These are the friends who really get you, who've been there through the good times and the tough times. Growing in love isn't just about romance; it's the basis for all the colorful connections that make up our lives, creating a space as diverse as a blooming flower garden.
With that being said, now, let's jump into the classic trope of "falling in love." The phrase itself brings up images of diving headfirst into a fancy world where a gilded framed reality dances around your special someone. You're on a rollercoaster of passion, zooming through infatuation akin to a runaway freight train. Falling in love is a wild adventure, where you jump off a cliff into the unknown at some point. It's a rapid drop into a world where you're open and kind of vulnerable, with your heart leading the way and control slipping away like sand through your fingers. The fall can be exciting, with lots of strong feelings and a dizzy feeling of being taken away. But there can be a crash waiting underneath it all. When love hits the ground, it can be as gentle as glass meeting a hard surface. This crash can make us feel exposed and delicate, as the borders of the heart meet reality, showing us that love, despite being wonderful, can also be fragile and hard to predict. Falling in love takes you on a wild adventure, into the unknown. It's thrilling, sure, but who needs that kind of uncertainty in their life?
Now, here's the grown-up alternative I’m working on – the art of "growing in love." It's like taking care of a lush garden. You plant the seeds of affection and nurture them over time. As your love grows, it becomes as strong as an old oak tree, standing tall through all the seasons, getting better and stronger and more robust with each passing day.
So, how do you create this delightful garden?
Like anything, you have to build a strong foundation, so trust is vital, trust is the fertile soil where your love grows. It might take time to build a good base, but once it's there, your love has a sturdy foundation. No storm can shake you. Then start by planting the seeds of friendship first. Get to know your partner beyond the surface and the bedroom. Learn about their quirks, dreams, and vulnerabilities. This friendship is the solid base of your love, like a gardener preparing the soil. Communication is key so keep talking. Open, honest, and respectful talks keep your relationship strong. Don't let misunderstandings take over like invasive weeds in your garden. So, cut out negativity, like a good gardener, trim away the dead branches, eliminate negativity from your story. Forgiveness of previous mistakes and letting go of past grudges will let your new relationship flourish. Face challenges together, every garden and relationship faces storms. When you're growing in love, you face challenges as a team, ready to manage whatever life throws your way. The best part is you get to watch it thrive. As time passes, your love deepens, you both celebrate the small and big moments, appreciating the love you've nurtured. Your relationship is supposed to be a well-tended garden, it shows your level of care and dedication
So, consider the art of "growing in love." Each day you choose to tend to it your affection grows stronger, and the roots go even deeper adding more stability. It anchors your relationship in understanding, trust, and commitment – a love that lasts through all seasons, like the old oak tree.
So why go for the thrill of free-falling off a cliff (which is exhilarating) when you can cultivate a love as reliable as the ground beneath your feet?
The choice is yours, my friends.
Doorstep Deeds
Let’s dive into the world of corporate donations, tax deductions, and why this year, you should take the reins and direct your generosity where it truly matters.
You've navigated the aisles of Walmart, stocked up at Sobeys, and flexed your DIY muscles at Home Depot, or Canadian Tire. But did you know that every time you swipe that card, and asked to make a donation you might be unwittingly bankrolling a corporate charitable contribution? It's like Robin Hood in reverse – you're taking from your own coffers and giving to the already affluent.
These corporate giants, in their pursuit of billions of dollars in profit, often engage in philanthropy to earn the coveted golden ticket: a tax deduction. That's right, a bit of giving here and there, and voila! They pat themselves on the back while the tax man gives a nod of approval. Meanwhile, you're left with the impression that you've done your part for the greater good.
But what if I told you that you could be the hero of your own narrative? Envision this: You, yes, you, directing your hard-earned dollars to a cause that genuinely matters to you. This year let's break free from the corporate donation matrix and back initiatives that hit close to home.
In the city that never sleeps, the issue of fixed-term leases is as tangible as the late-night pizz. If you've called the Big Apple home for a decade, like yours truly, you've felt the struggle of renting your home. Landlords playing Jenga with rent prices, and everyone is caught in the crossfire, desperately trying to find stable housing. The culprit is THE FIXED TERM LEASE, it’s becoming more popular here in Nova Scotia.
