Excerpt 1 - Intro

I think it’s my first memory of automatic sliding doors. There were two sets, and as we walked passed both, we stood there for a few seconds, that felt like minutes. I remember not being able to understand exactly what was happening. I held my dad’s hand and stood by his side, clueless. In retrospect, I recall it feeling like one of those children’s TV shows where you never see the adults face because they were so much taller than the child, and the picture gets cut off right around the grownups midriff. I remember hearing a rush of noise spilling towards our direction. It slowly gained speed and volume as it drew closer, something like a subway train approaching the platform. That was my moment of realization. That was when I understood that this was absolutely beyond any doubt happening in front of me.

They wheeled the stretcher right passed us and I remember seeing her eyes fighting to stay open, as they rolled back. She was covered with white sheets and they were covered in blood. It feels surreal reflecting on the memory right now; I can only imagine how unbelievable it must have felt in that instance. My last memory is her being rolled away and someone telling my dad and I to sit in the waiting room. I don’t remember anything that happened after that. Not that day, not when she was released from the hospital, none of the events that followed. I have a faint memory of being home with my dad when the phone rang before this all happened. Someone called to say that my mom had been in an accident. I’m not sure if it was the police, the hospital or a relative, but it's as if there’s a blank space between that call and us standing in front of the hospital doors. I have no recollection of what transpired afterwards.

I would have only been four or five at the time and I don’t remember much from that era, so it came as a surprise when I recalled that day. That memory had been tucked away and over the years layers upon layers of other thoughts had been piled over top. The only reason it ever came back up now is because of this project. I need to make sense of and understand everything that my mother has been through in her life. I need to understand why she is who she is, before I can sort out who I will be.

The Art of Sales

Sales is an interesting art.

I refer to it as an art because if you pay close enough attention, you learn that it's quite an intricate onion with layers and layers of techniques and methodology to any particular approach. For some it's second nature and they can sell fire in hell, while others have difficulty rising to the occasion.

It's an essential tool for success in that all aspects of your life require a sales technique. We are constantly selling our ideas and opinions to our friends, colleagues and whomever we engage with in discussion. We sell ourselves everyday for a sense of recognition, be it to others or even ourselves. And for most, we need to sell our work, whether it be in a figurative sense where we push our ideas, campaigns, and/or policies, or in a literal sense where it's sold as a commodity in the form of goods or services.

For an artist, this can be a tricky subject because a lot of us aspire to become artists in order to break away from the socioeconomic norms and structures of the 'working world'. The endless possibilities brought forth by a blank canvas, a banging instrumental, a plot idea - that's what we thrive on. But at the end of the day if we want this to be a focal point in our lives, which most of us do, you need to be able to somehow sell your art to the world. This unadulterated, pure expression of yourself must appeal to someone else enough for them to want to purchase it from you. Albeit, there are those that create art for their own fulfillment. Not to be sold, not to be judged by others, not to be auctioned off for millions one day - but rather, to get a sense of self-fulfillment. These, in my opinion, are the truest form of artists - last of a dying breed, if they even still exist.

I, unfortunately am not as selfless and pure. I have a rather different agenda in mind. One that includes a hope of one day profiting off of my passion and I do not feel guilty about this, nor do I think it stains my work in any way. Struggling artists have to eat, and if I can exchange a dollar for sharing my insight on the struggles and triumphs of living and growing in the 21st century, I'm open to that exchange.

My struggle at the moment however, is with selling my art in a figurative sense. I am nowhere near completing the task of my initial project, but the more I share with the world that I am an aspiring writer, the more I hear the question "Oh, so you're a writer? What do you write?" - Ay, there's the rub.

I feel as though this question is hardest to answer for a writer.

A painter, sculptor, any sort of visual artist simply displays their work and it's interpreted by others in a way that appeals to them and the piece often sells itself. Mind you, the back story behind a painting often goes hand-in-hand with the piece, but the visual element works half the battle.

Similarly, a musician releases their finished song out into the world wide web, and it's instantly available for streaming, sharing, download and comments. In a matter of minutes, momentum can be gained and a conversation can be sparked discussing any and all aspects of the song. In all fairness, this has also been a factor in the demise of album sales over the past decade, but to that same notion it has made the fans and artists equally accountable for the outcome of a record. Artists like Kanye West, Lady Gaga, Lil' Wayne, and arguably one of the first artists born out of the power of social media, Drake, have all benefited from the free-share medium of the internet. What this has proven is that if you stay true to yourself and your art form, your supporters will remain just that - supporters. If you show and prove that you are committed to delivering something of authentic value, your passion for the music will be reciprocated by your audience.

