Matt Berninger eats my soul

Tonight I had the pleasure of seeing one of my favorite bands live for the second time. And as before, they left me in a state of complete bewilderment.

Matt Berninger is a captivating performer, but not in the traditional sense by any means. This time around I was not fearful for his life as he stumbled around stage, coming dangerously close to the edge many times. Despite the many cups of white whine he devoured throughout the set, each song was delivered with ease and unbelievable passion. It's as if Berninger enters another world with each song, bringing his audience with him. You can't help but feel as though you are being transported back in time to a certain emotion - the emotion that was the initial spark for the flame that burns strong within each powerful song. Forget the other musicians on stage, when Berninger is front and centre I found it hard to move my eyes away from him.

Each song seems to paint a different Berninger and a different relationship. His songs are precariously detailed with sentiment that seeps through the mundane details of a day that is illuminated through a nostalgic sense of hope. Fake Empire is a perfect example of the everyday coming to life through Berninger's talented prose:

Stay out super late tonight/Picking apples, making pies/Put a little something in our lemonaid and take it with us/We're half awake in a fake empire/ We're half away in a fake empire

Another saturday afternoon? Or a dream world? For Berninger it seems as they blend together to created the nostalgic world of song that drives the very meaning behind his existence. All his songs are crafted around one main ingredient - heartache, but its assembling is done in away that makes you want to fall deep in love and have that love fall completely apart so you can write a song about it. However, this process cannot be romanticized in a way that takes away from Berninger's craft. His songs are not about meaningless old loves that were capitalized on after the fact for good story telling; the depth of each song highlights the immense about of emotion that Berninger feels for all his characters - whether those are past loves or past selves. For each song he becomes that past self, reminding us all that as much as we try to forget life's most painful memories, those are scars that we will carry with us throughout life.

Perhaps that is what Berninger (and his band) does best - remind us of our own scars and painful memories that are what makes us who we are and what makes us human beings. At the same time that we are singing along to Berninger's melancholic view on the world we are also singing the tune of our own melancholic lives and through this sense of unity there is a sense of hope that no matter how hard life seems sometimes, no matter how many times we may feel our hearts shatter into a million pieces, there is a sense of hope that we are all in this crazy ride of life together.

Lost.

It's been a while, and that is always a scary thing. It's always a scary thing because whenever I take a break from writing its usually because I'm afraid of what I have to say to myself and this time around, I'd say that was true as well.

Until about two days ago I was in complete denial. Denial about my life, the changes that are about to take place and the lack of control that I have over situations at the moment. I'm also afraid of who I am, who I have been and who I will become. I feel as though I have lost touch with the person I have always wanted to be, the distance goal, the sketch of humanity that I plotted out, slowly connecting the dots. Somewhere along the way my pencil went off track and now I have no more dots to follow.

Most of this anxiety stems from being in a relationship. Not that this relationship is tumultuous or even remotely unstable...in fact its far from being anything but stable and that is exactly what scares me. What scares me is that for the first time in my life I see myself becoming a person I never possibly imagined for myself - the content, satisfied and happy human being.

I have always seen myself as someone who would never be happy. I don't mean that in a depressing way at all. Instead, I mean someone who was never content with her life, always craving more and never being satisfied. This state of unhappiness stems from a place of unsatisfactory, not a place of true misery. However, somehow in the past few months or so I have drifted across barriers of unconsciousness and been able to glimpse a view into a state of possible happiness - a place where I am content, though not necessarily satisfied.

This glimpse of happiness has scared me because it has at the same time forced me to confront the multiple dimensions of myself - that person I once was, the person I aspired to be and the person I am now. While there is a parallel that can be drawn between all these selves, the difficulty in drawing this continuity causes me to question whether or not there is any linearity to being, any sense of direction that one can truly aim for.

Am I a feminist? A fleer? A scared individualist or a coward? These are the questions that cause me to sink back into a state of paralyzed anxiety today. What will I become? But more importantly, is what I want to become and authentic representation of myself or merely a projection of my immediate experiences? Am I becoming the person that I have always sought to be, or do I now ascribe to a narrative of being that relies on me being an extension of someone else? How do I separate the I from we?

While these questions will eventually work themselves out, I am afraid of the process which is to come. I cannot describe the sensation of my current existence as anything less than weight, immense weight that brings me to a level below all reality, one where I am able to examine everything above from almost a removed context and perhaps that is where this sudden numbness arises from. The numbness is a necessary state in order for me to gain any sort of perspective on the situation - the situation of me.

I don't want to lose you, but I don't want to lose myself either and right now I feel that there is a danger of that. For many months now, I have felt like I do not know myself. I do not know who I have become and before I can accept that change of state, I need to get to know this person. The scary thing is that my core being may not truly accept this change and for that reason it may be necessary to move on.

The only constant in life is change. That is a truth I have come to recognize. I cannot control the outside change, this I know for sure. But internally, this is a process I have control over, but only as long as I choose to engage with it.

Success through experience

Today I embarked on a new journey. One that is likely to lead me to new places, new forms of consciousness and hopefully a new understanding of self, though where exactly this journey might lead I will not know, well at least not for another 1,000 pages.

Yes today, after having it in my possession for almost one year, I finally cracked open the incredibly formidable Infinite Jest, the literary masterpiece by the late David Foster Wallace. Last summer, after a number of consequential coincidences, I decided it was time to purchase this book. As an employee of the corporate book monster Chapters (Indigo) at the time, it also seemed like a ripe moment to cash in on the employee discount and purchase something that might one day lend itself to challenging my mind in ways that The Shopaholic Series couldn't hope to comprehend.

Today was the day, and like other moments in life where the threads are all woven together in one inevitable direction, I felt an uneasy sense that it was time to see what the genius of DFW was truly capable of.

After being only 27 pages in, it is easy to see that this book is no ordinary book, and as Dave Eggers gracefully explains the the novel's recently scripted forward, the strength of the novel lies in its ability to find balance between that which simplifies the simple mind, and that which twists and turns even the most challenged of minds into the dark tunnels of human imagination, genius and foremost - madness. For Eggers, it appears that Infinite Jest is almost a right of passage - a novel that not only speaks to an age in time, but one that also speaks to an demographic, that of the early to mid twenties which is perhaps the most perplexing of ages to be, especially now in the 21st century.

As I have been many times in the recent past, today I was perplexed by my ability to pin point the exact moment in time that fits the daunting challenge of not only beginning, but finishing this novel. This is why I feel that it is not improper to purchase books that one does not always read right away. There is always a time, a sentiment, a conversion of ideas that seem to magically lift a novel of its shelf and into your hands.

Infinite Jest did not fit on my shelf - instead it has been lying dormant on my floor for many months since I first moved into this apartment. Lying there face up, it has remained quietly waiting for the day I would open it, yet also patiently reminding me - with its vivid colour - that it should not be forgotten. Perhaps the stars in these early summer nights aligned tonight, or perhaps it was the subtle voice of my sub conscious whispering "its time" - whatever the reason, I feel as though today I have begun a journey that will invite in new experiences to shape the direction that my own confused journey on the road of life is taking me.

