Tradition

This is tradition now.

I only blog during or on the cusp of Lent and I only do it once despite the fact that I think the blogging is a wonderful thing that I should really, really be doing.

*Sigh*

If there actually is anyone out there reading, and this actually isn't just a diary hanging on a precipice above the public eye, i am truly sorry for my inability to blog. I simply don't seem to have the push and drive to write at length without an interaction from a safe audience...

"What on God's green earth does that mean?"

Thanks for asking, random stranger, I'll do my best to tell you.

In the brightened tunnels of my weird mind there float many ideas for what I could be doing with my life:

-Work on Masters

-Write fiction book about lovable loser (semi-autobiographical)

-Start podcasting

-Blog (holy crap, I am very badly doing that one right now!)

-Become dynamic Catholic Speaker...change name to Christopher East...get gigs only because of the sub-par cursory reading of my name...

The first is possible, I am in the process of applying for funding and admission in Saskatoon right now.

The second is also possible, as I have essentially written the entire thing in my mind but am hampered in putting pen to paper because I have written two books in the past, finished both and both were absolutely terrible. In essence, I'm having the 'What's the points?'.

-Any idiot can do the third and fourth, and not to give you an existential crisis to deal because I am doing the fourth right now, I am...just...really...really...

...bad at this.

I am, I just am. Nothing that I write comes out anywhere near as funny or meaningful as what I have in my head. My attempts at meaningful advice to friends or a larger audience are generally met with little in the way of respect (Rest in Peace, Mr. Dangerfield) because I have made such a large headway in establishing myself as "The Funny One" in just about every group I am in.

This should not upset me, as it would seem to everyone that I want to be the funny guy, but there are times in life when you just don't feel like being funny and you must be serious...and most of the time when those times come up, I am met with both an unspoken distrust (as if my seriousness is facetious) and quite often someone quite audibly and unabashedly asking me to morph back into the funny man. It is my lot in life.

So let me tell you a story, here it is in two parts:

I was 15 years old and walking with a fellow Grade 10 from the basement shop located in our Elementary School back to the High School building a few hundred feet away. I had a funny feeling as we walked that distance, like something terrible was about to happen. When we got back to the High School we filed into the gym with the entire school was waiting for the Student Representative Council's assembly for one of the Spirit Days that was taking place that week.

This particular day, small pieces of paper had been handed out to all 125 students in the school (it was a very small town) and we were asked to write the name of a fellow student who was the winner in a number of different categories:

Some for perceived beauty...

Some for perceived talent...

And some for lack thereof...

For you see, one of the categories was for the student that was perceived by his or her fellows to be the purveyor of the absolute worst jokes.

And I won by a landslide.

Holding back tears as a young woman who was perceived to be both popular and beautiful read my name, I pretended to be sarcastically inclined to think this was an honour. Throwing my waffle-press shirt covered arms in the air above my abnormally gelled head, I ran towards the stage at a a good clip wooing like a patron of a sports bar and searching the crowd for a comrade. I did not search for supporters or people that would find my fake happiness funny, but my 15-year old mind did scan the crowd for something that I had never found in all the years I attended High School...

Empathy.

I wanted someone to see past my fake attitude. I wanted them to look deep in my soul past the act I was putting on, the act that was confirming for everyone around that indeed this unfunny person deserved his unbelievably mean-spirited award, and see my anguish.

All I saw was anger. It was not enough to vote me the person at my school who told the worst jokes, I could see I was meant to show shame and sadness while receiving the award and pretending that there was none made people hate me. The rest of the week people from all grades made sure that they told me how much I deserved the award that I had won.

Part 2:

Adult M., trying his  best to make his way through adult life decides that dead air, sticking your foot in your mouth and saying something unfunny or with poor comedic timing was unacceptable.

So I scripted my life. What?

I repeat: I SCRIPTED MY LIFE.

The back pocket of my worn out, quasi-slim, acid wash jeans was for a period of at least two years the proud receptacle for cue cards for conversation. A sample from my days at SIAST:

Thursday (The Heading)

Talk to ______________ about the assignment. If ________________ is also there, make sure you make as many puns in a row as possible. Yes, puns are the lowest form of wordplay, but ____________ likes them and always tells you how funny you are. Since we are having Lifespan Development today, make sure you tell that story about how the instructor asked you out of all 150 students what an episiotomy was in class and how everyone went wild because of your answer.

____________ just got back from her trip to BC, make  that marijuana joke you thought of, she was probably high the whole time she was there, that's what she told everyone.

You shared a little too much about high school in _____________'s class on Tuesday, so make sure you steer the conversation away from that as it was depressing and made people ask too many questions about what you were like in high school and why you weren't popular.

Be funny!

It was written as if an another person was giving me advice simply because it made it slightly more meaningful to follow, or at least I thought so at the time. I scripted my life to be better, to make people laugh more and to avoid awkward references to the past.

It failed on the last front, and also on the first...and if I had to try so hard with the second, what does that tell you about how much I loved myself and respected my honest and true character?