Writers however have a higher mountain to climb in order to reach these summits. Unlike other artists, a writer require a deposit of high value from their audience before even proving their worth. Some might argue that this commitment is more valuable than a monetary exchange - we need your time. We cant just flash a page full of words in front of someone and expect them to respond the same way they would to a song, a dance, theatrical skits, or painting. We need a captive audience, willing to devote some time and attention to our work and absorb the message.

At the end of the day, it's a harder sell and for that reason your work needs to be that much more on point and your pitch needs to be that much more enticing. Even before letting your work do the work, you need to put in the time and effort to persuade this potential reader that your product will be worth their time. In order to successfully accomplish any of this, you need to whole-heartedly believe in your craft, which ultimately means you need to pour your heart and soul into everything you write. In the end credibility will shine brighter than anything else, and we all know "real recognizes real".

"So I totally forgot about this loft party I'm supposed to go to..."

I joined another dating website about a month ago. The first one I spoke about was free, while this one, for a 'small fee', was supposed to be a million times better because you can’t search for individuals; the site is so fucken smart that it FINDS your compatible matches for you and sends them your way, and then it’s up to you to start communicating with the ones your interested in. Overall, I'd say it’s been a big disappointment. However, there is one chick that I found quite interesting. We sent a couple of messages back-and-forth on the site, and soon after we began e-mailing and my interest was piqued.

'She speaks so well,' I thought as I read her e-mails. She’s intelligent, she does and says cool things, she likes the same sort of music, she’s worldly – she’s hitting on all cylinders pretty much.

Wait – “can I see some more pictures, because the one in your profile is somewhat hard to make out?”

Ok, not someone I’d typically be attracted to – but the mind is a wonderful thing, and as you grow older, it becomes attracted to other beautiful minds which can trump your vanity. I was just so captivated by everything she embodied, that looks became secondary for once.

We communicated for a while, exchanging essay-like e-mails detailing who we were, what we did and some of our ambitions and desires. We spoke on the phone a couple of times and eventually set a date that was rescheduled to today. Even up until game time, I had feelings of laziness that wanted me to bail, but I fought hard not to become 'that guy'. This is a brand new year and I’m not going to start it off on the very same foot.

I picked her up at the end of her street and we had a decent talk all the way to a little bar called the Harlem Underground. Beautiful, cozy, intimate atmosphere with very cool music: some Jazz, some Biggie, some Michael Jackson and then they played A Tribe Called Quest instrumentals – perfect. The whole ambiance was exquisite.

No real awkward moments. We discussed goals for the New Year, how the holidays went, family life, spiritualism, described our close friends, and all that good stuff. Then she all of a sudden asked me for a favour. I knew she couldn’t request anything absurd, after all, it is a first date and she hasn’t given off any signs of insanity yet. She said that she just remembered she has to make an appearance at a friend’s birthday party at her loft. She’d love for me to come with her, but if I didn’t want to, would I mind dropping her off when we finish up – oh, and Dj Lissa Monet will be spinning.

“Sure, why not.” – vocally. “DJ LISSA MOTHER FUCEKN MONET IN PERSON!!” – inside my head.
I’m a big Drake fan, and over the past year or so, I've also become a bit of a Stan for the Toronto party scene. Lissa is kind of a big deal, and where there’s Lissa, there’s also sure to be some of Toronto’s other party elite.

We wrapped things up and headed over to a loft somewhat across from the Drake hotel.
Without describing every single detail, I’ll say the mood, the music, the atmosphere, the layout the party itself was really fucken cool. Only one thing trumped all of that – the people. The crowd of 40 or so people was the friendliest, and hippest crowd I’ve been around at any Toronto party – bar none. I'm not talking too cool for school, are you a bum or hobo hip, but rather down-to-earth natural swag folks that were happy to be amongst good company.

We talked, mainly, to two dudes – one used to be a manager at the Harlem Underground (go figure) and the other runs the marketing department for a youth program in Parkdale - both of whom were awesome. There was also another very cute chick that brought over cupcakes. She had a jean shirt on and a sick white studded necklace that was so on point - I wish I talked to her a bit more and got to know her name, although I did mention that her cupcake was delicious as we were leaving. All were very friendly. All were very interesting.

As Lissa was spinning a dude came up and played the flute to various hip-hop instrumentals - Regulators, Lollipop (THE REMIX!), Find your Love, Crossroads and a few other choice tracks – so dope!

