Christmas Miracle

Warning: Some serious feels in this article

It's a widely known fact that December is a time for both giving and taking. Not in the sense of gift exchange but in the sense of criminal behaviour. Behind the sugar coated curtain of Christmas glee and affection lies a very select group of scum that target to take advantage of these kinds of people. There are two kinds of people during Christmas Eve. The ones that approach the 25th with the plan to smile a bit more, or ones that approach the 25th, circling the date, and making sure that they're prepared to start breaking into houses or mugging those unfortunate carrying bags filled with presents.

You tend to hear such expressions like, 'Oh their house got robbed on Christmas? That's really unfortunate' or 'Oh they lost their daughter so close to Christmas? That's really unfortunate.' Both those scenarios are really bad but an added magnitude accompanies them when mentioned that it happened in such a close proximity to Christmas day.

Unbeknownst to little Susan, her house was being robbed during her rendition of Silent Night. Better have kept those receipts bitttch

I spent a beautiful Christmas morning stuck in a dark room with someone that was not going to be around for much longer. Because it was Christmas I felt an extra ounce of compassion in my heart for this man that is usually reserved for extremely attractive Asian women.

This particular person suffered from the common ailment of being incredibly unlucky. So it was my job to watch him and make sure that this person didn't spread his unluckiness.

The room itself was just a dark cold room with one single exposed lightbulb on the floor in the middle of the room. Our shadows were cascaded in such intricate shapes that it was like we had silent silhouettes of guardians that watched over the two of us. Two chairs and a table were the only things given to us. We had no source of entertainment other than each other and really that was way more than enough when I got started.

So this John that I was with suffered through the textbook symptoms of facing inevitability. His hands were shaking, his eyes were darting around, and he was blinking faster than an epileptic watching Japanese television. Soon he would tire himself out and then he would begin to ask questions. In this room of waiting, societal norms would crumble and it didn't matter if you were racist, ugly, or a woman. There was one person in front of you and if that person was a young Asian kid then you better forget the fact that your grandfather called my grandfather a gook and begin to understand just how hopeless you are.

 May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end!

People broke faster than others and this person here broke pretty fast. Maybe it was the added weight of Christmas day or whatever but this John broke fast and he started crying into his large hands.

The first person you experience like this really takes a toll on your psychology. The second, not so much. Then the fifth person and it just becomes a job. Then after thirty it just becomes white noise. Everything they do could have been filled in a questionnaire and I could have check boxes according to how they would act in the next couple hours. You really become dehumanized after so much of these jobs.

This John begins to talk and he tries to regain his sense of dignity by asking for my name. I tell him my name and he tells me his. I don't take any extra precaution to remember his name because really there isn't a point. I've been told that the only two names I would probably remember while doing this job would the first and last. John asks why someone so young like me is doing something like this and I tell him that it's for money. He makes a joke about it and laughs a little too ecstatically and I just smile without changing my eyes.

He tells me his life story and I become good at condensing decades of lives in a short Wikipedia-like  sentence.

A single beautiful moment of death coalesced into one convenient sentence that takes out all sense of beauty.

 And with this he looks at me hoping that I gained some insight from his journey. His long walk through a well-worn path of birth beget into school beget into university beget into career beget into death. And sadly I couldn't lie to him and I simply nodded at whatever the hell he had to say. Eventually his ancient screws that held him up unscrewed after years of wear and his entire body drooped into his chair, a sign of surrender, like the final act of a marionette, discarded and might as well been forgotten.

We both jump slightly at the loud knock behind us and I reach across the table to give the man one last handshake. As I walk away, what he had shared with me was already vaporizing into nothingness. I left and that was it for his story. I get to continue mine.

I stopped by T&T supermarket on the way home and picked up some milk bread that had just the right amount of sweetness in it. I really liked that bread and we needed it to stuff into the Christmas turkey.

Sorta like this but without the chocolate

This has happened so much now that all memories and stories about different lives has become just a single entity of insignificance that I could no longer even feign interest in them. There's a small window of thought that emerges from me after each time I have to spend hours with an unfortunate person's last lap. I wonder if I want to spend my last hour talking to someone who will forget eventually. Is there really a difference between telling a loved one and having it forgotten by them when they too pass away compared to telling a stranger? Or did these people just want to tell anyone because intrinsically we are all selfish and they just want someone to acknowledge that what we did mattered? But eventually I'll just forget and do whatever is next in my life.