Returning once again to the weighty acclamations for the book written by Eggers, I am reminded that the journey of life is not simply lived in the physical world, but also in the world of the mind as well. If experiences shape reality, then who is to say that experiences stop with the turn of a page?

The importance of experience - not only in and of itself, but also in its ability to shape the substance, direction and changes of a human being were recently re-illuminated for me by a young and bright mind that I have been fortunate enough to become acquainted with over the past year. This young seventeen year old girl became especially taken with the journey of Sean Aiken, after I shared his experiences as the "one week job guy" with her. Like many recent graduates, Sean experienced the familiar sense of anxiety that one collides with soon after finishing university. However, instead of running away from his angst into the safety of 9-5, Sean decided to do something different and set out to find his passion - one job at a time. This journey to try 52 jobs in 52 weeks not only made for a good experiment, but also for a good story as well and as a result experience was followed by a book and a soon to be released documentary. (details can be found at wwww.oneweekjob.com)

In a recent conversation this bright student of mine suggested that she knew that Sean found what he was looking for, she had figured out his passion. Assuming that she had read the book, I asked her what it was and she replied, that from her own observations (she had not read the book, but merely the website) she was sure that he figured out his passion was not for any one job in particular, but rather for experience.

While this observation may be one student's opinion, I found it to be a monumental reminder of the importance that all experiences - good and bad - play in the formation of our selves, and until we resign ourselves to an existence that isn't expanding, thirsting for change or new experiences, we will never stop growing.

The thought that all experiences add dimension to our being, and further a new layers to our humanity, gives me hope. It gives me hope for the future to which I belong, and hope for the future which I will play a role in creating.

So, it is with this new realization, the insight of young student's bright observation, and a myriad of directive coincidences that I will begin my new experience - the experience of reading Infinite Jest, and what an experience that is likely to be.

What does the face of humanity look like?

What does the face of humanity look like?

This is the question I am asking myself as I prepare to go forward and write a new chapter in my life. It is also a question that I believe we should all be asking ourselves as humanity itself prepares to face a future full of uncertainties, broken promises, unaccountable corporations and indeterminate governments. This is the question that I want my generation and future generations to ask, for as broken as the world that lies before us may seem, we are the ones who will bend down to mend its cracks.

In times of conflict, the question of humanity faces a daunting answer. This became apparent to me today during a discussion about the war in Afghanistan and the role of the red cross in delivering aid to citizens. Do we, as a country of Canadians, have the obligation to separate the enemy from the innocent when it comes to delivering aid? Or do we, as citizens of this world and members of the human race have the obligation to look past political ties and religious belief into the eyes of humanity in its most raw form? This is a question that I will personally wrestle with as we move forward and one that I do not have the answer to.

All I know at this point is that my generation faces the enormous task of trying to re-define humanity within the globalized framework of the 21st century. The 20th century saw the worst of humanity, many times over, and through that process I imagine that much faith in what our species is capable of was lost. Despite the conflicts that engulf the world today, I have faith that the brighter side of growing up in a globalized world positions the world's youth in a unique place - one that allows us to look back into the recent past, learn from the mistakes and move forward into a more hopeful place for the future. However, despite this sudden faith, I believe that we also face the challenges that come from living in an increasingly radicalized world - one in which reason is often eclipsed by passionate greed and an unstoppable faith in one group's interpretation of a higher power. Evermore, we face the challenge of peeling back the layers of society, religion and culture that often engulf the human being leaving veiled from her true human self, and thus vulnerable to the powers granted by discrimination.

As I prepare to move forward into the murky territory of the unknown future and as I prepare myself for the task of trying to understand who I am in relation to everyone else, I will constantly stop myself and remember to ask "what does the face of humanity look like?" One does not have to look towards the Taliban in Afghanistan or the Oil tycoons in the gulf of Mexico to struggle with the tensions bound up in this question. While these groups have more than enough requirements to fill the categorical definition of human destruction, we need not look further than our own back yards to answer this question.

When is the last time you stopped to have a conversation with your neighborhood homeless man? When is the last time that you stopped to look him in the eye, rather than walking casually by? And when is the last time you felt the tension between guilt, pity and sorrow when you decided to stop?

These are not easy questions to answer - nor is that conversation easy to have. Though on this rainy June day in Calgary I have hope that the sun will come back soon. I also have hope that humanity will remain resilient in the centuries to come. We will remain compassionate towards our fellow man and we will remain determined to create a better future for our children. Better not as in more progressed or more understood, but better in that we live in a world where any one can ask the question What does the face of humanity look like? and confidently answer that humanity looks like all of us, for wherever we came from and wherever we are going we always have the opportunity to reach out and shake our fellow man's hand.

Endings bring new beginnings.

This past weekend was one full of profound endings, however, it also opened way for the possibility of new beginnings.

Through the cold and rain that was yesterday morning, I accomplished one of my greatest feats thus far - my first half marathon. This great accomplishment was the climax of months of training, however, it also brought with it the feeling of something new, that I am about to embark on a new beginning, a fresh chapter in my life. While I may have been training seriously for the past four months, my journey towards the finish line began almost two years ago when I took up running as a way to re-gain the emotional strength I had lost at the hands of someone else. With all emotional strength gone and little hope to gain it back, I decided to pursue a new course and focus on developing my physical strength instead.

Little did I know, but that quest to build muscle and stamina in an effort to fool myself back into confidence was far more successful than I ever could have imagined. In addition to eventually building up my endurance to do a half marathon, I also gained a surprising new sense of confidence that came from over coming what I once thought to be impossible.

As someone who has never been considered my others or herself as an athlete, becoming a "runner" took more effort than simply putting on my running shoes and heading out the door. I was also forced to shed some old attitude and delve deep into the psyche of the runner - which is more than half the battle when it comes to sticking to a regular running regime. Through my determined efforts to build my strength, I became accustomed to the amazing doses of positive energy that I would always return home with. No matter the emotional pain I was experiencing before hand, or the distance that I was able to traverse, as long as I gave 110% and accomplished what I had set out to do, there was nothing that prevented me from feeling better about myself.

Slowly but surely, I saw the improvements - both physically and mentally. My distance increased, as did my speed, but more importantly so did my attitude towards the act at hand. Rather than viewing running simply as a tool to get in or stay in shape, or a way to feel a little less guilty about all those beers I was consuming, running started to take a more permanent place in my life - part of my weekly routine.

Next to the weekly doses of professional therapy I was receiving at the time, running became my own sort of therapy. A safe place I could always go to and shed the negative energy that was weighing down my soul. At my lowest point, there was little that any of my friends or family could do to bring me back up out of despair, but somehow, I always found the strength to pound the pavement. These brief moments of physical relief became my sanctuary that I turned to when I just needed to be alone. Alone and free outside of my existence. Apart, yet fully engulfed by life and the euphoric feeling that I could, with time overcome.