I didn’t get to meet Lissa but I met a bunch of other really interesting people whose names I don’t know but wish to hang out with again someday.

I did find out that the birthday girls name is Ashley and she works with Manifesto as a Visual Arts director. She’s a painter and has some beautiful art pieces around her loft (I know that some of the paintings were definitely hers, but I'm not sure if they all were.

It all felt somewhat surreal, as it happened rather quickly yet organically. I felt a sense of envy that these people lived this sort of life, on what I would guess is a regular basis. They all seemed inspired, and happy doing themselves the way they wanted to be done.

Everyone has a story to tell and I'm aware that all that glitters is not gold - at the end of the day, who knows what they really think, feel, hate, love and how they hurt. I do however feel that for that little while, none of that really mattered all that much, because it was all about the moment and I was glad to be a part of it.

Saw these tweets as I was on my way home:

NebbyNeb – Happy birthday to my love @AshleyMckenzieB

NebbyNeb – Getting ready for yet another fun night... for the sake of amazing company.

NebbyNeb – We craze son don’t even try us B @djlissamonet @BluTheStylist (twit pic)

Happy

Over the past few days I’ve had an influx of responses from complete strangers. The responses have been to a carefully articulated ‘blueprint’ message that I’ve copied, pasted and slightly altered for each recipient. There’s no real explanation as to why the value of my commodity has gone up suddenly, but it would be rather juvenile to think that this is random or without cause. Seeing as I’ve been using this dating site for over a year, I never really pursued a full-on offensive, until now.

I would typically scour the site looking for ‘perfection’ and if I found a profile I liked, I would send, what I thought to be an appropriate message. Up until a little while ago, I had only ever received one response – most likely due to my highly selective praying tactics. The only real change, and quite possibly a game-changing one at that, has been that I’ve been spreading my seed around more diversely. My approach this time around has been to expand my list of ‘worthy recipients’, while still maintaining a standard based on their profile – picture and description in equal measure (perhaps a heavier emphasis on the picture..)

The response has been astonishing. Well, it’s been surprising to say the least. The surprising part is that there were actual responses! Some of which seem to be promising in the sense that I think I can muster up a date from them, and that’s all you can really ask for at this point right?

This astronomical shift in my opinion is due to timing. The end of one year and the beginning of another. The magic of the holidays, mixed with the sense of loneliness for those that don’t have significant others to share it with – all of that plays a major part in dating and even simpler than that, finding someone you would consider dating. I was discussing with a friend about how Mother Nature seems to work her wonders in interesting ways – there was a period of time a few years ago where it seemed like everyone we knew was breaking up. Followed by another period where it felt as though everyone was finding love. The universe feeds off of that sort of energy, and often times a dynamic shift is caused by a snowball affect initiated by a small few. Before you know it, you have a movement.

I’ve come to realize that my ‘problem’ is that I’m a hopeless romantic. As much as I’m attempting to apply a mental, physical and spiritual shift in my being to help me achieve a higher fulfillment of myself, the core of me still yearns for love. I genuinely want to hold her warm, delicate body in my arms. I want to run my hands through her silky aromatic hair. I want to glide my finger around her face and let it rest atop her lips. I want to lean in, feel her breath on my lips, close my eyes and kiss her as if the entire universe were made for us in that moment. I want this faceless beauty by my side to compliment and add to my energy, so that we create our energy.

I don’t know if that’s a far out delusional thought that can only be acted out perfectly within the theatre of my mind and within the words I spew out onto paper; but at this point in time I still have what’s left of my drive to pursue it.

Maybe I’ll look back on this 20 years from now and wonder how at 27, I could STILL be so naive with my thinking. Seeing as I’ve gone through heartbreak. Seeing as I have doubts about ever finding another woman I could love as purely as I once did. But I hold on to this hope now that I didn’t realize I still had. The past two years have been the toughest and most exhausting times I’ve ever gone through. The mental anguish drove me to places I never wanted to be, and at times turned me into a person that I hated. A sad, lowly negative sap – a has been.

The hardest part about it was doing it alone. No one understood, as much or as little as they tried to. No one understood but me – and even that was a stretch to wrap my head around at times.

Even though I realize that I’m not ‘cured’ and that there is still a long road ahead to recovery, the fact that I have this glimmer of hope, this belief that I will love and be loved and share happiness once again, proves to me that my soul isn’t lost. That deep down in the tiniest, deepest pores of my existence, I am still that romantic, caring, loving, genuine individual I once prided myself on being.

And today, that makes me happy.