decimated by boredom,

depression,

wonder where the

'something more'

is.

Pearly gates not just out of reach,

but out of sight,

even out of mind,

for many.

A pressure dances across my forehead,

pounces around my numb ears,

and boots me in between the eyes.

There will be no relief for the saints

sinners

or the dead.

to learn, become, and make progress,

but also to dive into it,

and get inside.

Time is a fence,

set to keep the wolves away from

the precious sheep,

lovely, exquiste,

so tasty,

and wolves just want to get inside,

sink their teeth, tongue, fingers in,

and feast.

The blood frenzy comes at the first drop

that hits the naked tongue

and sets nature into fluid motion.

The wolf can not restrain,

and nor should it,

survival is for the fit,

and there are none fitter than

the patient, cunning wolf.

or even as bad

as it was in the real world.

The sex could be broken,

never happen,

or earth-shattering,

but none of that conveys itself

easily into words poems videos pictures images graphics sentences paragraphs papers essays spoke words or anything really,

there was nothing,

nothing that could justify it.

Often it came across neutral.

An act, a thing, an object.

Sex is more of an emotion,

and it isnt performance-based always,

that's no game sheet,

sometimes bad sex is still good,

and good sex is bad and vacant, void, emotionless, 

EMPTY,

that's the chaos of sex.

Sometimes sex drives all thoughts,

pushes all things,

is all thigs to everybody,

wants to be begged for and wants someone on their knees

gasping for SOMETHING to break the monotony;

life.

eyes glazed by vacant thoughts

distant memories that feel forced

by the devastation of loneliness.

The concept of love has broken

busted up,

an abandoned van in the middle

of a back-water, forgotten forest

rust bleeds and mixes with oils

gases, and old love once held

for a now desolate object.

A symposium of twisted thoughts

form an orchestra of chaos and pain,

as formidable as good intentions,

and desperate as drowned hope.

The bill is paid,

the laughs are had,

the cold night wraps itself

around my restaurant-warm face,

begging to be embraced just like the rest of us.

turns quickly to sinful pleasures

when angels are sinful.

And they are.

We are all of the image of an angel,

with the minds and ambition of sinners.

Remarkable potential for beauty and morals,

all shot through with revolvers forged of our hatred,

and spat on with acid that burns the soul and leave skin untouched.

The concept of good

is one of potential,

and never one of reality.

Intentions can not stand up

and be counted as actions are

and must bide them time in the cellars

of every lost thought and forgotten word,

the place of misfits, drowning sorrow and death,

Nowhere.

An ideal is not lost,

hope always exists,

even in the sewers

and backwaters

of a broken

moral

landscape.

The sin-ridden angels fly the highest

operating above the hypocrites and pathetic moralizers

who beg for somebody to admit what they feel

but could never say.

Their courage died,

or is being tapped out by their sense of moral righteousness,

reminiscent of a church build of gold asking for a donation from beggars.

Bizarre that a group of people with chairs so high,

see so little.

A discussion happens below,

among those labelled

murderers

beggars

thieves

cheats

liars.

The meaning of life is discovered,

the pursuit of enjoyment,

and Millian liberty for all.

There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.

The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,

when I begin my day or end it,

or anything else of significance for me.

I have become unbound,

and there’s no reason for it.

Surely, it has just happened,

as a blocked sink overflows,

a burning log smolders,

as an old man dies,

a baby is born;

progression.

Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,

and dense cloud cover,

as seagulls hover,

unconcerned.

A harbour city rocks awake,

machinery bangs and clunks,

predestined purpose drives,

the ideas became discussion became policy,

and a once-broken city for poor labourers,

is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.

Progression.

Update: 153 sick from 53 papers and CUP. Waiting on NAIT Nugget and The Other Press (12:01pm NST).

Update: 152 sick from 52 papers and CUP, waiting on stats from The Campus, NAIT Nugget and The Other Press. (5:51pm NST)

Update: 151 sick from 51 papers + CUP. Still waiting on four different papers’ sick numbers (NAIT Nugget, Argosy, The Campus, The Other Press). (3:56pm NST)

Update: 150 sick from 50 papers + CUP. Only five more papers to account for. (1:48pm NST)

Update: 147 sick from 46 papers + CUP. (4:00pm NST)

Update: 140 sick from 46 papers + CUP. Just waiting on a few papers still… (1:24pm NST)

Update: 139 sick from 46 papers + CUP staff. Waiting on eight papers only! (4:18am NST)

Update: 138 sick from 43 papers, plus CUP staff. Number is getting massive, and still waiting on eleven papers for numbers. (10:05pm NST)

Update: 114 sick from 38 papers. (1:23pm NST)

Update: 109 sick from 36 papers and CUP staff. I have now contacted every paper and am awaiting responses, the papers that don’t respond in a few days I will call again. If any of you know the papers mentioned, please contact them also and get them to contact me please. Thanks everyone for the help! (8:08am NST)

Update: 101 sick, from 35 papers, including the CUP staff. Still waiting on many papers, the ones with “…” are still not accounted for, and the “x” beside it means i’ve contacted them and am waiting. The rest I am contacting this morning still. Cheers for all the support and patience. Keep it going! (4:47 am NST)

Update: I got rid of some duplicates in my numbers, and have now added every paper that attended the conference, thanks to @godmere (Emma Godmere) for the official paper list. The papers followed by “….” are the ones I don’t yet have any stats for. (2:54 am NST) 84 sick, 33 papers

