InValids

In 1997 the movie Gattaca was released. It was the story of two classes of people: those with genetic enhancements and those without. The term for the superior class was Valid while those of natural birth were In-Valids, as in non-valids.

I loved the play on words that was used because the genetically modified class saw the others as below them, not worthy of the equal chances, freedoms, and rights.


I was born a straight white Male into Canada which made me privileged but I was too young in 1997 to understand that fact. Today, 21 years later I have come out as atheist, enough for half the population to see me as less than they. I have also been open about my mental and physical challenges, as my body and mind fight against my wellness. Without even knowing it, at first, I had become marginalized.


I was in-valid.


I live on the love of my mother and assistance from the government. I am now, in actuality, an invalid, no longer able to care for myself. I see so many attempts at positive messages here daily and I try to believe them but whenever I close my eyes I see this image from the movie and find it difficult to escape the fact that they just don’t apply to me.

On courage and love of ones self

All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing.

Ernest Hemingway in “Midnight in Paris”





I just purchased a new laptop. It is not a beast of power nor is it a weakling but it will suffice to replace my dying computer which I have had for around seven years. It is on this new tech that I will be trying to begin writing once again. I’m hoping to steal a little creativity from the novelty of having something new, like a child on Christmas morning playing with his new fire engine before it gets thrown into the heap in his closet.




I’m cracking out the old tricks, since my one trick of simply going to a coffee shop to write is unavailable to me at the moment. The coffee I can produce and is tasting fine. I have downloaded Spotify and the sounds of movie, TV and video game soundtracks are coming through my earbuds, instrumental pieces of creativity once again useful to inspire me.




Last night I began the last of my preparation; watching old and favourite films of mine, ones where the dialogue flows like lava, smoothly and free but burning everything it touches. I am a fan of film but more than that I am a lover of clever dialogue. I find myself pulled to the works of Mamet, Sorkin, Hartley, Lynch and, despite his less than moral standing in the world, Woody Allen. Last night I pulled out one of my favourites and indulged in a little Midnight in Paris.




Allen does an amazing job of uniquely voicing each of the characters, especially the albeit fictitious ones of the historical figures he brought back to life. The film, like most of Allen’s work, is about love but that is only the surface layer. It is really about the fear to accept one’s reality, constantly hoping for it to be something better than what it is, in many cases something from the past. There’s nothing wrong with the remembrance and even reverence of the past so long as it doesn’t interfere with one’s ability to embrace the reality of what is around them and make the best of an often not so perfect situation.




And that is likely why the film speaks to me so strongly as my depression often anchors my mind in what once was rather than what is around me. My friendships are mostly shallow, remembrances of events long past even when I am in the same room with the person and I am given the chance to create new memories. I am searching for a replay of what once was good in my life or I look to replace the seemingly unacceptable present with that of the past, whether I was a part of that past or not. Twenty years ago when the swing dance scene erupted, my friend and I threw ourselves into it and found what we thought at the time to be kindred spirits. Sadly, time showed me that the others were embracing the enjoyment of dancing and living in a recreated version of an old reality while I was actually hoping that those old times were going to be recreated once again. That time came and went, leaving me in the literal burned down remnants of my favorite bar in downtown Vancouver. My friend and the other dancers moved on while I continued to remain within and hold on desperately to a reality which no longer existed.




Those few months were as close to loving myself as I ever got. I certainly didn’t love myself in my school days, where being a nerd and a geek got me beat up on a regular basis. In those days, I had to create a level of reality, of arrogance that I was better than those who judged me, that they were merely the unintelligent underlings of whom I was forced to abide until the years of high school were over. I came across as arrogant and superior to those around me. I can’t say I blame people for thinking that. I worked hard at it but I had to because I knew deep down that I hated who I was.




I don’t use the word hate lightly. I wasn’t aware that’s how I felt about myself but looking back it’s the only thing that makes sense. Those days formed the basis of many of the self beliefs which inform my opinion of myself to this day. I was sure of many things which led me to that conclusion. Like the time that a girl I met through friends was throwing herself at me, to the point of giving me a picture of her with her phone number in the back but not Only did I never call her, I never even entertained the thought of calling her. I was so convinced that no one could be romantically interested in me that the thought never crossed my mind. I hated myself so much that the thought of another person loving me back was a completely foreign idea, and this is a thought which twenty five years later still purveys my deepest beliefs about myself. I simply don’t believe that I can be loved, not by another nor myself.




I look back at my life and see how different it would have been had I had the belief of being lovable. I would have trusted people far more often rather than always wondering what their reasoning for being nice to me was. I could have had the chance to do something more with my life than waste it working in restaurants as I am certainly intelligent enough to have taken a serious crack at anything I set my mind to. I just never believed that I could, or deserved to have the things which bring joy to others.




And this is why the quote from the movie moves me so much, for while Hemingway was referring to the love of another person, with me it refers to myself. How much courage could I have had if I’d had just one epiphany when I was younger that I deserved to be loved by myself. I could have called that girl who gave me her number rather than putting it aside as a keepsake. I could have believed that I deserved to go to college. I could have allowed myself to truly understand that the love of my life didn't move away to get away from me and that it truly was just a job she was forced to take.




And I could be sitting here describing how the courage I had to push past my doubts and fears to find a life which was truly fulfilling rather than this near pointless day to day existence I am forced to endure day after day.

10:35 at night, David Mamet and an in demand liquor store

May 9, 2020
10:35pm
On the condo porch




We’re in the middle of a mini heatwave here while California and New York are having snowstorms in the midst of May. The clouds are rolling in just enough to obscure the stars and keep me from truly enjoying the night sky. I have the David Mamet film “State and Main” playing on the screen, desperate for some inspiration to flow through my fingers.




I haven’t written anything in nearly two months and haven’t posted to my blog since the middle of February. I’m not sure if that’s me neglecting the blog or if it means I’m neglecting a piece of myself. I don’t really see my blog as an extension of myself but I do know that if I don’t express myself somehow it builds up and I get emotionally blocked.




(two raccoons just walked down the fenceline, one after the other, skulking along)




Sarah Jessica Parker is talking about how a particular scene wirtten for the film inside the film is the reason she chose to take the part. Her need to fulfill that need within is how I’m feeling right now.




(cars are coming and going as fast as possible into and out of the parkling lot, desperate to catch the liquor store before it closes for the night.)




I’m not really sure that it matters what it is that I write but at the very least, getting to put something on a hard drive and put it out for my one or two readers is as close as I can get to therapy in this time of pandemic and social isolation.




(why do people seem to think that this minimal amount of traffic is an excuse to speed down the road far above the the speed limit)




I can’t afford any one on one therapy, even if it’s online, not that I have the privacy needed for such things here, and group therapy is obviously cancelled. I have to talk with someone, anyone who might understand what it is that I’m going through. It isn’t that I feel lost and alone.




It’s that I am lost and alone and yet due to living with my mother I can’t even be alone in my solitude.




(pine cones are falling sporadically from the trees beside me, hitting branches on their way down)




David Mamet really is the king of foreshadowing. He drops it in little hints and never hits you over the head with them. Yet each flows and sets up the next scene, the next piece of action or conflict. If you’ve never seen “State and Main” I can recommend it, especially if you are a fan of how films are built from the ground up.




This blog post is pointless. I’m just trying to survive and I hope this helps.




(the liquor store has been closed for over a half an hour and people are still pulling up to it, swearing when they realize they are out of luck.)