The Hypocrite In Me

Or

The Power In Faking It Until You Make It

I am not ready to write this.

I am being vague. I always think I am being a narcissist for writing anything personal, so being vague makes it better. I am kind of an idiot.

If DEET touched my skin while I was tree planting, it was only as a result of standing down wind of an aerosol can. I did not use bug spray once all season. I had bug spray, I got some from MEC, and my dad sent me some in a care package. It was a test for myself, ignore the bugs. For the first few freezing nights in Northern Saskatchewan I did pile my clothing under my sleeping bag to keep off the ground, but the rest of the season was spent sleeping directly on the ground. Yet for as hard core as all that is I still planted slowly.

Oh planting...

For all the hateful feelings, for all the angry words, I could not hate the trees. There were planters who cursed them, and I did as well, but more as a colloquial slang than out of any spiteful feeling. I looked over fields that stretch as far as the eye could see of newly planted saplings. I could look down from hill tops and see the patch work pattern of growing trees. Squares cut out of the middle of forests. I could see the six metre tall piles of uncollected lumber, and the six metre diameter rings of rubble left over from a controlled burn all spaced out evenly along the logging roads. Yet despite it all I could not help but wish luck for every tree I planted. I hated planting places that I knew they would not survive. To just stand on a log and look out over the land. If I have ever said a prayer for anything it was for the trees in those fields.

How strange it is to be anything at all.

So now I go from the bottom feeding tree planter, to the evil oil crisis gas jockey. From one industry I am ethically apposed to, in light of the availability of higher fiber yielding annual crops, to another industry run on the blood of disenfranchised people. The sullier of our skies and waters. When they were going over safety then asked every one if they knew how to pump gas, and I was the only one who had not ever pumped gas before. I have sold my soul for twenty five cents over minimum wage.

They make it so hard to believe in anything. So I am forced to play the game and try to believe in nothing until I am able to achieve my goals.

Persistence over comes resistance,
But my success here was given to me,
Not won.

Tossing their guns to the ground, they accidentally shot Peter.

I am a little afraid of the future. Things are good, and the future is looking mighty uncertain. My plans at the moment hinge on a few uncontrollable variables. Predictable they may prove to be, but for now uncertain. A) Profits, my tree planting money has depleted faster than anticipated. I want to maintain an emergency fund incase I need to book it to Europe for some reason. I have a job now, but if my initial calculations are correct I am still only going to have two hundred dollars of useable income. B) Costs, a loan, to pay for a workable lampworking studio, including all supplies and fuel. Rent, heat, and food we accounted into my calculation, so I exclude them from things like marijuana, movies, shows, gum, news papers, and the loan on top of that, things may get tight. C) Other Obstacles, working full time. It looks like I am going to be the 7am to 3pm Monday to Friday gas jockey at domo gas. Working at a gas station would be cooler if they sold propane. A studio. I need to convince Tyler to trade bedrooms with me, so I can trade his bedroom for Miranda’s. Her room is twice the size of mine and could be converted into a beautiful bedroom studio. Also the propane that has to be kept outside could be kept in the back yard and come in on lines through the bedroom window. I am willing to bribe the both of you some how, possibly with sex. Or things made of glass...

If I am working full time how am I going to spend six hours in front of the torch a day?

Mind you I cannot think of much else to do around here.

I need to find a smoking buddy.

I cannot remember ever not having a smoking buddy.

Mind you I have made this ounce last for a really long time.

Ugh. Too many bong hits.

I made chi tea to make it better but ugh.

Too many bong hits.

My worry. Money. I hate money. I hate money more than I hate television. I hate what it makes me do, and I hate my dependence on it. I hate that I cannot get away from it. That I will never be free of it. Tree planting was about money, but it was just numbers. I will never be one of the great planters because I do not have the greed. You can see it in the eye of ever high baler. Of ever vet. The lust for money. Greed. I was just as happy to be outside on a beautiful day that paid for itself in an hours work. I could live and know that the work I did that day had paid for the meal I ate for dinner, and not care after that. It was my closest brush with freedom. This thing more than anything else made me love tree planting.

All my hands can do, is fold themselves in the valleys, in the corridors, on the ceilings, over you.

A glimmer of hope in the land of the free.

Uehen/Sean

I still think of her when I am sick and tired of all the other stupid girls. I think of her all the time.