Yesterday, with less than 3km to go, when my legs were throbbing unforgivably, and my ankle felt as thought it was going to collapse any minute, I remembered why - what had brought me to that place of pain in the first place. All those emotions, all that emotional pain - scarred over, but forever with me - that I had managed to overcome, and through that painful nostalgia, I found the strength to carry on. Flooded with emotion, I pushed ahead, 2km, then 1km to go I remembered how far I had come, and how far I had yet to go. With these thoughts in front of my, I pursued the finish line with every once of strength in my body, and with these thoughts I crossed the finish line with an incredibly sense of pride.

I have come a long way and I found the strength to cross the finish line from within. Yesterday was not just the end of a race, it was the end up something much more. That finish line - my first finish line - drew an imaginary divide between my life now and my life then. Then has passed, you are gone and I am stronger for it. Now is the time to look forward to a future based on personal strength, determination and courage to face all that I do not know. Now is the time to look towards new beginnings.

I can already see my next finish line.

That which lies beyond point zero.

There are moments in life when you can no longer avoid the unavoidable. When imagination collides with reality, releasing all anxieties and fears out into the open like a jar of spilled jelly beans. A rainbow of colours below, tempting you with their nostalgic fruit-like textures, yet also warning of the impending sickness that will come with consuming them all in one single trail.

The sense of awakening I am currently experiencing can be likened to nothing other than nausea. This is the true Heiddegarian angst - the moment when the truth is peeled back and I am left staring into its deepest core.

This moment - like other moments profound existential moments I have experienced in life - was the narrative climax of a long winding process. An intricate web of experiences, personal thoughts, literary inspirations and finally memory. At this moment I am being reminded of the true concerns and liabilities that lie within me, but now the incurring is problem arises: what do I do next?

My fear is that struggle with stalling panic. The desire to run is unleashed, but without a place to run to I am stuck treading in my own anxieties. In thoughts like these, thought truly does stall action as I fondly recall the words of Sartre, however in this instance I refuse to become immobilized.

This current sense of anxeity has been accumulating for some time now - months perhaps - yet I must congradulate myself on doing a fine job of ignoring the details. However, after reading Chris Hedges article "The Zero Point of Systemic Collapse" - published in adbusters - I was fully awakened to the truths I have been hiding my sensitive mind from for so many months now. I don't want to run any further - and can no longer run - but instead am ready to face the necessity for action and a motion to move forward into a new unknown territory.

While Hedges article - so poignantly encompassing the sentiment of collapse that is presently consuming me - can be held responsible for this blog post, there are several other incidences that are worth recounting, such as yesterday's ride in transit where I finished Yann Martel's new novel "Beatrice and Virgil." Charmingly titled to encompass the central compassion of the story, Martel's novel is a brilliant attempt to take yet another attempt at explaining the ultimate form of the unexplainable - the Holocaust. However, rather than simply attempting yet another single person narrative, Martel uses his form to explain the absurdity in any attempt to unlock the secrets behind mankind's greatest and most horrifying mystery.

In reading and finishing Beatrice and Virgil - I was left feeling with my own curiosity as to why any human being full of sense even attempts to grapple with these horrors. Through these shamed curiosities (for, as one who is living in the century beyond this time of evil what right do I have to even try to understand?), I recalled some non-fiction encounters I had with the holocaust, notably with those of Bruno Bettelheim whose own work brought me to tears through a true understanding of suicide. While some may view suicide as the ultimate renunciation of hope for humanity, his interpretation brought light to the power of suicide to act as one great last action of self determination, one final moment of glory in which one displays the ultimate form of resistance, a resistance against life itself.

Resistance is at the core of Hedges' article. Though this is not a resistance against life, but rather a resistance against the systematic life we are told to live - the life we are sold and the life we willingly consume.

Systemic living - this is the life I run from, and the one I fear will consume me against my will. The life I try to resist, yet often find myself gravitating towards through fear. Fear of not belonging, fear of never knowing "happiness," fear of failure.

And yes, failure is possible - this is a reality I must learn to confront, though Hughes' realism reminds use that "we must continue to resist, but do so now with the discomforting realization that significant change will probably never occur in our lifetime." The real fear lies in not knowing - not knowing whether what you are doing has true value or not. In a hyper-material culture all we know is what we see, though resistance is the ultimate form of alienation, all we know is who we are without the mirror of society to view our reflection in.

On the verge of hopelessness, Hughes does end with a moral compass that redirects us towards the invaluable hope of a moral intellectualism: "to give up acts of resistance is spiritual and intellectual death. It is to surrender to the dehumanizing ideology of totalitarian capitalism. Acts of resistance keep alive another narrative, sustain our integrity and empower others who we may never meet to stand up and carry the flame we pass to them."

And with these words of I will sleep tonight. It may not be a peaceful sleep, but it will be a hopeful one wherein lies hope for a de-systematized world where we are free to uncover our humanity, not buy it; where a sense of spiritual intellectualism reigns free as the highest order, not capitalism; and finally one where we are taught to value that internal truths are what define us, not our ability to give into the systemic powers that enslave us.

Does it get easier?

It's been quite a while since I last wrote anything, and usually that means that there is something that I don't want to write down, because I am scared to face it.

There is definitely something I don't want to face, but reading Yann Martel's new novel "Beatrice and Virgil" tonight reminded me that I can't run from my fears forever. The main character in his novel is struggling to cope with the disappointment of having his latest novel torn to shreds and so, to save himself from the pain he vows to turn away from writing.

Of course, this vow is only made on a superficial level because let's face it - even if he isn't using a pen - a writer never stops writing.

Like Henry, I also admit that I never stop writing. I constantly have my hand on a metaphorical pen (or keyboard) which I use to furiously record each day's course of events. Lately, these days have been long, slow, drawn out and for the most part - not very exciting. However I remain determined to see the intricacies of daily life and record them for future use. I believe that all experience informs existence, even if that experience is reduced to the mundane bus ride.

My problem these days is that I am beginning to get that sense that all this pent of anxiety is about to spill over. Anxiety over what you might ask...well that is a very good question and one that the majority of my dear friends could probably answer, as they are all experiencing a similar set of throws.

Here I will give due credit to P.U.D. - that's internet talk for "post-university depression." I like apparently countless other recent graduates googled this term recently to learn that at least in cyber land, I am definitely not alone in my depressed sentiments.

It appears that P.U.D. is quite a common occurrence amongst recent graduates in the new millennium. As comforting as it is to find a community of like-minded depressed folks on the internet, one question continues to plague me is whether or not this is a new phenomenon.

As someone who regularly visits her old stomping grounds on campus to kick up some nostalgic dirt, I can see generally how anyone who spent the majority of the past four-five years of their lives in one place would feel slightly disjointed after leaving. After all, if your university experience was anything like mine was, you probably spent more time on campus than at home, and as a result got sucked into the "stockholm syndrome" effect where you now feel a sentimental longing for that place you once called hell. However, all nostalgic drama effects aside, there remains an incredibly unsettling feeling about no longer being defined as a "student."

