Bad Puns: Setting Sail on the Ownership

It’s hot—not sauna hot but boiler-on-the-fritz hot—and I’m peeling dried latex paint off my fingertips. Maybe it’s because it feels so much like peeling dried glue off my fingers in Kindergarten, maybe it’s because I’m stalled, but I’ve got the distinct feeling I haven’t gotten very far in the last twenty-three years or so.
The cigarette I borrowed from Andy dangles from my lip—more because of the saliva-paste than any actual effort on my part. I refuse to touch my sandwich until I’m certain there’s no wet paint on my hands.
This is how I know I’ve only been back at work for a few days. In a month I won’t care what’s on my hands, I’ll just eat my fucking lunch. Conscientiousness is always the first thing to go.
I’m sitting in the van. If you look behind me you’ll see the wreckage of my occupation: soiled drop sheets bundled rather than folded, spattered roller cages and empty cans, used up rags—it’s all standard faire in the van of a contract painter.
Finally convinced that my fingers are relatively clean I extract my soggy sandwich from the Save-On bag. What we have here is roast beef, cheddar and spinach pressed between two slightly stale slices of whole wheat. It’s not appetizing, but it’s what’s available.
I take a big bite—I figure if I can get through the sandwich in seven-or-so bites I’ll be done before I decide it’s inedible.
This time last week I was eating spaghetti, prepared in the Tuscan tradition. This time last week I was taking a break from writing. This time last week I was probably happier.
But today I’m going to tell myself that this is the better thing to do.
This work is more important.
I’m going to tell myself that I’m not miserable.

Once I’ve finished the sandwich I steal another one of Andy’s smokes. As I puff away at it Andy joins me in the van. He starts in on his sandwich—whole wheat, roast beef and spinach—before he says anything. When he does speak he says, “I think we should be able to knock this house off tomorrow.”
I don’t say anything. What’s there to say?
“After lunch,” he continues, “I’m going to run to the paint store, I need some Penetrol to thin out the oil paint I’m using on the doors. I want you to just continue with what you’re doing—cut-in the living room and roll it out. If you finish that before I get back move on into the hallway, through there and into the den. You know the drill.”
I ought to, I’ve first-coated it all. I’m on the second coat. I really don’t understand why he’s telling me this.

Back in the house, Andy’s left for the paint store, I turn the radio back on to CBC. I grab the cut-can, the roller and tray and my paintbrush and head up the ladder to cut-in around the ceiling.
This colour—this pale pink that I’m privately calling dead-baby—is actually sold under the name “Spanish White.”
In a daze I drag my brush along the wall. In a daze I dip my brush in the can. In a daze I move my ladder five feet to the right. In a daze I repeat ad nauseum.
I’m going to tell myself that this is a good thing I’m doing. I’m going to tell myself that this is right. I’m going to tell myself that it’s not so bad. I’m going to tell myself that it’s only for a little while.
And if one of the things I’m telling myself turns out to be true then I’ll tell myself it’s okay to lie if it keeps you alive. Keeps you sane. Pays the bills.


Okay, so, I’m back to work after a long lay-off. If that piece bored or depressed you then I did my job as a writer—I made you feel what I feel in doing the job. It’s shit work and I think the most important lesson I’ve taken away from doing it is that I should have gone to University.
It’s true, I regret the path I chose after high school. I used to refuse having regrets. I owned that tired old saw: “What I’ve done has made me who I am and I love who I am so how could I regret anything?”
That, by the way, is bullshit and I wish everyone would quit copping to it. If you’re over eighteen years old and you’re still bullshitting yourself and everyone around you just give it up. It’s really quite liberating to look in the mirror and say, “I made mistakes that I would gladly take back if I could.”
So the new plan is to go back to school. University this time, not college. I’m going to get my Bachelor’s (at least) in journalism. Unless I can cheat my way past the Bachelor’s to a Master’s as a mature student, in which case it’s MFA all the way.
Because I can keep telling myself whatever I want to. But sooner or later I’m going to have to own up to the life I’ve chosen and I think I’d like to choose a different one while I’m still young enough to do so.

So I guess the big thing I want to say here is that updates in this blog (which are already few) are probably going to be even fewer for a while until I get the hang of working again. Sooner or later I’ll be able to do both (write and work, that is) but for now it’s either or.
Don’t give up on me. There’ll be more.

There’s no certainty in philosophical circles that we actually have freewill. The fatalists and some more adamant determinists make strong points to suggest that we really are bound completely by our genetics and our environment to make certain choices and walk down certain paths.
Even I find myself thinking that whatever freewill we have may not be complete—though I held on desperately to the concept of total freedom throughout my youth.
So maybe, just maybe, you are fated to take your own life. I don’t like it, but if I’m to be honest I have to admit that it’s a possibility.
But perhaps there are a few moments where your will is free. Just a split second of inaction where you could go either way. If this is the case, an interstices where you have the power to make a real choice is something that should be taken seriously.
The fifth rule in the Thinking Person’s Guide to Suicide runs thusly:
Whether or not your will is free it seems unfair to blame others for the decisions you’ve made. If your life hasn’t turned out the way you want it to I feel for you. But don’t assign blame. If you’re going to check out, in that last moment, take ownership over your life. Remember: you are killing yourself.