The fixed-term lease, a bit like a magician's wand in the hands of landlords. Picture this: ion the surface it’s a contractual tête-à-tête between a tenant and a landlord, but here's the twist—there's an expiration date. It's not quite as romantic as a summer fling; instead, it's a rendezvous with housing uncertainty. Now, here's where the plot thickens in this real estate drama. Some landlords, the crafty illusionists they are, exploit this fixed-term enchantment to dodge rent control laws and tenant protection spells. With a flick of the lease, they can raise rent prices at the end of each term, avoiding the shackles of restrictions that might cramp their financial style. It's like a shell game, but instead of guessing where the pea is, tenants are left guessing where their rent will skyrocket to next. So, in the grand theatrical production of urban living, fixed-term leases play the role of the sneaky plot twist, leaving tenants on the edge of their seats and landlords rubbing their hands together like mischievous wizards.
Now, it's crucial to mention that as you embark on your philanthropic journey, take a moment to research and vet the organizations you plan to support. Not all groups operate with the same level of transparency or share your values. Some may unintentionally funnel your hard-earned resources to causes that don't align with your sensibilities. So, be a savvy donor – know where your money is going and ensure it's making the impact you desire.
The essence of "charity begins at home" echoes not only in the comfort of our living spaces but recognizing that ensuring everyone has a home is the bedrock of true compassion. Charity isn't just a grandiose gesture; it's the recognition that providing shelter, warmth, and security is the original primal act of kindness. In a world where the absence of a home is the source of countless struggles, addressing this fundamental basic need becomes the foundation of change. So, let us ensure that charity commences with the sanctity of having a home, embracing the profound truth that the first step towards a compassionate society begins right at our own doorstep and having a doorstep to call your own.
Instead of letting the corporate giants dictate where your charitable dollars go, and then reap the reward off your hard-earned dollars, channel your inner superhero and support organizations actively fighting for tenant rights for instance. Be the change you want to see, and let your dollars do the talking directly, without the corporate middleman muddying the waters.
Look, charity isn't just a seasonal thing, it’s not like a festive light display that sparkles in December and fades into the shadows by January. No, no, charity needs to be perpetual, a year-round extravaganza that demands our attention, it’s like a tireless performer seeking a standing ovation. While holiday generosity is akin to a grand overture, the world doesn't magically mend itself when the last strand of tinsel is packed away. No, it's a continuous narrative, where kindness needs to prevail every day. My friends, please, let's not confine our charitable escapades to the holiday season, you can be philanthropic rebels, breaking free from the shackles of seasonal giving and embracing the notion that the world deserves our kindness every day, not just on a festive whim.
Charity ought to be about making tangible differences, charity and giving is not just a line item on a profit and loss statement. So, here's to being the architect of your own generosity, the captain of your own philanthropic ship, and the maestro of your charitable symphony.
Let's make a genuine impact.
Cheers to year-round direct, meaningful change.
Missing You More.
Welcome to another journey into the peculiar world of human emotions! I’m going to delve into the realm of “missing someone”. Yes, you read that right, I’m going to explore why it's perfectly alright, normal, and even quite essential, to pine for the presence of another human being.
You see, missing someone is a seasoning of life – it’s a dash of spice that enhances the flavors of our lives. It's the bittersweet song that plays in the background of our daily routines, it’s a reminder that we are, indeed, creatures of connection and companionship.
So, let's begin this little adventure.
In the grand concert of life, missing someone is like the silence between the musical notes. Just as a pause in music can elevate the beauty of the music, the absence of someone dear highlights their significance in our life. It’s like the dropped beat in traditional Indian music, or from most really good DJ’s that allow that silent beat to linger, to hang in the air, making us wait for the beat to drop, it’s similar to the feeling of missing someone – a musical pause that resonates with the quiet moments. Just as the musical notes can't help but return to complete the song, our thoughts inevitably circle back to the ones we love. It's as if the music reflects our own emotions rhythms, reminding us that in missing someone, we're participating in a universal dance of desire and connection. When you miss someone, it's a testament to the impact they have your heart, like a musician who leaves you longing for their next performance.
I like to imagine life as a puzzle, and the people you love as the missing pieces. When someone you care about is absent, it's as if a vital piece of your puzzle is temporarily misplaced. This absence creates yearning, reminding you of the beauty of connection and the value of those who fit perfectly into your life's mix. Missing someone offers us a unique opportunity for introspection. It's like looking up at the stars on a clear night; their absence allows you to think of the depth of your emotions and the strength of your bonds. As you yearn for their presence, you may discover newfound depths in your feelings and an appreciation for the moments you've shared. That introspection breeds anticipation.