For the majority of my 23 years on this planet, I was a student, and although I recently ventured into the world of "professional employment" I continue to see myself as a student. The problem here is the conflict that arises between how I view myself and how I am viewed by others in the larger context of the world. I am no longer granted the privlege of attending five classes a week, defining work as "reading books," drinking endless amounts of coffee to stay awake, and generally going about my life in an incredibly stressed demeanor all for the sake of knowledge.

In the real world, this "job description" does not fly. There are tasks to be completed and no time in between for philosophical queries. Work is work, and while I may have ideas that I think are brilliant or at least discussable, there is no one around who cares to discuss them.

What I am getting at here is that despite how stressful, busy, tiring and demanding school was it was satisfying. Satisfying in a very personal, yet also communal way. There were ideas to be discussed, and these discussions were generally thought of as meaningful contributions to society. In "the real world" the very idea of meaningful contributions is framed in an entirely different way - one that just doesn't mix with the model of university.

From the brief, yet varied research I have done on this topic, I have been promised that life will get better, that in the years to come I will move away from this yearning to go back to school, and further into the real world where groceries, bills, work, relationships, babies and mortages all begin to take precedent.

But what if I don't want to? What if I want to continue riding the bus, reciting observations to myself, storing them for my own philosophical deconstructions later?

Well then...I am on my own I guess. And I am lost. It's time to start riding a new bus, and I definitely don't know where this one is taking me. Maybe that's the point.

Change on the eve of International Women's Day?

Today is International Women's Day, and like on most days of the year, I am still confused about what it means to be a young woman in the 21st century.

Reading through some of the editorials in Canadian newspapers and blogs today, there are definitely mixed reviews of "how far we have come" since the second-wave feminists first took stage demanding equal pay, equal access to education, universal healthcare and more generally - demand for full recognition of their humanity that simply transcended a "definition" of what it means to be a person.

As a young female, I hardly have a long enough measuring stick to understand true notions of feminist progress, however, as someone who considers herself well engaged with the current popular literature of the day, I don't think I have to look far to realize that this notion of progress can be interpreted on many different levels.

On the one hand, I concede to the positive developments - many that were highlighted by optimistic and well-education women today - and am grateful to those women who made sacrifices so that I might attend university without another thought, and have the opportunity to think seriously about applying to law school. I also applaud the efforts of those women who have fought for increasing maternity leaves, the importance of child care and for their general dignity amongst the ever-degrading advertisements aimed at women who are taught to feel ashamed of their bodies.

However, at the same time, I must reserve all positive thought and side with the importance of continuing the critical discourse that got us where we are today. In the most enlightening article I came across today, Judy Rebick blogs about the ugly truth that persists today, and one that I can no longer hide from. While the feminists of the 20th century have undeniably opened a myriad of doors that my generation seems to take for granted, the system(s) that perpetuated the oppression of women in the first place persist and through that persistence remains the perpetual threat of continued oppression. As Rebick states, "In the end, my conclusion is that the inter-locking systems of patriarchy, colonialism and capitalism will maintain the oppression of women." (http://www.rabble.ca/blogs/bloggers/judes/2010/03/happy-iwd-assessment-womens-movement-40-years-after-royal-commission-st)

In light of Rebick's statement, I am beginning to understand more about why, despite the feminist success stories of the 20th century, I perpetually feel trapped by some force that I am unable to define - and without a definition, there seems to be no hope of prescribing a remedy. The reason for my uneasiness seems to be that female oppression, as I know it personally, has been packaged in a new form - wrapped in a blanket of 21st century colonialism that disguises itself as progress and equality for all women. Yes, especially here in Canada I am theoretically offered the same opportunities as my male counterparts, yet why do I continue to feel suffocated by the expectations of society? Why do I continue to feel as though I have been given a role to play - the timid girlfriend, the timid student, the sex object with a tight ass, the stay at home mother. While I have done my best to avoid stepping into any of these proscribed roles, I continue to harbour a secret fear that one day, someone is going to step forward, pull back the curtain and tell me that I failed to audition for the part. My fate has been sealed and I will be forced backwards in time, into a life I never saw for myself.

The dramatism of my fears highlights the slight irrationalism of them, however at the same time I think it also points to a deep seated fear that many women, many of my younger peers encounter on a daily basis. No matter how hard we try to define success for ourselves, the truth of the matter is that society continues to strangle that definition before our very eyes and wring out the true definition. We are not in control of our futures - not in the way we want to be - so long as the oppressive systems that Rebick identifies continue to dominate our lives.

So, as the last minutes of International Women's Day ticks bye rapidly, I sit hear as confused as ever, but also with a new sense of lightness, a new sense of hope.

I can be the creator of my own destiny. I can be the creator of my own definition of a truly successful female. However, first I need to unlearn what the system(s) tell me about my gender identity and then begin auditioning for a new role - one that truly allows me to be me.

Sport Inspires.

All throughout high school I hated sports. I wasn't good at them, so I figured that I was just naturally "unsporty" and should subsequently focus all my energies into my academic work and ignore sport forever.

The funny thing is, that alongside this animosity, I was an aspiring figure skater. I skated at least twice a week for ten years, had a private coach, and competed in competitions. Yet, I just wasn't good enough - so I quit.

Then there was field hockey. Around grade 9, I became convinced that if I didn't play a sport I would never be admitted into university. So I joined the city field hockey team for my age group, and the next year my school team. I stayed for three years, but also wasn't very good at that - so I quit.

This seems to be a recurring theme in my life - quitting at things I am just not good at. Well, that's until I discovered running.

I ran in high school to "stay in shape" and attempted the same routine in university. However, it wasn't until the summer after my third year when, after experiencing the never ending woes of a recent heartbreak I decided that I needed to get my strength back. Yes, I was thinking about inner strength, but I knew that sitting around and trying to overcome all the anger and sadness just wasn't going to do it, so I slipped on my running shoes and headed out the door.

After twenty minutes I was beat and had to walk home. The next time I put on my shoes I was hesitant, but then those feelings of sadness came bubbling up and I started moving.

Each day, in a new attempt to uncover my own secret powers I ran a little faster and a little further until by the end of the summer I was running for at least forty minutes without stopping. Today, I have managed to keep that rhythm up, without stopping and am now proudly training for my first half marathon. So there! How's that for getting over a broken heart! I literally ran away from it, but today I keep running to stay strong, to stay focused and to stay committed to overcoming the next obstacle that life throws at me.

So why I am writing about this now? Well because of the olympics of course. Last night I made a nostalgic return to my sport past by watching Virtue and Moir ice-dance their way into Olympic history. Their performance was breath-taking - I cried - but more importantly it served as an important reminder of the greater role that sport plays in society.

Sport inspires. It truly does, and I think this is the first time I have truly realized that while watching the Olympics. Learning about the grueling process that an athlete puts herself through to become an olympian is awe inspiring in a way that only someone who has completed the process would know, but I think there is something that us masses can take away from the process as well.

We can over come immense obstacles and sport is just one way of coping with the challenges that life brings. Sport itself is a challenge, but when placed in the context of one's own life, it also becomes a way to defeat the challenge.

Perhaps my new found appreciation for the power of sport comes from my own realization that finally, for the first time in my life I can honestly say that I am good at a sport. I am a good runner, and how do I know that?

Because every time I lace up my running shoes and get ready to head out into the fresh air, I get butterflies of excitement in my stomach knowing that today I am going to go far and run my best. I guess this is how every Olympian feels when they step out onto the snow or ice - they know they through all the pain and struggle they have made it to this day, and today all they can do is there best. That is what truly inspires.

Finding National Pride When You Least Expect It

For many Canadians, this is the time to be Canadian.

The Olympics have finally arrived in Vancouver, and while a native of the city, I am not there. Instead, like millions of others, I will be one of those glued to a TV screen, with friends or in bars where patrons proudly raise their glasses to cheer our Canadians on in some of the sports that define us nationally.

While this is the time to naturally want to express a sense of national pride and solidarity, national pride was not something I sought after this past weekend when the games first opened their doors. Instead I was seeking refuge from the routine of urban life and fled as far away from the barren, brown winter prairie to the sublime reaches of the great Canadian Rocky Mountains. In turning my wheels west, I was not thinking about Vancouver, but I was simply thinking about getting away from the hustle and bustle of life. Getting out into nature and simply being able to hear myself breath.

However, rather than getting away from all the Olympic hype, I was bombarded by it. Honestly, what was I thinking while heading to Banff - the previous Canadian home of the winter Olympics. Almost every person, from another country or not, on the busy Banff main street were decked out in some variations of Olympic fashion.

Then there were the bars - flooded with proud Canadians cheering on their (very local) homegrown heros. There was no escaping it - I am Canadian, and it was time to cheer my fellow athletes on.

It's not that I didn't want to get into the Olympic spirit. I was simply seeking a quiet weekend away from any thought of anything. Yet strangely, I found myself engulfed not only by Olympic spirit, but pure Canadian pride. A sense of national solidarity that I usually only get a taste of during a Federal election, or a moment of national tragedy.

This sense of pride, this strong sense of nationality really had nothing to do with the Olympics. It had everything to do with the overwhelming sense of awe that one experiences when faced with the majesty of the rocky mountains, with the enormity of their hovering grace. I usually feel something in the face of their enormous rock faces, but this time that something was different.

This time, that something was the feeling that not only was I in a very special place in the world - but that this place was in Canada. Actually, this place is Canada. The sense of nationality surrounding nature was surmounted when I imagined where all the people who surrounded me were from. Walking the edge of one of the Rockie's most famous tourist destinations, we were passed by families from several different cultural backgrounds - British, Indian, German - the list could go on I'm sure. They were all likely here for the fantastic skiing promised by the Louise's famous mountain, but at the same time they were here to ski in the Rockies. To ski these majestic slopes, and to soak up the feeling of awe that so many who came before them have experienced.

I'm not going as far to say that the Rockies are something every person in the world wants to see. The level of their attraction is no where near to that of the Pyramids or even the Eiffel Tower, yet at the same time one of the reasons that makes these mountains such a popular destination is that they are not made man. Instead, they represent nature, in her most raw, ruthless and naked form. In the wake of natural disasters such as Haiti, they humble us before the eternal power of nature - a power that man only seeks to, yet is unable to completely dominate.

As the 2010 Vancouver Olympics pick up momentum, I am ready to put on my official Canadian hat, scarf and gloves and join the rest of the country in cheering for our athletes. This sense of pride will continue to grow as the excitement for the games does, but it will inevitably fade into nostalgia as the years go by.

Unlike the sense of pride evoked by the spirit of the Olympic games, the pride I feel in being a citizen of a country where national parks are erected to protect some of nature's most sacred monuments will not fade. Like nature herself, the pride and awe I feel in the face of the Rockies is eternal, so today and everyday from hear on after I can truly say that I am proud to be Canadian.

Good Intentions Are Not Enough

Good Intentions Are Not Enough

Is Hell other people?

After much anticipation, I finally saw Electric Company Theatre's production of Sartre's No Exit, which ran in correlation with this year's High Performance Rodeo in Calgary. I read the play last week to get a preliminary grasp of the story, but needless to say, the live production completely outdid my own internal construction of Sartre's existential classic.

The play's running time - 1 hour and 30 minutes - went by in a flash. Completely full of energy, excitement, anticipation and endless anxiety, Sartre's words were easy to grasp but hard to digest. The fast pace of the play added to the general atmosphere of anxiety and clastrophobia that is intended to mimick the sensation of being stuck in hell - but whether that hell is in life or death is up to your own personal discretion.

"Hell is other people" - No Exit's defining words, muttered hopelessly by the character Garcin towards the play's closing moments has more of an after effect than a climatic experience. Leaving the theatre, I was left with swirling thoughts that scattered themselves like an undone puzzle throughout my mind waiting to be put together.

I have yet to complete the puzzle, but there are certain pieces that have begun to take shape - at least in my own sort of interpretation. The phrase's translation is easy in some senses: rather than the traditional forms of physical torture so commonly associated with hell, Sartre gives a clever insight into the idea that in death, human beings will torture each other. However, at least point I am left wondering does Sartre see this hell only in the afterlife or is he trying to make a greater point about humanity on earth?

From distant memory, I recall two important facets of Sartre's philosophy. First, that we are ultimately free as human beings to do what we like with this like, however, that ultimate freedom comes at the price of ultimate responsibility.

Second, we are constantly struggling to exist in bad faith: in a state of being caught between two desires - the desire to exist for ourselves and the desire to exist for others. One state distracts us from the reality of other people, the other from the sense of collective responsibility we have for each other.

Relating No Exit back to the fundamentals of Sartre's philosophy, I can see a stark connection. The reality of existentialism is that we are not autonomous beings, but rather we exist in relationship with each other - we share the collective responsibility that comes with free will, and we also share a responsibility to live a life of meaning for ourselves. In life, we are often tortured by the sense of division that our responsibilities create in ourselves. Do we act alone, or with another?

In this sense then, I could see No Exit as being a cynical commentary on our relationships to each other - we are always trapped in hell - in life or death - a hell where we are constantly accountable to one another, a hell where each person has the right to inflict the mandate of responsibility on another.

However, from a slightly more optimistic perspective, I could also see Sartre's No Exit as a clever way of telling us the reality of existence - we are trapped here in life with each other - whether we like it or not - and so we must just learn how to get along with one another. Learn how not to be tortured by another's ills, learn how to co-exist as peacefully as possible.

