andyveilleux

This song

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Of all the things you pushed on me,
I understood it the least.
I did not have the capability to learn it
Nor you to teach it,
And nothing more must be said of us.
A amethyst on our once-collective mantle
where the fireplace has long ceased to be alive
An oold apartment,
Musty
Sleazy
In the heart of the old world in Sudbury
Is now abandoned of the emotion that once exploded it to so many lives and demises that any sort of count is impossible.

Hollow ppl may reside there with our skeletons
They are puppets in comparison.

Pant hangs onto the walls,
Although for dear life,
From the wars we waged,
With each other, the outside world,
And inside.

There’s a love laid to rest in that casket that has halved my being,
And crippled you.

A puppet walks on,
Clunky and awkward as puppets do,
And the old ghosts stalking are left feeling pity in place of anger.

the pressure of boredom

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Thinkers, 

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.

A discussion under angels

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A meeting of angels

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.

Progression

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Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.

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.

Finding my way as a Newfoundlander

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Many Canadians will read the headline for this post, and instantly think of that six-letter word – newfie – which I have intentionally left out in favour of the politically-correct term.

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.

Luke I am your

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Father,
I’ve become so much like you.
Up at 4:20 AM
making bologna sandwiches.
Where did all the time go?
Sitting around in my joggers and wool socks,
wondering where all my sleep goes,
when I am not partaking in it.
Just a few months ago we were together,
and now all I get is your voice
but I can still see your smile
on the other end,
when I hear
pride in your voice.
At the end of the day,
that’s one of the only things that matters to me.
I remember being young and saying
I would never be like you,
the thought of it was appalling.
Now It’s a badge of honour.
I love you dad,
and you always did right by me,
even when you were wrong.

The blues

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It was the night that forced me to write. I had to write, or there would be nothing after.

There is a weight, an entity, an anchor, pulling part of my soul down.

Every night without words causes the tumour to sink deeper, and corrupt more.

Is this an escape, a temporary reprieve or just a useless feel-good exercise.

Is something that makes you feel good a useless exercise?

Insignificant musing.

The wind whistles into, and out of, the decrepit apartment windows, begging for a proper entrance, or for total submission.

Brick, steel, and decades of existence don't bow down so easily.

Strange mechanical noises outside, first thought to be ladders on a parked trailer, and have now become whatever nightmare my sleep-deprived, horror-accustomed mind can imagine.

An all-consuming, fluorescent, white glow blocks everything in the room behind the screen.

The room is 81 per cent darkness.

What skeletons can dance in so much darkness?

There are also ghosts, and they whisper memories best left forgotten. I feel them crawling up my legs in the dark, edging up to the white light, but never entering into view.

They wait to scream out, and startle me. I could only be so lucky.

Forever they remain nameless. Forever they smile outside my vision.

Forever they know everything I do not.

 

You didn't notice. Sleep is your natural state. Envy fills me, as dreams are my favourite place. The only place that makes sense to me. The only place where existence is fair.

Fairness is subjective, like justice, but I trust my shadow's judgement enough to lose myself there.

Those are the lucky moments. It is more common to not remember my journeys there, and maybe that is for the best.

Imagine waking up from paradise every day, and coming back here.

Perpetual disappointment.

The radiator clicks.

I couldn't buy sleep tonight, not in a bottle of pills, a bottle of whiskey, or a bottle of self-loathing.

I guess that's why they call it the blues.

 

Written February 21

A simple definition for the ever-burning question of love

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Something stagnant,

 but comfortable,

and safe.

 

Something taken for granted,

chokes and fails,

giving way to,

nothing of value.

 

Something appreciated and nourished,

gets back up,

with every fall,

and won't die.

 

Boredom battling,

against an ideal of novelty,

scarcely acknowledged,

never understood.

 

Take it from a man,

who has survived many trenches,

nothing comes easy,

but something breaks easy.

 

Progress is possible

resistance is not futile.

Social Nation: A great overview of the philosophy behind social media

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Barry Libert's Social Nation: How to Harness the Power of Social Media to Attract Customers, Motivate Employees, and Grow your Business is not your typical social media book. In fact, it read more like a philosophy book. And no, not an Immanuel Kant or Friedrich Nietzsche sleeper, but more of a general A.C. Grayling piece of work. That means the book deals with complex ideas in simplistic terms that every-day people can understand. In comparison with many of the other social media books and articles I've laboured through, the book is mush easier to get through.

The book is a short one in comparison with most business books, but that doe snot mean it suffers for it with a lack of depth. The books comes across as a well-thought-out series of ideas brought together in a loose narrative. The voice of the author is alive and well in the book, which is something most business books don't usually offer. That being said, this book should not be approached as a one-stop-shop for how to move your business into social media, or an expert's guide to social media. The book should be read as a good entry level work about social media, a good touch-up for social media advocates/experts, or to understand the philosophy and some of the bigger ideas with social media as a whole.

The book also has a few unique features worth mentioning. The book, and the online accompanying website, have a social media test to help you gauge your understanding of social media. This is a good test for beginners right through to experts to make sure your social media ego matches the reality of your skills. The book also discusses 10 major pitfalls companies and people fall into when trying to create their own “social nation.” The more important pitfalls mentioned include: Running a social nation like a traditional business, under-investing in social initiatives and giving up on them too soon, neglecting inspiring and motivating your followers, underestimating the power of your social nation, not relying on partners, and trying to develop your own social software and analytics when there are easy-to-use ones already developed to suit your needs.

The book relies on some quotes taken from some famous, and no so famous, individuals. In truth, one quote, by Thomas Watson, sums up the main message of the book: “To be successful, have your heart in your business and your business in your heart.”

on human coldness (unfinished)

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There is no sunset to ride into at the end of life. A sunset is followed by the frozen night, until the day breaks, temporarily. The frozen night returns, always. It is unwavering. The sun fights a constant battle to try and warm the earth, and sustain life. We live, warm, until we die, cold. Even the sun runs on a finite cycle. It's going to work until it can't anymore, and that's the end of life.
 
Don't worry, our lives are much shorter than that cycle. 'But why all the good news?' some may ask. Simple. There's a sickness in my stomach today, that needs to be spit out.