I am now unscripted, just as a formerly educational television network claims to be, and I assure you much happier but I am still hampered by one thing that makes blogging hard, writing harder and making a podcast  nearly impossible:  How am I supposed to script my book/blog/podcast for an unseen audience that can't react and join in on the conversation? How am I supposed to write something beutiful when I used to write things down was for such an unbeautiful reason?

 I went from extrovert with no friends to introvert with many, I find my strength in the concocting of illustrious and illuminating fantasy (a l Walter Mitty) and every day I am so pleased with it that I decide I must share it with other people so that they may also find joy and meaning. The problem now is, how do my genuine feelings and personal philosophy come out instead of just my humour?

On one plain I don't care, because I love myself, but on another plain I do, because one of the characteristics of an introvert is an informed knowledge of just who you are and how you feel inside...and when other people don't see that it bothers you because you know they are believing something that is not the truth, rather than caring because you need them to like you. If you are singled out and told by someone that you are a., b. and c., its going to make you mad because you have searched your soul and know that they are completely and absolutely wrong.

But how do you change that view without sounding defensive, needy or angry?

I guess we'll see.

Until next(?) time, just remember that Jesus loves you so I do too.

Mitchell

How fast should I fast?

Let's try this again...

Last year, almost this exact date as I recall, I told myself I was "Taking Up" blogging for Lent or as we say in the figurative East: "The Great Fast".

Well it's taken two Great Fasts to get to blog post number two, but here I am, and there you are...whipping by in cyberspace and not actually paying attention or reading this whole blog, but who cares? Maybe the third post will come a year from now anyway, so what would be the problem if nobody read this thing anyway?

Well I'm reading it...

I'm reading as I type because this blog may actually be nothing more than my diary told with a little bit of embellishment. Truth be told, if I did put my thoughts in a diary more people would probably read it because it would be the forbidden fruit, wouldn't it? Its therapeutic and relaxing to put your thoughts down, so what do I care if I am the only person that will ever read this thing in any kind of detail?

So where were we?

I'm totally married now, and it is amazing and wonderful and quite unfathomable to the new people I meet because despite the fact that I have a very full and unpatchy beard, strangers seem to think I still look twelve. That's probably not that far off truthful as I distinctly remember shaving when I was 9 or 10 years old so maybe the 12 year old me could have had a nice full beard and still looked like a nice, sweet and angelic little guy.

I almost can't read what I wrote in my last blog entry because the holy mystery that is marriage has completely changed my worldview. In regards to the self-deprecation, I can't believe how mean I was to myself, I mean come on now, did I really believe myself to be an ugly man? Maybe I was just writing for the anonymous keyboards of cyberspace that were sure to call me ugly as sin if I mentioned any notion of being or feeling handsome in any way. Everyone knows that if you can hide behind your screen name and remain slightly anonymous you can say anything you want... Well I'm not ugly, I have come to realize that, I am handsome and desirable and chances are if you think I'm not it just means that you have different taste of perception...anyway, I have an angelically beautiful wife to tell me how to feel about my looks and my personality so I don't need your poor attitude at all.

Its good to be alive today, I'm feeling young, happy, healthy and almost worry free thanks to an active prayer life, a Vitamin B supplement, a wonderful spouse and the music of The Reason, the world's greatest band.

So here I am and there you are, I hope that I don't wait a year to blog at you again.

Mitchell

One

This is a terrible blog, you should run away from it right now before you find yourself:

a) Bored to death.

b) Confused as to whether or not I am sane.

c) Outraged that my high school bullies ever allowed me to live past Grade 9.

d) Saddened that so many maladies and terrible predicaments can befall one poor person.

e) Warmed in your little old heart (or that place where your heart should be, you know, that place you tried to replace with television and relativism. I'll get in there or I'll die trying.)

What? You're still reading?

Aren't there any recently painted walls that you need to supervise?  Don't you have some entertaining infomercials that you just can't bear to miss? Isn't there a *shudder* Nickelback album you should be listening to?

No? Well, you were warned that there were other pointless things you could have been doing other than reading this...

So let's get to know each other. What's your name? Where are you from? What are your hobbies?

Really? Oh wow!

Me? You wouldn't be that interested about that, would you? But, since you're the one reading I guess it's only fair that I divulge a little about myself. After this point, I am going to assume that your were warned enough about the silliness of even giving me one-tenth of a second of your time and stop doing that self-deprecating thing where I warn you to stop reading this blog. Not that I won't be self-deprecating though, far from it, you'll actually probably find me MORE self-deprecating for that is an intrinsic part of my very nature. But seriously, you were warned enough about not reading this blog, I can't spend any more of my time trying to save you from your own very unhealthy decisions.

Hi, I'm Mitchell...

You can call me that, or Mitch or Meotch, those are the things I usually go by. I adopted the pseudonym "The Black Duck" some time ago, it's sort of a stupid way of uniquely calling myself a "Black Sheep" but with an animal I like more.  I might sign this blog "Mitchell" or "The Black Duck" depending on how attached or detached I feel like being from the subject matter. There will also be times that the blog post will come from the very wise Kizzy Kalderash. Here's a picture of her:

Maybe you don't think she's real but if she wasn't real could she have a Facebook? http://www.facebook.com/people/Kizzy-Kalderash/100002019561281

Don't be fooled by her brown complexion, she is just as much of a "Black Duck" as I am. You'll see... I mean look at how she gets around:

How silly, who would choose to use luggage as their primary means of conveyance?

