Have you ever found a secret treasure? I mean, a real, secret, surprising kind of treasure? What about one that was meant specifically for you?

That's how I felt today when I was organizing my condo, but this is more than just stumbling over some old picture that makes you smile. I was stripping all the paper inserts out of my CD cases-- the CDs are in two huge leather cases, and the cases are just taking up space in a box-- so that I could reuse them at school to store other CDs.

I found a mixed CD that had been made for me by an old lover and friend; the front insert was a photo of a strawberry shake, and the the back cover was a photo of a piece of cheesecake. She had written the song titles along the border of the cheesecake photo.
She had a fantastic taste in music. She was clever, and calm, and reasonable, and cute. She was challenging and open to debate. And for some reason, possibly the distance, as she lived very far away, we never really pursued our connection.

Anyway, back in the present, I pried the inside plastic CD mount away from the back piece, so that I could get out the cheesecake photo and be left with a clear, empty, reusable CD case.

Out fell two small pieces of magazine paper: recipes for the strawberry smoothie and triple citrus cheesecake pictured on the covers.

I blinked in disbelief. This was the kind of romantic, humble detail that was entirely her style. Something that may never be found, but was worth doing because it was cool in and of itself. The kind of thought and action that is missing entirely from the way we are with each other; the way we speak, the way we teach, the way we give, and the way we love.

Or maybe I'm only talking about myself.

So a message to that wonderful woman: if you're reading this, thank you, again. You're amazing.

I have always had a problem with the non-violence advocates who say that no violence is good violence. A recent article in Esquire magazine speaks to my argument, that small, controlled bursts of violence can be good, not only to keep your stress level down, but also to make the average jerk think twice about expressing his inner jerkness.

In fact, I believe that by vilifying all forms of physical violence, we stunt our human expression (especially in boys!), and force people to resort, often unconsciously, to emotional and mental abuse. The overall result? A generation of people who misunderstand the nature of violence so profoundly, that a simple fist-fight can often degrade into a mob kicking the fallen and unconscious defeated combatant. A generation of parents so brainwashed against violence that their discipline techniques often devolve to passive-aggressiveness, emotional blackmail, verbal abuse, and then ultimately, uncontrolled physical violence followed by shame and abject apology. What do you think confuses a kid more-- a warning followed up with a quick smack on the ass, or a long, drawn-out series of negotiations, ending with a weeping parent?

Violent and verbal intervention are two sides of the same coin, and by failing to educate our kids about how to use both, we are leaving them unprepared for life outside the warm fuzzy nest of their family home. I would argue that creating a society of citizens unable to use (and defuse) violence appropriately is partly responsible for everything from the zombie-like interpersonal interaction that pervades most big cities, to the increasing severity of the conflicts in public places like schools and malls.

What's the solution? I'd like to see every child get mandatory martial arts training in elementary school. When children experience the physical and emotional feeling of violence, they will understand when it is appropriate to resort to it. When they see respect for an opponent modelled by an instructor, they will understand the boundaries of conflict and know when to end an act of violence. And when everyone understands that violence is something with a practical value, perhaps its glorification embodied in things like Grand Theft Auto and UFC brawling will be less attractive to our culture.

Obsessive-compulsives and Type-A freaks unite! Using a combination of geeky iTunes techniques and a dedication to only acquire music legally,
I have finally assigned a ranking from one to five stars for every single track in my collection. 5120 songs. Yep. All done.

Why would I do such a silly thing, you ask? Well, like many of you, I started collecting music when you had to buy the whole CD. So when I ripped them to my computer, I ended up with a lot of crap songs that the record companies required of the bands in order to fulfill their 10-song per album contract obligation. I don't like listening to crap songs, and I don't like having to carry a remote around with me to skip over these crap songs. By giving every song a rating, I can create a smart playlist that only plays the songs that have a high rating, which means that every time a new song plays, I go, "man, I love this song!"

It's like my own personal JACK FM, but without the useless DJs and advertisements.

The only problem is that I started this process back when I thought the world was a much more static place. It's taken me literally years to get my catalog rated,
and songs I rated highly in 2001 are no longer my favourites. Seems this will be more of a "journey" than a "destination" kind of thing.

Speaking of "Journey," there are four of their songs in my list. Don't stop believin'.

It's been over a year, but I finally cranked out another poem. It's been a while in the making, and I still don't know if it's just right, but nothing much ever is.

It's called Correlations.

Ten years ago, my friend Alan gave me a journal. I have never liked the idea of journals, but the strange thing is that when I make myself write in them, I enjoy it. I think my problem is that I just don't like the idea of having to write in them.
In the years since, I've received many journals from people who want to encourage my writing
and I've written bits and pieces in all of them. Today, cleaning my condo and moving stuff back and forth from my storage room, I found these journals and poked through them.

This entry from February 24th, 1997, made me stop and stare at the page:

I miss writing very much but I worry that as each day passes I tend to worry more about money and less about destiny.

My father once said that if you wanted to take a risk with your life, there was no better place to do it than Canada, and I think he's right. But this is a hard thing to consider when you've just signed up for decades of mortgage payments and become accustomed to a life of steak and chocolate.
Do I pick up and move to a small town where I can rent for a year for less than my mortgage payments in Calgary? Sell everything but my Mac and my guitar? After all, one look at my condo almost a year after I moved in will tell you that I'm not much of a homemaker.

This would be easier if I felt like I knew what I was supposed to write.