So really all I'm hoping that can come out of this is that I don't die during Christmas and when I do die, I don't want it long and drawn out. I think.


Sometimes when I can't sleep I think about all those people I've talked to and try to recall all the things they left behind. I pull the blanket up to my nose and I stare past the ceiling trying to see and feel something. Then I start opening doors that I keep trying to close. I start thinking too much and start again on thoughts of the afterlife. I think of the old computer that I had long ago in my early teens that we replaced because the power button stopped working. Then I remember finding it again in the basement and carrying that heavy monstrosity up the stairs and putting it down carefully on the carpeted floor of my room. I stared into the hole that used to have a power button with one eye closed as I inched closer and closer to it trying to see if there was anything special. Then I had the bright idea to go down to the kitchen, grab a chopstick, and bring it back up and inserting it into that hole.

Miraculously, the computer turned on again. It's old and dusty fans started spinning within the bowels of its metal chassis with such volume that it was almost as if I had turned on a lawnmower. I connected the computer to a newer monitor and waited for it to completely boot up. Hearing those hollow beeps and electronic midi's starting up the system brought such a nostalgic warmth in me that I couldn't help but smile. All those late nights struggling with slow dial-up connections and frantically searching for that one cheat code for that extra hard video game suddenly came back to me, a most familiar feeling of recollection filed under 'little things' in the back of your mind.

Even through the incessant coughing and wheezing from caked dust, the computer trudged its little metal spinners and pullers and pushers and started up once again. I understood that this ancient machine was fragile and for some reason I thought I should also be careful in moving the mouse or pressing keys on the newer hardware that I had connected to it. Almost as if this computer could somehow feel some phantom pain from the hard clicks or the exaggerated slamming I resort to now with my fingers when I type (I've been asked if I'm angry at the keyboard when I type). But for this moment in time I grazed my fingers over the keys slowly and gently, almost as if I was running my hand over a sleeping dog, making sure to not disturb it.

I spent the entire afternoon slowly going through all my old files. I enjoyed myself as I read poems and stories unfinished and smiled at the pictures I saved and music I somehow downloaded. At a certain point I had eight windows open, each one a different folder in the computer. Now this was something I regularly did because I always assume that I will need to quickly access something. On my current laptop opening that much was cake, but on this aged hardware? I tried closing one of the windows, still unaware of what I had done and when it refused to close I froze along with it. I stared for a couple minutes at that screen, the happy warm feeling slowly dissipating. I felt every drop of that warm pink liquid called nostalgia as I began over thinking once again. It saddened me when I realized that the moment I turned on this computer, it was in the same state as we had left it seven years ago - except dustier, slower and a lot older. The night we had decided to retire it, it was still pushing itself, making sure that it still did what it had to.
The tower, the skeleton, rickety and so brittle that it needed to be propped against a wall in order to stay up.
The software, so outdated and weak that it needs so much more effort to do things it did with relative ease before.
The memory, parts corrupted and fragmented that you can't really trust it anymore to remember some things.
It's PSU, the power supply unit; chugging, coughing, struggling, beating. The very heart of the computer so weak and fragile.
Fated to not turn on again because of human carelessness.
Nothing really can escape inevitability can it?
It was almost as if this computer had just woken up after seven years of death and it just continued as if those years were nothing. The only thing it has to show for it is its deteriorating body and corrupted mind.
When I stare up at the ceiling during nights I can't sleep, I think back to that day. I sometimes wonder if there is a heaven for computers and if I had pulled that ancient behemoth away from it just for a brief exchange and to catch up. Then I smile because it's so absurd. Then I wonder if there is something after death, a computer human heaven.

Mix them according to preference. Or don't mix them at all

I met a nice girl the other day. She was in a lot of debt for someone her age and for some reason she pissed off the wrong people. This lead her to a sort of crossroads that lead to the same place, if that makes any sense. I took her to the beach very close to the city and made sure to remind her to bundle up because beaches in December are nippy.

I picked her up at her place and we walked in silence to the beach. She wore a perfume that was redolent of funeral flowers. The kind that are artificially enhanced to last a bit longer than usual. We got into public transit and she made her way to the back of the bus where we sat not beside each other but face to face.