Black Duck Post travel expenses are fully covered.

As this blog is written you will learn a lot about me, here's a bit of preliminary info:

I was born in the late 1980s, deep in Latter-Day Saint country (you might know them as "Mormons"). The winds were strong in that part of the world, and the constant opening and closing of the vent above the range in the kitchen was driving my parents to the brink of exhaustion and deeply grinding upon their nerves. Also, being a very slight little chap, they had to hold onto me whenever we went anywhere lest the wind should knock me down. It wasn't always the wind's fault either, I was miserably top-heavy and off-balance. Imagine a very skinny three year old with a massively large head, like a golf-ball on a tee or a bobble-head doll of Jared Leto with brown eyes. (No I'm not being conceited, a bobble-head doll is neither handsome nor talented. It's kitschy, sure, but that's about all.) So, tired of manhandling their disproportionately shaped child around or listening to the sounds of the blood vessels in their head bursting from wind-related stress, my mother and father pointed at a rectangle on the map (Saskatchewan) and decided to move to it.

My father was a baker, and the town we moved to I don't think he or mother had ever even heard of before. The town will remain nameless in this blog because I have so little in the way of nice things to say about it. I will tell you this though, esthetically and architecturally it is probably one of the most beautiful places in the prairies, yes oh yes. But like so many things that are beautiful at surface level, there was a real underlying ugliness to that place. I spent 15 years of my life there and I don't miss that place for more than about 12 seconds a year, and that is the truth. (More on that later)

When I was 18 I boarded a bus and moved to a place called Saskatoon. Heard of it? It's either named after a delicious berry or the tree that fruit grows on, which is kind of unique when you think about it. I lived in Saskatoon for four years and then left to try and pursue a happy life elsewhere, boy did I get that one wrong! After 14 months away, I came crawling back and despite the fact that some very unpleasant things happened to me as soon as I did (more on those things later) I couldn't be happier that I decided to call this place home again. Why? Here's why:

That girl with the soup is my fiance Kalyn. She is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen and I can say that without even the slightest hint of insincerity. With Kalyn I have everything I ever wanted or needed in a woman and I feel as complete as one can with the tangible parts of our existence. Since I have been with her I have started to forget much of what my life was like before. Everything I know as memory seems to always include either her or the distinct realization that it was from a time before I knew her. The first time I saw her my life was changed forever, and that was a significant amount of time before I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. If you are also called or drawn (or whatever you want to call it) to marry someone, I really hope that you will find someone that makes you feel the same. Eddie Murphy says in his comedy film RAW "Do you ever meet someone that is so fine that they make you ugly?" Yeah, yeah, that's exactly how I felt when I first saw her...but I guess things have changed somewhat.

Now here's a picture of the two of us together:

Bit of a discrepancy in looks huh? Bit of someone (the guy) not only being with someone way out of his league but not even playing the same sport eh? Yeah, I know. I know she's like an Olympic Gold Medalist and I'm at home playing Go Fish by myself but look at the way she smiles when I'm kissing her... makes me think that there might just be something to me after all. Anyway, we'll be married in June after a whirlwind romance, short courtship and an unbelievably long engagement (it's really only 9 months but it seems to go by at a snail's pace). As far as things go on this side of the mystical realm, she is my world.

And on the other side you say? I'm one of those Godsquad types, yes a Christian. (More specifically, I'm Ukrainian Greek Catholic. No, I'm not Ukrainian ethnically, not at all. I'll explain that later too). I think I've reached the point in my life where I don't ever care who knows that I am a Catholic Christian and I don't ever try to hide it. Does that me make think I'm better than you? (I ask this in a sarcastic tone because, much like Ted and Barney of HIMYM on the drunk train, people repeatedly ask me that question, with varying degrees of anger and/or rage.) OF COURSE NOT! Real Christianity to me is knowing that although you might adhere to something that you believe in your heart to be true and proper, it will never make you better than anyone else, just more faithful. God loves everyone. Look: 

See? Jungle Jesus is pointing at his heart to show you he loves you! Oh boy! (Instagram of a statue that belongs to my future mother-in-law that is almost hidden by the large number of fake plants she owns, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA)

My hobbies include imagination, reading and all things trains. (More on those later, don't worry)

Anyway, as this blog progresses, and if you choose to continue reading, I will blog about life, love, tragedy, heartache, sickness, suffering, redemption, friendship and God. It will be both a public diary of my feelings and thought as well as a proclamation of my desires. It will also alternate at times between being complete truth as I see it and fictitious allegory meant to express a point or perhaps just give us both (as I assume there to be but one reader {Oh damn, I've gone and been self deprecating and derided my fan-base with more talk how unpopular I am [and been forced to make use of multiple forms of bracket/parentheses] again}) a little bit of mindless escapism. 

Continue down this road with me at your own risk. And you may also follow me on Twitter, @theblackduck24 is me. Too bad there were 23 other Black Ducks but that's the way she goes.

-The Black Duck