I had seen the previous versions of this video, but this one just makes me feel good. I feel good about the internet, humanity and the world. Makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. I have to say there really is something inherently special about dancing. It’s impressive what the human body can embody.
Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.
At the front door there is a small shelf-type-thing/leaning spot that is common in houses of this era. There was a planter in the top of it, but we removed that with the intention of covering over the hole. But that never happened. Instead, JD has found a new hang out. NO ELLY’S ALLOWED.
What an ambiguous title.
Well, all good writers will tell you that there are no rules for writers. Almost no rules. I mean, for the most part, there aren’t rarely any rules. Except don’t copy other writers, but even that’s up debate. Right? Translation is an art. Apparently. I’d probably respect it more if I knew another language well enough to translate anything, but since I don’t I can raise my nose in ignorance. That’s not the rule I’m talking about anyways.
There are no rules for writers. Sure, you should strive—perhaps if you are a prairie poet—to be extremely concrete. I don’t want to see the word abyss anywhere, especially if it uses some awful adjective. But there are no rules, except the one golden rule: You must read. This rule, by and large, is accepted by everyone. Except me.
I hate reading. It’s not that I hate reading. Reading is just the third thing I would like to do. First, I would like to be on my computer/internet. Second, I would like to watch TV. And for the record, just so that we all stay polite, Leah trumps all three (though I am sure she will have some comment about the first).
Rhett how did you get an English degree if you hate reading? Excellent question. I read Coles/Sparks notes. Or wrote down quotes, important pages, dog-eared and underlined pages. Took notes of plot-lines from the prof. Some times, I read the whole book. I wasn’t a great student. Delinquent, they say.
Other than being delinquent, I enjoyed the doing more than the consuming. And you might say that one has to do with the other. I am not sure. A large portion of my English classes were based around writing. Not just creatively, either.
But, these days I am a real writer. Or at least, I am being paid to write and edit. After not really writing (except blogging, etc) for a while, I needed to jump back in and quickly. And like all those conflicted with a certain delinquency, I started cramming. So I am reading again. Every night. Part of that has to do with the confidence I lost being laid off, but the bigger part of that is completely enjoying my job and want to be good at it. I want to be good at writing, so I am reading.
I know all you boomers and x’ers are rolling your eyes and saying just do it. But I am a Gen-Y’er. And I need to settle into everything. Re-learning how much I enjoy crafting words—even corporate ones—is such a joy. Now that I am reading and following all the rules of writing, I am settling into the definition of writer.
Currently, I am re-reading Green Grass, Running Water. Even though Thomas King was a jerk that one time I met him, I still love the way he tells stories. Hopefully, going forward, I will channel a little Coyote in my writing.
Photo by Jeremy Keith
This morning I went to work. Before I got to work, I had to drive there. Before I started driving, I turned on CBC Radio and listened to The Current.
This morning I tuned into a father talking about the loss of his son in Afghanistan. It was, to say the least, emotional. There I am slowing rolling down Southland Dr., trying my best not to break into tears, as a father reads a letter to his deceased son. He talks about the last walk and talk they had. His son spoke of his worries about combat, faith and his family. The father shares that last moment when his son is departing and they don’t want to break eye contact. The father is sorry for not saying more.
There’s a lump in my throat. Probably some combination of guilt, sadness, grief and a few other emotions. I am guilty because I am sitting there worried about whether or not the person next to me is going to think I’m totally crazy—sitting alone, crying in rush hour. And then it happens. They start to read the names of each of the 100 Canadian soldiers who died and their age. And all of a sudden 100 become incredibly important. How could anything else ever matter more?
I react very poorly to war, to death. I feel such grief and frustration. Powerlessness.
Maybe it’s fate that lead me to this song or Twitter. We may never know. But I do know that I just bought Mario Kart for the Wii and it’s pretty fun. And I’ve always been a huge fan of Mario Kart my whole life. It’s generally what keeps me buying Nintendos.
In any case, this is a great song. Beautifully sung. Nicely written. And makes me feel happy. Check out the Mario Kart Love Song:
