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You are jealous.

‘Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone.’

Four years before I was born, this book happened. I know it was actually written in 1948 or around that year, but it might as well have been from the eighties. I haven’t read anything smarter, more relevant, from front to back, in a long time.

‘Orthodoxy means not thinking – not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.’

George Orwell continues to establish himself as my absolute favourite writer. Each book, essay, even sentence of his that I read, awakes a new amazement in the English language. We read ‘Animal Farm’ in high school, I’ve read a few more of his books and essays since. His style, his ideas, his story telling ability, are all something I want to be able to grasp someday, or even a portion of it, in my own writing.

This book is an slightly exaggerated picture which describes a world so backwards that one might just be able to see it happen in our lifetime. Although we are not far off, with screens on every corner of every house, monitoring through social networking sites and the cameras on cell phones. ‘The Associated Press’ touting wars as if the enemy has always stayed the same and the home government is never anything but glorious. Brainwash, torture, the lower class, history books altered. We are not far off. We’ve got to shake ourselves out of it, be strong enough to notice what is happening, and hold ourselves up to the inevitable future of pain and suffering.

So I’ve thrown down a handful of quotes of your reading pleasure. These are just a handful of the pages I underlined in red pen throughout my read. Read this book, even if you have already.

‘The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent…

The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and poverty. And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. War, it will be seen, not only accomplishes the necessary destruction, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would be quite as simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building temples and pyramids,  by digging holes and filling them up again, or even by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them.’       -George Orwell

I’ve been planning a ‘colon cleanse’ for sometime now. I’m not sure if it will actually be cleaning my colon out, or exactly what it will be cleaning, but all I know is that my body needs it. A full summer of toting around tourists, eating greasy poutines, slippery smoked meats, a few cheap beer, cow ball and intestine soup, and the occasional tri-weekly pizza slice can take a toll on a young man, and his daily bathroom therapy sessions. My guts have been screaming for a wallpaper remodelling. For a trip to the inner body, high-pressure waterslides.  For a green, environmentally friendly switch from the Hummer to the bicycle. For a shit cleaning.

So here I am. Day One of hopefully a full week of my raw fruit and vegetable cleanse. Never in my life have I challenged my diet like this, except when I tried eating an entire ham to gain ten pounds in a week. I researched this very gingerly, meaning I read one webpage probably with Adult Friend Finder ads on the side, but I can’t imagine, well balanced and planned out, that it could be a bad thing. Sure without rice, bread, pizza, dal or chick peas I might pass out everyday by noon, just as long as when I am sleeping my colon revamps itself. Here’s to hoping my colon doesn’t revamp itself all over my shorts while laying in bed. Yesterday I had a sandwich in a cabbage leaf (below). Today I had a banana, kiwi, spinach, prune juice cocktail (below, further). For lunch, the possibilities are endless, but they end at the combinations of ten different items I bought. Watermelon Cabbage salad? Red Pepper and Banana dipped in guacamole? I’m out of ideas…

(If you haven’t noticed on each of my past 426 posts of Balls of Rice’s four year existence, I usually attempt to tie together the things going on in my everyday to the things going on in my brain. It is usually a failed attempt, or so forced, that nullifies everything I wrote previous. But I continue to do it, and I will do it again.)

How does one cleanse their brain? Is it the same process of ingesting only natural, fresh, essential sustenance? The things I would consider natural and essential when it comes to mental sustenance are probably far from it, and the things that others would recommend I would decline as irrelevant.  I could turn off my computer, my iPod, my table fan, my metro pass, my camera for a week and see what happens, but I doubt that this would fully emancipate the years of greasy poutine-filth that has settled itself so deep into my mind. I don’t think a week long therapy could clean the grease bound, cholesterol ridden caverns of my mind. I don’t think much could, besides a memory eraser.

In my infinite negativity I instantly question the point of cleansing bodies, minds, ‘souls’ because they are just going to get clogged up or bogged down with cheese curds anyways. Similar to my theories of bathing. But if we aren’t a people constantly looking for full renewal and restitution, through cleanses or conversations or investigating, then we aren’t worth much after all.

Day One.

I am a victim of identity theft. Ten million Americans a year are victims of identity theft, I am (technically not at all) one of those ten million. Someone created a Facebook account under my name, and based on the incorrect birthday, interests of 14 year old girls, and a few other reasons, I can assure you that it wasn’t me. I can also assure you that it bothers me none. Since the creation of Facebook, the threats of identity theft have been many. Many people, too lazy to communicate in old fashioned methods such as email, postcards, landline telephones or telekinesis have threatened to thieve my identity and create a profile of lusty smut under my name. I never thought I would be that guy until today. I have been violated.

I hope that I never become a victim of ‘real identity theft’ in my life, for the sole reason that if my identity is based on something that can be created online, stolen from my banking information or fabricated with a SIN number, then I don’t want an identity at all.

The good part, at this point in my life, is that I feel like I don’t have an identity that can be stolen. Nothing in the bank account. No real debt. Not even any knowledge of anything financial. No real identifiable human identity. Even if someone wanted to make me a fake email or social networking profile, or LavaLife profile, like we used to do when I was in grade 7, they would probably have just as good of an idea as I as to my identity and what I identify with.

Identity theft is a serious matter, and if you feel like you have been victimized, please contact Phonebusters, for the good of the nation. Phonebusters and I have actually worked together in the past, and although I am still skeptical of their methods, I would recommend that you contact them if someone ever makes you a fake Facebook account.

Fraud.
Recognize it.
Report it.
Stop it.

The world’s best bagel, as voted by me.

Real words coming soon.

Today: Happy Birthday Mom and Jerms.

Tomorrow: Happy 4th Birthday Balls of Rice.

Last night a friend and I went to see This Will Destroy You. They are an instrumental, ambient, rock, thrash, Texan band, or something like that. It is music anyone can appreciate, for several reasons, or just because of its power and universality. I had a hard time standing still. At the show, I couldn’t stand still. My friend to my right, stood unwaveringly, feet planted, eyes forward, even during the 30 minute soundcheck after TWDY played. My posture has always been poor, even since I was a child. My posture is bad, and I can’t stand still. Sounds like more than just physical ailments. Sounds like my brain.

I couldn’t focus either. Some overnight flu hit me, and I felt the after effects later on in the day. I tried my best to stare directly at the red lit curtains behind the band, letting the motions of the drummers arms and the guitarists beard hypnotize me into a real instrumental experience, but all I could do was regurgitate French phrases I have been preparing for my exams this week, or get distracted by the pain in my lower back, or the obnoxious shouts of the obscure masked individuals standing next to me. I just wanted to listen to the music, but my semi-conscious brain only poured out asinine anecdotes or quotes from the past week. My posture is bad, I can’t stand still, I can’t focus on something good right in front of me. More than just physical.

I am still in French classes. Exams this week. I haven’t written an exam for almost 4 years and the whole process frightens me. I can semi-focus on the paper in front of me, or the words being spoken to me, or the dialogue I am a part of, but I can’t get ahold of the feeling of needed commitment to the cause. Thirty two plus weeks is a long time to sit in a classroom to get a slight handle on a language that I will in all likelihood rarely use. Commitment issues. More than just physical.

Things are well, however. The weather is well. I can purchase something and get an exchange in a different language. I am not poor, nor rich. My few friends in the city are leaving for different places. Fall invites freer thinking, a winter full of hockey and a year that went by fast.

This will destroy you.

Here in Saint Henri, things are a bit simpler. Abandoned buildings burn, four fire trucks show up. This is place is perfect.

This week in Montreal it is the Rogers Cup. Women’s Professional Tennis at its finest, minus most of the best and most interesting players. Nonetheless, the city has tennis is on the mind, and greasy golden brown legs are more plentiful than the Weyburn KFC buffet.

Tennis. The awe-filled hush of 12 000 people when they comprehend something bigger than themselves, and how quickly that is besmirched when a person shouts out inanities during important moments of silence. Like while the ball is tossed and in midair for the serve. Or between first and second serves. Simply because they aren’t human enough to understand the perfect moment of silence and collective awe that just preceded them. I watched a few marvellous matches, took a handful of less than marvellous photos and loved it.

Throughout each match I had somewhat of a difficult time focusing, whether it was because of unruly fans who lacked tennis etiquette, my weak core which causes a sore back because of sitting hunched over for hours, my contacts drying out, and my general wandering mind trying to come up with witting phrasing for this outlet.  I am mentally more of a child than my beard lets on; dreading school like it was something bad, lacking the ability to converse properly, playing in a new kind of playground. A French only playground.

I have a friend bicycling across the nation in its entirety. Between my two days of tennis, I spent a day of bicycling with him, up mountains, down mountains, in the time warp/money vacuum that is Old Port and back to the Eastview of Montreal. We biked for literal kilometres, just slightly less than the 7000km he will have finished once his whole trip is done. He is doing things that I wish I could be doing, and I’m doing things that others wish they could be doing. And all the while I still become impatient with the general public, with my decisions as of late, and my plans. If I could just tour with a few pairs of greasy golden brown legs, making millions in a week for slapping balls around, then I’d be set. Then maybe I’d be more patient. But probably not.