Ah, anticipation, another spice of life! Missing someone fans the flames of anticipation, like waiting for a text from a far-off friend or the return of a rarely seen family member. The joy of return adds a tempting flavor to your day, making each moment without them a small but necessary sacrifice for the grand reunion. And here lies the ultimate brilliance of missing someone: the sweetness of reunion. When you're reunited with the person you've been longing for, the joy is a symphony of emotions. It's as if the universe itself has conspired to bring your souls back together.
So, the next time you find yourself missing someone, don't shy away from it. Embrace it. Cherish it. Let it remind you of the beautiful tapestry of human relationships that makes life worth living. Let your heart sing with the sweet ache of longing, when you are missing someone, you're celebrating the profound significance of their presence in your life.
Until next time, stay whimsical, stay wistful, stay weird and always, always cherish the art of missing someone.
Embracing the Villain OR A Tale of Minding My Own Business
Not so long ago the magical land of Real Life, there I was, fully aware that I had landed the coveted role of the villain in someone else's story. Now, don't get me wrong—I've always considered myself more of a supporting character in the grand narrative of existence. But, life had other plans for me, and here I am, twirling my metaphorical mustache and embracing the dark side.
It all started when someone decided to cast me as the antagonist in their personal drama. Was I shocked? Well, maybe a little. Was I offended? Not at all. In fact, I find the whole situation rather amusing and comical. I mean, who wouldn't want to be the mysterious, misunderstood character with a penchant for causing a ruckus?
So, with a devilish grin and a raised eyebrow, I have decided to fully embrace my newfound villain status. I mean, why not? If someone is going to write me into their story as the bad guy, I might as well have some fun with it. Of course, being a villain also requires a wardrobe upgrade. Out came the dark and dramatic ensembles. I considered cloaks, top hats, and an eyepatch for good measure. But those are a bit too Snidely Whiplash cliché! Ah, Snidely Whiplash, the OG villain himself. As I delve deeper into my newfound villainy, I can’t help but draw inspiration from the classic. I mean, who wouldn't want to channel the timeless charm of Snidely's dastardly deeds? In homage to his illustrious villainy, I decided to add a dash of melodrama to my everyday life. So, I started practicing dramatic cape flourishes and perfected the art of maniacal laughter, which is more of a drawn out belly laugh. Nevertheless, I persist, fully committed to bringing a touch of old-school villainy into the modern world. Because if you're going to be a villain in someone else's story, you might as well do it with flair, right?
The major requirement is that I needed a villainous lair. Unfortunately, real estate agents weren't exactly advertising "Evil Villain Hideouts" on Realtor.com. Thankfully my creativity knows no bounds. I transformed my everyday living space into a lair fit for a despicable mastermind. I strategically placed my imaginary cat on my lap and put-up help wanted signs looking for loyal henchmen. I might as well lean into this role.
Now, every good villain needs a catchphrase, right? And after careful consideration (and a few too many cups of coffee), I settled on, "It's none of my business what you think of me." It has a nice ring to it, a perfect blend of calmness and indifference. I even considered printing it on business cards, just to hand them out to people who seemed a little too concerned about my villainous reputation.
I’m reveling in my newfound role; I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Who would have thought that living my best villain’s life could be so entertaining? Sure, I may be the bad guy in someone else's story, but at the end of the day, it's none of my business what they think. I've got lairs to lounge in, catchphrases to perfect, and henchmen who demand their daily quota of nefarious enterprises.
So, to all the unwitting protagonists out there casting me as the villain in their tales, I say this: Thank you for the inspiration. I'll be over here, sipping my coffee and enjoying the show from my evil lair. After all, it's none of my business what you think of me.
From Fine Wine to Vintage Whine
Dear readers, it is with a mix of trepidation and anticipation that I sit down to write this blog post. You see, today was the last day of my 49th year on this planet. Tonight as the hands of the clock strike midnight, I will unceremoniously make the quantum leap into my 50s. Now, if you happen to be reading this on November 2nd, well, then, congratulations to me! I've already officially entered the half-century club.
Yes, the big 5-0 was looming on the horizon like a mysterious mountain I'm about to ascend. It's a milestone that has been the subject of jokes, fears, and reflections for as long as I can remember, along with the threat of an AARP membership thrust on me against my will. But before I fully embrace the grand adventure that is my fifties, I thought it only fitting to share some witty observations and reflections on this occasion.
First and foremost, let's talk about the numbers. Fifty, the half-century mark, is one of those milestones that seem to carry a certain weight. It's like reaching the summit of a mountain, taking a deep breath, and realizing that you've got a whole new range of peaks to explore. It's not just a number; it's a state of mind. And you know what they say about age being just a number? Well, they're right, to a certain extent. After all, I plan to continue living life to the fullest, pursuing my passions, and learning new things – wrinkles beaten back by botox , gray hairs, and all.
Now, let's not forget the wisdom that comes with age. As I embark on this new decade, I can't help but think of all the valuable experiences and life lessons I've gathered over the years. In my 49 years, I've learned that life is a rollercoaster, with its fair share of ups and downs. But those twists and turns have shaped me into the person I am today, and I wouldn't change a thing, well …maybe a few things, I really would like to be a 30” waist again
So, what can you expect from me in my 50s? Well, more of the same – but then some. I'll continue to share my thoughts, insights, and observations on a wide range of topics. Perhaps, with age, my wit will become even sharper, my humor more refined, and my perspective even more profound. Or maybe, I'll just embrace my eccentricities and quirks with even more enthusiasm and develop a few more weirdo traits…Yeah, that’s sounds more plausible.
In conclusion, as I bid good riddance to my 40s, I can't help but feel a twinge of excitement about the adventures that await me in my future. Life is an ongoing journey, and each decade brings new challenges and opportunities. So, here's to embracing the half-century mark with a grin, a chuckle, and a sense of wonder. And if you're reading this on November 2nd, thank you for joining me on this fabulous journey..
Stay witty, my friends, and let's make these next 50 years even more unforgettable than the last
Let Your Freak Flag Fly
Today, I'm flying off to the whimsical world of Peter Pan and his "Lost Boys" - those lovable, peculiar oddballs who are perpetually stuck in childhood. It's a concept that's been swirling around in my mental ecosystem lately, and I couldn't help but put my thoughts to paper, Quigley style. So, grab your fairy wings and the pixie dust, and let's explore why embracing parts of your inner “Lost Boy” might be the key to staying forever young in spirit.
As we navigate the tumultuous waters of adulthood, it's easy to get caught up in the sea of responsibilities, expectations, and societal norms. We're told to grow up, be mature, and act our age. But what if I told you that there's a little bit of magic in embracing your inner “Lost Boy” weirdo and holding onto the child within?
Peter Pan’s” Lost Boys”, for all their quirks, weirdness, and idiosyncrasies, have something truly special going for them. They have not been able to grow up, and in doing so, they've found a certain kind of freedom. They've become experts in the art of staying youthful. While the world may view them as "immature relics," they're actually the embodiment of embracing life's eccentricities. So, was Captain Hook the villain? Captain Hook embodies the notion of time, responsibility, and the impending arrival of adulthood. He's the personification of the relentless march of the clock, ticking away the moments of our lives and reminding us that we can't remain kids forever. In this sense, he's less a villain in the traditional sense and more of a symbol of the inevitable passage of time wanting to whisk us away against our will.
Every one of us has a "weirdo" within. It's that part of us that dances like nobody's watching, that giggles at silly jokes, and that dreams without limits. It's the part of us that gets lost in the pages of a book, marvels at the beauty of a starry night, imagines fantastic adventures in far-off lands or gushes like toddlers over a massive, illuminated ship in a harbor.
Society often pushes us to suppress our weirdness, to conform, and to fit into neat little boxes. But what if we chose to embrace our quirks, just as the Lost Boys do? What if we reveled in our oddities and allowed ourselves to be amazed by the world around us? It's in these moments of childlike wonder that we find the true essence of living and experiencing unbridled joy in the mundane.
Life can sometimes feel like a never-ending boring game of "grown-up." We become tangled in the intricacies of bills, responsibilities, and expectations. We tend to forget how to play, to let our imaginations soar, and to enjoy the simple pleasures of existence.
The Lost Boys remind us that play is the antidote to adulthood. They build treehouses, play make-believe battles, and explore uncharted territories. In their world, every day is an adventure, and every challenge is an opportunity for growth. They may not be conventional adults, but they've certainly mastered the art of eternal play.