Here are my current numbers, I will provide updates as consistenly as I can. I’m still trying to track down about 20 papers. That being said, the original estimate I had of 100 students, which seemed incredible at the time, seems like it was underestimated! Stay tuned.
aquinian 7 sick 3 healthy
argosy 1 sick 2 healthy
argus 1 sick 2 health
athenaeum 1 healthy
baron 1 sick
BCIT Link 1 sick
brock press 1 sick 1 healthy
brunswickian 1 sick, 8 healthy
campus 1 sick, 2 healthy
caper times 1 sick, 1 healthy
capilano courier 9 sick, 6 healthy
Carillon 2 sick, 5 healthy
cascade 3 sick 12 healthy
concordian all healthy
cord 13 sick, 10 healthy
crown 1 sick
excalibur 1 sick
eye opener 1 sick
fulcrum 12 sick, 12 healthy
gateway 4 sick, 10 healthy
gauntlet 5 sick, others healthy
gradzette 1 healthy
griff 4 healthy
imprint 3 sick, 7 healthy
interrobang 2 sick 0 healthy
lambda 2 healthy
lance 2 sick 1 healthy
le collectif 4 sick, 1 healthy
le delit 2 sick
link 4 sick, 4 healthy
macmedia 1 sick
manitoban 2 sick, 5 healthy
martlet 6 sick
mcgill daily 2 sick, 2 healthy
meliorist 6 healthy
mike 1 sick
muse 5 sick, 1 healthy
nait nugget ….. x
navigator 2 sick, 1 healthy
nexus 2 sick, 6 healthy
omega 2 sick, 6 healthy
other press 3 sick
overtheedge 2 sick 3 healthy
peak 6 sick, 10 healthy
phoenix news 4 sick, 6 healthy
quill 1 healthy
runner 7 sick 2 healthy
ryerson free press 1 sick 1 healthy
sheaf 7 sick, 5 healthy
silhouette 4 sick 3 healthy
sputnik 1 sick 1 healthy
strand 2 sick 1 healthy
ubyssey 7 sick
weal one sick
xaverian 2 healthy

54 papers accounted for 149 sick
cup 7 sick out of 14

than in the everyday loving,

A diasporic feeling in ways,

looking for what was felt then,

as opposed to the complacency of now.

Now strives to be the fullest,

stumbles,

crawls into ditches.

Then has become something to write epics about,

a moment of over-glorification turned legendary,

hype with a foundation of sand and occasionally,

bones.

The euphoria of a lost moment is just

a shallow utopia of my own creation.

These are the sort of stories we need more of in journalism, and not jut with sports. Last night I had a great conversation with a man who had 17 years of journalism experience before stepping away from the field. He now works as an independent film-maker and makes corporate communication pieces. He enjoys making documentaries, because he gets to dive into a story and swim around awhile. He can wade around the water, dive to the bottom of the pool, or try and climb out wherever he would like.

Story-tellers need the space to tell the story fully and in their own way. Modern-day journalism focuses on quick hits, and hour-by-hour updates, as opposed to the whopping features and deep-digging stories of old. Some people say the audience has changed, and they no longer read the lengthy features. Some say the industry no longer funds journalists to write long stories. I believe complacency plays a role as well. I’ve seen a lot of journalists who are willing to call it in from the office, or get their quick story and get out. I’ve even heard ghastly rumours of template-using sports reporter.

In truth, there is a combination of things. Morale among journalists is low, funding is brutal, and maybe the audience has become less interested. There is no easy solution, but this is a plea for more consistent effort from all my colleagues in sport writing. Keep writing, and I’ll keep reading ladies and gentlemen.

While the word has always been something I have used in an endearing, affectionate manner, it is not often regarded as such by people hailing from Newfoundland. It isn’t akin to violently-offensive racist descriptions, but it also isn’t welcome. A solid post about the term can be found by Candice, a native Newfoundlander, over at Candice Does the World, so I won’t rant too much about the topic.

Now that we have taken care of that thought-progression, let’s get to the meat of this post – my experiences living in Newfoundland.

To begin, I will establish a timeline.

I moved here to attend MUN’s Humanities program – which drew me in from Sudbury, Ontario – on August 30. 2011. I viewed and selected a condo on September 1, 2001 with my love, Melanie Langlais. Notice the word ‘condo,’ which begs the question of how I am living in a condo as a student.

In terms of work, I accepted the job of Sports Editor with The Muse in the latter stages of the summer. I picked up a second job as a Graduate Assistant for my program shortly after arriving. I kept freelancing for my old paper, The Lambda. I took on a new job as a freelance writer for the Canadian Press covering the St. John’s IceCaps (see an example of that here), which is an entire-season contract, similar to my work for them last year as the Sudbury Wolves’ reporter. Today, I accepted another position that I can not announce yet, but it involves sports writing as well.

So I’m working something like five jobs, although an exact number gets a bit hazy when it comes to freelancing. I manage this along with being a full-time grad student. In a simple statement; I’ve been busy. I have also been saner and more-organized in the past, but some things must be sacrificed in the name of productivity.

I have found the amount of help given to me by certain individuals has been helpful for me, professionally and socially. On a professional level, I would like to thank Neil Davidson of CP, Dr. Jennifer Dyer from MUN’s Humanities program, and Shayne Menecola of MUN’s varsity athletics. Socially, I would like to thank the staff at The Muse, particularly Jessie Small, Marie King, Tim O’Brien and Paul Hussey, who I have become fast friends with. I would like to thank MUN soccer coach Scott Betts, who was the first person I met with upon arrival, and who has provided great conversation about the beautiful game and life. I would like to send a special thanks to my fellow IceCaps reporters, who have made the  job more enjoyable, and especially humorous. I would also like to thank Mike Rossiter of CBC who has been great to talk shop, and life, with.

A careful combination of professional and social life has led to a happy and productive life so far on the Eastern shores of Canada. I have now been here for close to three months, and although I am excited to return home to visit with my family and friends, St. John’s does feel like home  for me.