Or - if you are the sadistically inclined type - then learn how to find pleasure in life by creating ills for your fellow man.

Whichever attitude you choose to adopt, there is a universal reality to be uncovered through the fast-paced text of No Exit - we are not alone and we depend on other people to have our own existence validated. We need each other, but at the same time we have a great capacity to hurt one another.

Wrestling an avenue of contentment between these two extremes is perhaps one of life's greatest challenges. Learning how to get along with those you disagree with, and learning how to love and be love. These are struggles that will never change as long as we live.

So really there is No Exit in life or death. It's just a matter of finding out how to live in the room that you're stuck in.

Perspective and a ripped $20 bill

Winter is back.

Today was cold, so I waited for the bus instead of walking from the train. The bus was late. I was late. Late for an evening to spent by myself, doing the necessary chores of life so that I would have clean, warm, woolly socks for tomorrow. My plan didn't go accordingly.

You may already be able to tell, but I like structure. I like things to be ordered, and I like my evenings to go according to planned. Go home, drop bag, go to bank, take out $20 for groceries and enough left over to get change for laundry. Go home, make soup, put on laundry, study. Put away laundry. Write. Sleep.

But, like I said, the bus was late. And then I took a ripped $20 bill out of the bank.

A ripped $20 bill! Could I spend this? I didn't have the missing part to tape on, and if I couldn't get change, then I couldn't do my laundry and my whole night's routine would be thrown off! Pheewwwwww!!!!

I fretted all the way to Safeway, and still shopped according to planned: $16, nothing more, so that I would have exactly $4 in change left over.

After club card savings, the total came to $15.55 - I know how to shop - and I nervously handed over the $20 bill with an entire corner ripped out of it.

The cashier looked at me - I glanced back nervously. Did he think it was a fake? Should I explain, or would that look like I was trying to cover something up?

"It's ripped," I said, shrugging my shoulders casually.

"I see that..." he replied in an obvious tone. As he put the bill in the register. A few seconds later my changed popped out of the automatic dispenser.

"Wait - can I have 4 loonies please?" I asked taking the toonies that were dispensed and handing them over. "I need to do laundry."

Without answering - what did he care if I had to do laundry - he handed me the requested change and my receipt.

I was home free. And back on schedule.

Part of that schudule involved a five minute walk back home where I could ponder the night's sequence of events, as well as my own apparent neurotic behavior. Beneath the moon-lit early evening sky, it suddenly dawned on me - I freaked out over a ripped $20 bill! But what's worse, I was freaking out over something as mundane as screwing up my routine - getting out of sync with my own reality that I pretend I am constantly in control of.

And then - something much more significant came to mind - I was upset over the loss of routine for 30 minutes, when thousands of Haitians have been living without routine for two weeks. For two weeks, the inhabitants of the shattered Island have been living as raw, unsheltered, uncalculated of a life as one could imagine. What they would probably give for the promise of a routine meal. A routine shower. A routine existence. And they have none of that, just the routine practice of the rising and setting sun - letting in the theoretical day, and shutting light's blinds at night. What they would give for a decent hours sleep on a comfortable bed, in a familiar home, which is something I go home to every night, no matter how unroutine my day has been. I always know there will be a fresh start tomorrow, when I can start over and have a second chance. Buy the groceries I forgot, see the friend I didn't have time to see, or take the minute to relax that I missed. In Haiti - all life is dedicated towards survival, nothing more.

My chance to shift perspective tonight might not have happened had I not finished the last few pages of Sartre's No Exit on the bus on the way home. (I remind myself here, that if I hadn't waited for the bus, I wouldn't have had the time to finish the play). In true existentialist fashion, Sartre's play reminded me that in life, and only in life, I have the unique ability to make choices that affect how I perceive my reality of the everyday. These choices do not only affect my actions, but more importantly, they affect my state of mind, which is important for overcoming the obstacles that life throws at us.

However, the privilege of choice is only thrust upon us with the condition of death. By facing the inevitability of death, we are reminded of life and thus the power to choose our existence.

So today, in honour of Sartre and in hour of Haiti I choose to a life where I acknowledge the unroutine - where I acknowledge my privileged ability to take a day like to take and see it for what it was - special.

In Haiti, the days ahead will be special, but special in a much more challenging way as its citizens, aid workers and government officials begin to choose a new path for the country's existence.

Let's just hope they choose the path of life, but a life that forever remains conscious of the power of death.

What kind of Feminist am I?

Feminism is a concept that I have been wrestling with for many years now, yet have still failed to grasp.

I began university with the idea that I was a feminist - after all I was emerging from a prestigious girls school where I was taught to value my femininity through independence, determination and the belief that I could be anything I wanted to be (so long as that "anything" included being a lawyer, doctor, accountant or business woman). With these strong headed ideals I headed east to university where I believed that I would find my authentic, feminine self and live that out.

My naive understanding of what it meant to be a young female in the world was quickly exposed when I moved into the campus residence, where I was introduced to the stereotypical 18 year old res boy. It quickly became apparent that my interactions with the male sex had been a heavily unrealistic exposure, as I had really only interacted with boys of a similar social stature, namely those to attend private boys school. In res, I was shocked by the level of disrespect I immediately experienced from my male floormates, but what shocked me even further was the fact that their rude comments against my own sex were made with a seemingly unintentional manner. They simply thought they were making funny jokes, and to make matters worse - the majority of the girls responded as if they found the jokes funny.

Well I certainly didn't, and I wasn't about to undo the idea of male-female relationships that I had grown to know, so I did what I knew best and called them out on it. At first my resistance to their "light-hearted" comments (can I even come up with a euphemism for sexist remarks?) was not taken well. I was ridiculed to the point that I sometimes just had to leave the room. There was no hope for turning these minds around - or at least so I thought so.

After a few months, the jokes started to dwindle when I entered the room and instead were replaced with comments that I was present in the room, so careful not to offend the sensitive women. Well these references to my emotional well being initially angered me, I began to see them more as a feat on my part. At least the boys were learning that the jokes they once saw harmless did have a not so humerous impact on at least part of the opposite sex's population.

Eight months after my first post-high school encounter with sexism, I was free of rez, but the effects of this experienced followed me through university, helping to carve a new understanding of my gender's identity in the non-sheltered world of co-ed existence. Throughout university I encountered several incidences of sexism, from remarks by fellow male students in classes who insisted that women have all the same rights as men and should quit their whining, to a personal argument with a male acquaintance who kept insisting the only reason I wanted to debate him was that I eventually wanted to sleep with him.

While these incidences all frustrated me immensely, they have also lent a useful hand in shaping my belief that feminism is still relevant today. The problem, however, is that I'm not quite sure exactly what kind of feminism is relevant.