However, in this peculiar journey, the question of whether being a Lost Boy is a bad thing can be as unpredictable as a Neverland breeze. So, permit me to shed a little light on this thought for as we journey through the landscape of Neverland, we shouldn’t forget that sometimes, we must become the grown-ups the Lost Boys needed all along. It's a realization that carries with it the power to infuse the adventure of adulthood with the magic of youthful wonder, guiding us through the maze of responsibilities while keeping the spirit of adventure and curiosity alive. After all, who says grown-ups can't have a bit of Peter Pan in their hearts and still lead by example for the Lost Boys of their time?
So, In the realm of "yes it’s bad," some may argue that remaining a perpetual Lost Boy or Girl without ever embracing the grown-up world can be a tad, well, impractical. After all, there are bills to pay, responsibilities to uphold, and the sobering reality of adulting that, like Captain Hook, always seems to be lurking. In such a case, an eternal state of immaturity might lead to a life spent in perpetual escapism, never truly engaging with the world's challenges. So, was Captain Hook really the bad guy? Well, it's a matter of perspective. He's not purely villainous; he's a reminder, he a reminder that adulthood, like Peters shadow, is always following us. Ultimately, it's up to each of us to decide whether we'll face adulthood with dread or with the same spirit of adventure and imagination that Peter Pan inspires.
On the “no, it’s not bad” side, let’s remember that the essence of a Lost Boy is not one of sheer irresponsibility, but of preserving the spirit of youthfulness and unfettered imagination. Staying forever youthful can be a source of boundless inspiration and creativity, an invitation to see the world through fresh, curious eyes. It's a reminder that while we may embrace adulthood, we do not need to cast aside the whimsy and wonder that makes life truly magical.
What's the moral of this peculiar tale? It's simple: let your freak flag fly. Be a Lost Boy (or Girl) in your own way, but continue to pay your bills, have goals, own a house, love someone wholeheartedly, always embrace your weirdness, delight in the strange, fly away but hold onto Peters hand tight and find joy in the everyday. Let your heart stay forever young and remember that the world is a much brighter place when you view it through the eyes of a child. Don’t be afraid to Fly to Neverland, and dance with the stars, frolic in its waters and don't be afraid to defy some of the expectations of adulthood.
So, my fellow travelers on the path that leads us away from Neverland, don’t forget that growing up doesn't mean abandoning the “essence” of the Lost Boy within. You can indeed navigate the treacherous waters of adulthood, pay those bills with a sigh and a smile, and still keep your head in the clouds. You see, the secret is not to forsake the imagination but to marry it to the wisdom that comes with age. It's about marching forward with your sights firmly set on the horizon, embracing the oddities that make you unique, and continuing to let your freak flag fly. After all, adulthood is not meant to be the enemy of whimsy; it is meant to be the canvas on which you paint your most extraordinary adventures.
You are meant to be the eternal enthusiast for the extraordinary.
Keep it weird, and stay young, and never stop embracing the magic of being alive.
Finding Comfort in Horror, Hilarity, and Hooves
People, it's time to delve into the realm of self-soothing, a topic as convoluted and mysterious as my sister Kirsten and I's childhood obsession with horror films. If you ever find yourself wondering why some of us derive immense joy from being scared out of our wits or snickering at a gym bro getting disemboweled, you've come to the right place. As it turns out, there's a curious relationship between the love of macabre movies, inappropriate comedies, and believe it or not, horses.
Well, you see, it's like this - macabre movies are like that rollercoaster ride through the catacombs of your imagination, where you scream, and laugh, and occasionally regret eating that extra-large tub of buttered popcorn. Absurd comedies, they're like the class clown at the absurdity party, reminding us that sometimes the best way to tackle taboos is with a hearty guffaw and an eyeroll. Now, horses, they're the Zen experts in this peculiar trio. They're the ones who say, "Take off that clown wig, drop the chainsaw, put down that popcorn, and let's go for a ride through the calm pastures of your soul." And do you know what? It works. So, it might sound as odd as a unicorn in a speedo, but these seemingly unrelated passions? They're the secret recipe for the delightful chaos that is the human experience.