I stayed quiet because it wasn't my job to entertain her. There was a quick exchange in glances, both of us waiting if the other was going to start a conversation, a conversational stand-off of the sort. I wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger and apparently she wasn't either. It would be a quiet ride between the two of us. Now she was a beautiful girl there was no doubt about it. A salad of genes that would make any average to below average girl envious. But at that moment of vulnerability, that moment where she had to face her mortal existence, she couldn't be any more beautiful. She didn't bother to wear make up and it was obvious that she was crying the night before. I caught those eyes of hers shaking slightly when the bus stopped to pick up passengers and she would make eye contact with someone for a moment. A fly trapped in a web watching others fly by, living their life. When a person stopped trying to blend and became bare bones, living only to cling onto each day as a blessing, they became something different, something ethereal. Something beautiful.

We eventually made it to the beach, the only words exchanged were commands from me to move faster or telling her that it was time to get off.

Now the beach is a very special place for me. No matter how cliched it sounds, the beach does things to an individual that they wouldn't do otherwise. A beach in the middle of winter is a special kind of solace for people otherwise unfamiliar with a ritual like this. The smell, the sounds, the feelings, they all worked together to erode away the final pillar of a person.
When they finally stare into the horizon, their eyes half closed and their white pupils glazed, I begin speaking.
I usually start with something easy like a joke or a fact. For this girl I just started by saying that in this world there are so little things that can be described as epic. The ocean though is undoubtedly one of them.

Things that are also epic: Space and the intro to Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin

She stood there, her scarf wrapping her comely cheeks and those ineffable brown eyes of hers looking out into the water, almost as if she was trying to look across the ocean. Then she began talking.

She talked for a long time. But it didn't matter to me. Right now the two of us had all the time in the world and I was more than happy to listen to what she had to say. She talked about everything she ever wanted to be and everything shes always wanted to see. How she will never be able to have children and how she will never feel true love that she's always wanted. How she will disappoint her family and how she hopes that at least one person in this entire world will cry when shes gone. By the end of it all she was in tears.

Then she asked me if I ever have thoughts of the end and I nodded, lying would neither comfort or upset this girl. Then she asked me what every person asks when they can see the end in the distance. She asked me if I think that there is an afterlife. I told her that I didn't but that shouldn't stop her from believing if there is.


Then she asked me about me and I told her about me. Then she asked me what I thought and I told her what I thought.

I asked her if she knew what nihilism meant. She didn't so I explained.

Then she cried again. There are times where I believe that I'm not the right person for this job.

Thinking about specks.

There are two types of people in this world, both of which can be easily categorized and subsequently referred to as HAM. While trying to think about specks i discovered a theme which persists across many plat forms, and that platform in a plate covered in ham products. That is why ladies and gentle men i refer to everyone by the flavor of speck ham they are (and if you don't know what the hell speck ham is take a gander at the picture below).
SPECK-tacular ham.

 So what are these two people i speak of that are so hammy? Well the first person can be generally referred to as the salt cured ham type. These people are shriveled up shells of their former youthful, liquid endowed selves. They have a little over 1 percent liquid in their bodies and as such are very dry people. After all, salt draws liquid from... I got lazy. Sorry faggots.

Hello, my name is Roland. We're here to help.

Punctuality in life is golden. It's the standard in which evaluates each and everyone of us as individuals in life. If you have a deadline then you are expected to meet the expectations without any complications or excuses. This being said, if I wait in the damn line and order a coffee at Starbucks then I better expect that coffee in ten minutes as promised. If this promise isn't fulfilled someone suffers -a coffee addict like myself- or it can also mean the coffee maker is on the fritz again and I'll have to wait for thirty minutes for Earl the maintenance guy to drop on by and fit it. What ever the case two facts are certain, I'm going to have to suffer until this problem resolves itself and Earl is going to be one busy man today.