Framing feminism as the belief that women are entitled to "equal rights of men" is almost irrelevant, considering this belief only works on the theoretical playing field where all players have an equal understanding of the game. Instead, I think it would be much more useful if we re-opened the debate to what exactly we mean by equal rights. Do we mean the theoretical right to be considered equally for the same jobs as men, with the same pay scale, or do we mean the right to be perceived as an equal human being with the same opportunities for self-exploration that men are offered? As a good friend pointed out to me recently, will there ever come the day that we question whether or not the man of the household risks losing his job when the new baby arrives and he needs to stay home? Will there ever be a question as to whether or not a man has to choose between his biology and his right to the pleasures of pursuing a fulfilling a career?

This sudden questioning of the relevance that feminism has in my life was spurred on by a talk I attended tonight about Women and Theatre, in relation to an up-coming performance of Little Women by the Calgary Opera. Through a critical examination of Little Women, this talk started me thinking about my own self from a critical perspective, as well as the type of woman that I want to be. Through my family and high school education I was raised to be an independent, free thinker who should have the opportunity to pursue a professional career. However, as I look back - specifically upon my same-sex education, I can't help but wonder what the motives of such an education was.

Was I truly raised to be what ever I want to be, or was I raised to be a woman in a man's world? Will I be forced to bear the fate that so many women before me have had, to choose between a family and a career, or will I be offered a world where these two pleasures become compatible for a woman?

If I choose to pursue the career which I have been raised to believe will give me utmost satisfaction, do I risk denying the true part of myself that brings true happiness, yet that society tells me will make me weak?

The problem here, which is appearing as I write, is that I am still measuring forecasted ideas of happiness, satisfaction and pleasure against the ideas that have been presented in a male context. I am using society's current measures of happiness to predict a future that exists in an undetermined world.

So, as I head along into the second decade of the 21st century, I can't help but feel that feminism still has an incredibly relevant place in the lives of women. However, rather than reflecting the rhetoric of past decades, perhaps what we need is a new feminism dialect - a vocabulary that provides new measures of happiness and success for new generations of independent and determined young women to make sense of their lives.

Humanity's Tears

Tonight I attended the first in a lecture series offered at the Calgary Public Library entitled "The Refugee Experience." The series, as is offered by its title, attempts to shed some light on the many challenges that refugees face upon arriving in Canada, as well as the few services that are available to assist those with transitioning to their new home.

Tonight's introudctory session cataloged the experience of "coming to Canada" through the eyes of one Calgarian who is one of the lost boys of Sudan. While I was expecting this evening's seminar to be informative and interesting, I did not anticipate the level of emotion that it would be loaded with, but with the harrowing details of this lost boy's journey to Canada, it was inevitably an emotional experience.

This lost boy - Jame's journey to Canada has been anything but easy, but too say it was "hard" hardly provides enough emotion for anyone to relate what he has been to. From escaping the brutal masacre of his home village at the age of 7, to joining thousands of other lost boys on a trek to Ethiopia, where once again they were forced to flee because of brutality, to the safety of a Kenyan refugee camp and finally to Canada, one would think that James finally found refugee in the calm and peaceful land that us Canadians call home. However, James' arrival in Canada became anything but relieving as he faced barrier after barrier in trying to access what he knew he needed most to succeed in Canadian society: an education.

The details of Jame's struggle to be accepted into Canadian society and to receive his right to an education are frusterating to hear in their own right, yet their importance in high-lighting the mistreatment of refugees accepted into Canada are highlighted further when we learn more about the real dilemma of Jame's existence.

After learning that the mother he had long thought was dead is still alive, James returned to Sudan to put her greatest fears to rest once and for all: her own long lost son was alive. Witnessing the plight of his family is hard for us outsiders to witness, yet how hard it must have been for James, who was finally making some sort of a life for himself in Canada, to see.

When asked whether or not he will use his current university education here or in Canada, James replied that he was a committed citizen of Canada, that he had to give back to his community. While his family remains in Africa and his heart may be torn, he believes his duty now lies in his new country.

The commitment this young refugee shows to his adopted country highlights what I see to be a grave ill of Canada's immigration system, which often offers refuge without the support that is needed to make it permanent.

Without assistance for an education, how are these people supposed to survive? How are they to reach their potential? And from what I have witnessed, their potential runs deep, as they are determined to mold themselves into something great - into a human being who has the capacity to turn a situation of grief, poverty and horror into something positive for the new world they have become a part of.

In reflecting upon the way Canada welcomes refugees - and all immigrants for that matter - I was drawn back to a moment of intense emotion I experienced during the movie highlighting Jame's reunion with his mother. As he approached her, she began to flail her arms out, sobbing uncontrollably - as did he when his mother drew him close to her chest. They both cried tears in the same way any human being who is overcome with grief, emotion or utmost relief does. Their cries symbolized the great significance of their reunion, but to me it also symbolized something greater. Their tears also symbolized humanity - the common thread that links all of us, from Africa to Canada, the United States to Japan, from Afghanistan to Australia and to the Northern most reaches of the world. As human beings, we all have the capacity for great compassion, for our loved ones, but also for those that we do not know anything about except their stories.

As I looked around the room during this dramatic reunion, it was apparent that many had tears in their eyes as I did. Those tears of compassion reminded me that we all have the ability as well as the responsibility to care for one another - even if they are not their own.

At the end of his presentation, James reminded us that Canada is a nation with a great capacity to care for those who are unable to care for themselves.

Let us not forget that. And let us not be afraid to shed tears for those we have welcomed into our home to take refugee.

Perhaps those tears will be a reminder of the great capacity we have to care for others. Especially when we adopt those others as our own.

Navigating the familiar

My mother and I often spend time arguing about the importance of traveling.

I sit traveling as an opportunity to open your eyes to new experiences and reach into different aspects as your soul.

My mother sees travelling as a frivolous waste of time that masks personal entertainment under the guise of "cultural experiences."

While my initial reaction is to disagree with my mother - "you just don't understand," I tell her adamantly, "You grew up in a different world." I've grown up in the age of globalization, cheap trans-Atlantic flights and with a much richer palet that is well versed in the world's rainbow of culinary treats. I grew up in an age when many students post-poned their first year of university to take off around the world on a personal mission to find themselves in Europe, or try to gain a deeper understanding of the ills of the western world by visiting Africa. For my generation, it is almost expected that at some point in your 20s, you will embark on a voyage that will take you to the other side of the earth and back. Traveling has practically become a resume requirement, as more and more businesses and organizations are seeking out those youth who understand how the globalized world works and who have a deeper respect for the values of diversity and multiculturalism.

I myself am tempted by these arguments. I plan to take off in the next year or so to have my own array of cultural experiences, but as much as I love to argue with my mother, their is also an element of truth to her argument that I cannot deny.

As more and more young people set their sights on leaving Canada to fix the ills of the world, there seems to be a growing disconnect with one's own city, or country for that matter. While people my age love to brag about their knowledge of the unfortunate in Africa, ask them a question or two about the travesties facing their own city and they are likely to have a response. As more and more young people turn their attention towards fixing the developing world (and not to say its not in good conscience), I can't help but wonder - who is left behind to critique the practices of the governments here in Canada? Who is here to take initiative on the issues of poverty and homelessness in Calgary?