Now, my sister Kirsten and I had an uncanny affinity for horror flicks as children along with our partner in horror and co-conspirator, Aunt Wendy. We'd sit on our old, creaky couch in the basement or in Wendys living room in complete darkness, clutching popcorn like it was the antidote to our terror. Nothing gave us greater delight than witnessing the prom princess having a bucket of blood dropped on her perfectly coiffed head or watching teens have their dreams invaded by malevolent forces. A bonding experience, you’d say. Well, it was indeed, for nothing strengthens familial bonds like jump scares, shared screams, and gallons of blood.
But the fun didn't stop at horror movies. We were weaned on age-inappropriate comedies, courtesy of the legendary Mel Brooks. Think” History of the World” "Blazing Saddles," "Young Frankenstein," and "The Producers." We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and tears streamed down our faces, we would watch them over an over till we knew every line, thoroughly desensitizing us to political correctness in the process. To this day, my inability to suppress laughter at the most inopportune moments is a testament to Mel's influence on my humor.
In addition to our cinematic escapades, Kirsten and I had a knack for exploring hobbies on opposite ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, we'd curl up on the couch with a tub of ice cream, churning through those horror marathons with Elvira or Vincent Price. On the other hand, we'd saddle up and hit the stables for some quality horseback riding. Quite the spread of activities, wouldn't you agree? After all, what's childhood without a little equine elegance thrown into the mix?
As an adult, I've come to realize that self-soothing is an art form. When anxiety creeps in, I forget that I still find solace in my beloved horror films and the wonderful comedies of Mel Brooks. There's something strangely comforting about fictional horrors that distracts me from the real ones lurking in the shadows. I mean, who needs to worry about bills when you're too busy wondering if the ghostly figure in the attic is real or a figment of your imagination?
Yet, among all these guilty pleasures, there's one thing that I miss most - riding horses. There's a unique connection, an unspoken language shared between rider and steed. It's an indescribable sense of peace that envelops you as you gallop through meadows or even saunter along a tranquil trail. Horses are, in a way, like therapists on four legs. They listen without judgment and offer a sense of serenity that's challenging to articulate.
Riding horses, my friends, is like a one-way ticket to the green garden of the mind. It's a peculiar magic, a bit like trying to put a saddle on a sunbeam. Once you mount, the world narrows down to the rhythmic cadence of hooves against the ground, everything else takes a back seat. The bills, the deadlines, the neighbor's dog that won't stop barking - they all fade into the horizon, replaced by the swaying mane and the soft nickers of your trusty four-legged therapist. Horses have a knack for making you be here now, like a spiritual guru in leather. They force you, albeit willingly, to be present and engaged and calm, as if you've suddenly discovered the universe resides in the sound of hoofbeats and the scent of saddle leather. So, while the rest of the world rushes on like a caffeinated squirrel, horse enthusiasts get to enjoy the slow and steady gallop to inner peace. It's a bit like a spa day for the soul, minus the lavender-scented towels and whale music.
Now, more than ever, I've stumbled upon the golden ticket to fulfill that horror film requirement with someone I really, truly like. It's like discovering a hidden treasure chest of jump scares and gore, with the added bonus of having a kindred ghoul in the adventure. It's almost gruesomely romantic in a spine-tingling sort of way. Picture this: you're snuggled up on the couch, clutching your popcorn with one hand and their hand with the other, as you both dive headfirst into a world of cinematic terror. The screams and laughter mix into a peculiar symphony of shared emotions, and before you know it, you're tangled up in a mess of blankets, frantically debating whether you'd survive a zombie apocalypse or whether you’d investigate that weird sound in the attic. It's a surefire way to test the compatibility of your heart rates and scream pitches. So, in these chaotic times, finding that unique someone who not only tolerates but wholeheartedly embraces your peculiar obsession with horror is a rare bond, like a vampire's love for moonlit nights. But the haunting calls and whinnies in the stables still tug at my heartstrings. As we navigate the rollercoaster of adulthood, we find comfort in unexpected places. For me, that means revisiting the thrills of my childhood of being scared out of my wits, chuckling at the absurdity of dark comedies, and yearning for the peace only a horse can bring.
So, whether your idea of self-soothing involves the sinister flickers on a screen or the rhythmic clop of hooves on a quiet trail, remember that it's all about finding your own peculiar brand of comfort. After all, life is too short to be terrorized by anxiety when you can be terrified by the latest horror masterpiece. Just don't forget to keep a stable relationship with your inner child, and perhaps even a real horse, to keep life in balance.