Earl the maintenance guy
I brought up the topic of punctuality because this has been something I've been struggling to improve on. For quite some time this has been a growing concern, a common issue I've noticed in many people I've encountered with in life. Even though we all have the capability to produce something spectacular we lack the motivation and the mindset to deliver a creative project in a timely manner. I especially see this in myself, as this is the depending factor that can attribute to the success of Brodinary. If the content on this blog remains barren as it has been for some time now then chances are this blog is likely to fail, a fear that haunts me daily. As I look around the internet to websites that produce material on a daily basis I question myself, as to why I don't possess the drive to produce a site to a similar ability. I can come up with numerous excuses to explain why but this doesn't do much, it only creates a barrier to keep producing sub-par work. With this comes a proposition, a commitment for myself to follow in order to better myself and Brodinary.

1) Keep content updated every week.
I'm committing myself to produce posts and content each week for Brodinary. I am currently in talks with the original founders to create a schedule so content is organized.

2) Redesigning the site
This has been one of the things I've put off countless times. Since I have free time after this semester I'll be devoting myself into redesign the blog to reflect the original concept behind Brodinary.

3) Spreading the word
Networking to a broader audience so our content is viewed by as much people as possible. Having an audience to support us will be a big step.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

Hello, my name is Roland. Jayus is today's word.

Here's a poem that I've been working on. It's been uncompleted for quite some time now but I've been editing it to clarify sections and to fix the flow. Not 100% sure if the changes were for the better so if you have any feedback please leave a comment. 

This poem was for a Creative Writing class in which we had an exercise to list what we did in normal day. After coming up with a simple list I played around with verses to create this poem, as it reflected the feeling I had at the time. It was when I was just in a creative slump, my oldest brother had just moved out and things felt strange around the house. This was also when I spent hours on the computer just finding interesting things. and by coincidence I stumbled upon a site that shared foreign words that carried with them much meaning. From the list I choose two words that connected to how I felt, Jayus and Toska. This being said here is my poem.

Occupied streets that seems empty. 

This morning
working on a poem
the mouse clicks
as animals do,
while my weary eyes strive
to finish.

The microwave beeps
And fills the room,
with the reward
of left-over Chinese food
while the T.V shows
reruns of CSI, as promised.

Plastic champagne cups
are filled with water -
a sudden shiver,
as spilt ink forms faces
on the ghost white futon
and coats my fingertips.

I take a shower,
like waterfalls showering over
to refills the prayer cups.
A faded frame sit
as incenses are lit.
Waving once, twice,
thrice with thoughts of family.

Lie down
on the stained futon in malaise,
with my thoughts
of my older brother
moved out. Starting
to print a few poems,
with void voices echoing
around the table covered with
worn-out newspapers and dusty books.

Seconds turn into minutes, then hours, and
days start to nullify here. Caught
in routine, with plagued tasks.
But maybe. maybe
it’s necessary,

to stare
at oneself in the mirror and
get dressed, just
 to sit with Toska.
the oncoming day.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

Hello, my name is Roland. This is The Joy of Painting.

It was like taking a plunge into ‘literary’ waters. I quickly fell into a deep depression losing all sense of my surroundings and found comfort in alcohol . Days were spent binged on anything accessible. At one point I even resorted to armed robbery of a 7-11 convenient store with my shitzoo dog named Dr.Goldberg JOO-stien to feed my habit. Sufficient to say I was living a feeble life. Things didn't go as planned and I cracked. I was a failure. The mental struggle had owned me and I was reduced to nothingness, now in an apartment complex somewhere down town, in and out of reality on the decayed sofa that was in the living room. I had just ordered a batch of pills from my dealer Sven of the East Side Dough Boys and eagerly waited. Remote in hand the channels flickered between one another when the room filled with the soft angelic voice of an angel. “Talk to the tree, make friends with it” said the afro’d man. His words pierced through me and had awoken me. I shuffled through the stack of paper and started writing. Once the show was over I gathered my belongings which consisted of ten sheets of writing, my lucky red yo-yo, a photo of me at burger king, and headed back to Kwantlen with a sense of achievement. From the sheets I created my first poem. P.S my friend Travis is a literary ‘God’.
Bob Ross in his natural habitat
The Joy of Painting

White Shells wrapped with stripes
     waiting, to see the day.
The paint brush releases,
     sweet dispositions
as beau blue drifts over the beach

He smiles at the camera, happily
praises the newbies. says
“Let’s paint,
                a cloud above the sea
whichever works with you”

as splashes of bright cerulean
touches the tips of tides and
showers the sands,
     shadowing over
the beach are hands of waves
waving back,
      happy accidents

Stay tuned for the next episode.