This is one question I have asked myself in the past, and one that I also use to keep me in check with reality as I dream about fixing all of the world's problems.

I'm not sure why it is that young people have such a desire to turn their altruistic efforts towards another country, but perhaps this desire has something to do with growing up in a globalized world, one where we have always had access to the world's problems through television, but more importantly through the internet.

The benefits of living in a globalized world also has it downside - for not only have we grown up in the age of McDonalization, but we have also grown up to the tune of sweat shops, child labour and now an increasingly hostile sector of the world that seems to think the west is to blame for all the ills on the planet. Perhaps our desire to flee the comfort of the western world has something to do with the sense of guilt that lays stuffed into all the conveniences of modernity that we tend to enjoy.

While this theory (and yes, that is all this is, a whimsical theory from one of those confused young people whose sense of duty is divided across the planet) may hold some truth, I think that its important for young Canadians to realize that it is not everyone's duty to find their calling in a land five timezones away. Instead, if we just remember to look around, to recognize the plight of our fellow citizens, there are also plenty of opportunities to make Canadian cities better places to live.

And, improving the quality of our cities doesn't simply amount to feeding the poor. It also includes the duty we all have to enjoy the spaces we exist in and the people we interact with.

So, the next time I am day dreaming about the endless possibilities that are waiting for me across the sea I'm going to stop and think of all the endless possibilities that lie waiting within the city around me.

You never know what you might learn when you meet a stranger on the street. No matter where you are in the world.

On Avatar

Yes, yes. That's right - I gave into all the hype surrounding James Cameron's new block buster hit Avatar. So shoot me, but before you do, at least let me justify my position and provide a little critical feed back on the film.

If I had only seen the trailers for Avatar, then I probably wouldn't have been lured into the magical commercial spell the film appears to be casting. What really got me interested in the film was reading a selection of reviews/interviews as well as speaking to several acquaintances who gave some pretty convincing arguments to see the film.

I was primarily drawn to see the film for the critical acclaim it was receiving for its apparent critique on the state of the modern world and our continued destruction of the planet. So, pushing aside the obvious hypocrisy surrounding the film's gross budget I ventured out to see this apparent masterpiece - in IMAX 3D mind you.

Settling into my decent, but not fantastic, seat in the theatre, I prepared myself for a mind blowing experience while listening to the excited chatter of the audience as they tried to justify to their friends why their seat was in fact the best seat in the house. (I guess after waiting over an hour in line up requires some sort of justification). I slipped on my over-sized imax goggles, but as stylish as I felt there was one more thing to remember. After studying communication studies for four years in university, it was become almost impossible to watch a film with putting on my critical media lens. So quietly, not to disturb the hype and anticipation that surrounded me, I slipped on the good old critical lens under the guise of a 3D experience.

Avatar was no doubt an experience that involved being fully engulfed by a magical forest world that closely resembles the eco-system we might commonly associated with the bottom of the sea. Jelly-fish like spirits that float lightly through the air, stopping only to mark the spiritial importance of a chosen individual; trees that come alive with the spirits and the voices of the past; and a serious group of aliens who believe strongly in the importance of their version of mother nature, and who will stop at nothing to protect their beliefs.

Amongst the many undertones of the film, I definitely sensed the confrontation between faith or belief and reason, as well as a lurking criticism of the western world and its exploitive history. While I applaud Cameron's efforts to expose the "true nature of the west" and provide a warning against the destruction of planet earth (what, we are destroying the earth through the depletion of its resources...really, who knew) - I fear that any depth to this film is simply swallowed up by the complete hollywood-ization of its ideas.

There is a true sadness to be felt in watching our fellow man destroy the indigenous population of an imagined planet, however, I think a more important question to be asking here is where was the sense of sympathy when the colonial powers of the old world did the same to the indigenous populations of North America?

From one glance, it looks as though Cameron has taken the history of North America's indigenous populations hostage in order to make his next big blockbuster; however, on the other hand, perhaps Cameron's purpose is not to reflect the past, but rather to provide an alternative interpretation of reality.

What if things had gone differently? What if - like in the film, the indigenous populations of North America, and the world for that matter, had won the right to protect the resources that belong to the earth - not to man or the world's greedy corporations. What would the world look like today?

While it is useless to look back and wonder, there is room for us to look forward with such optimism. Optimism is definitely needed if we are to continue fighting for what may turn out to be our most sacred and important right - the right to stay alive on this planet that we call home.

However, optimism is also the lens I am speaking through, as in order to believe that this film can have any profound effect on society, I must abandon the critical perspective. While those retro IMAX goggles look much cooler than a nerdy critical lens does, I believe their is a greater danger in their ability to distort reality. For a film that has great potential to shock society into understanding the dirty secrets of success simply becomes a commodity. Entertainment that shocks us, not with its message, but with the excessive of entertainment, that masks any hope for true critique with the lure of a 3 dimensional experience.

Life is like a box of chocolates...

As Forest Gump once famously said...you never know what you're going to get.

While I agree with Forest, I have also recently learned that life is also very similar to a game of chess, because you never know what your opponent's next move is going to be.

Through existence, we are often ill fated against one dominant opponent, and that is life itself. No matter how much we plan and set goals we will inevitably always face a number of obstacles that show up just in time to ruin the party.

I was only able to draw the comparison between life and chess very recently, as I just learned to play chess over the Christmas holidays. After only five games or so (at which I was beaten very badly), I began to reflect on why I was loosing so badly. The answer to this question brought me to a much deeper conclusion, not just about myself as a chess player, but rather, myself as a player in the game of life.

I approached chess with the same attitude that I approach life with: a very structured, presupposed attitude. Each time, I thought I could beat my opponent with the master plan I constructed in my head before hand, however, through each game it became more and more clear that one cannot win the game with a plan, because this plan, inevitably, always excludes your opponent's moves.

Instead of being proactive, it seems as though chess is better played by responding to each of your opponent's individual moves. It may be possible to anticipate some moves, or even try to distract him from what you are really plotting in your head, but in the end the game will always been won unpredictably.

In relating back to the game of life, I am beginning to understand that those people who win at the ultimate game are likely to have a more reactive attitude towards life. They are the ones who are able to respond to upsets and challenges by seizing the opportunity to learn something new and move on to the next square.

Learning how to shift my own perspective is definitely a challenge I have been struggling with for months - if not years. I have always been a planner, and thus have often been the victim of failures, upsets and disappointments. Not to say that everyone doesn't have disappointments, but I think the blow comes much harder when you always expect that things are going to turn out exactly how you planned them. They usually don't.

As I continue on my journey to find my own winning strategy for life, I am going to hold faith that the chess board has something to teach me in the mean time. Once I have finally figured out how to beat my opponent, then maybe I'll be on the road to having a better understand of myself and my relation to the world.