Hmm, where to begin. At the beginning, I suppose, wherever THAT is.

Well, first off, I should let you all know that I am feeling a lot better than I was yesterday. I just have to dump out all those negative emotions sometimes, and this blog is the organ I have developed for that.

So thank you all for touching my organ. I really mean it.

There was bound to be a fair bit of turbulence unleashed by lowering my Paxil dose, going to a convention, getting behind on sleep, and all that razzmatazz.

And I might not be all the way through the woods yet. But I have confidence that I will make it to happy little village of the New Normal and then take a break on my journey until the wanderlust stirs the embers of my soul once more and it is time to get back on the road and travel anew.

Gosh, I use words all pretty like.

In less local news, all of Canada is in mourning for a true Canadian legend, Stompin’ Tom Connors, who wrote songs about this great nation back when we had no appetite for them, and just kept on traveling around Canada leaving songs behind like a musical Johnny Appleseed, winning people over village by village, tavern by tavern, until we finally grew up enough to appreciate him.

His song are simple, heartfelt, and capture the spirit of the nation from the points of view of all the places he traveled in this great wide deep land of ours. He believed in Canada more than Canadians did, and gave us a vision of ourselves where we mattered just as much as our noisy neighbors to the South.

To me, that is a true testament to the power of art to transform a society. We Canadians have a hard time defining ourselves as a people, and the best Canadian art holds up a mirror to our unique culture and gives us a better sense of ourselves.

This, Stompin’ Tom did. I will confess, I was never a big fan. Partly that is simply because I have never been much into country and western music. And partly it is because of this song right here.

Growing up on Prince Edward Island, I was subjected to that song fairly often at this and that event, and even had to gaze upon some poor Islander dressed up as the titular Bud.

(Imagine how you would feel about your life trajectory after finding yourself step-dancing (think tapdancing but whiter) in a giant smiling potato costume. ) (Sorry Wayne. )

And let’s just say that the song did not exactly fill me with pride about my place of birth. I can only assume that I felt about that song the way Australians feel about Waltzing Matilda. To be brutally honest, when I heard it, I tended to wince and want to hide from shame.

But now I listen to it as a more mature adult, who incidentally has not lived on the Island for well over a decade, and now it seems pleasant enough.

Dorky, but pleasant.

Plus, it is probably the most famous song in existence that actually mentions my home town of Summerside, Prince Edward Island, where I was born and raised and lived probably seventy percent of my life.

I do not think about where I come from much, but it’s undoubtedly an enormous part of me and you cannot cut yourself off from where you are from without cutting off a part of yourself.

And I do miss my home town sometimes, which is probably why I often go there in my dreams. I know its streets well, and I miss all the family I have there.

So thank you, Tom, for taking where I come from seriously enough to write a silly little song about it and give us something of our own.

What else. Well, it’s gonna be a cheap couple of weeks. I got $100 to see me till the 20th, and that is not a lot of dough, brother.

Just enough for Denny’s and my usual snacks and pop. Oh well, there is always a financial refractory period after a convention, especially for the likes of me, clinging as I do to the boot-heel of society.

I should really do something about my low financial status. I could at least try to get on the higher level of disability, which would help huge. About $200/month more, access to a yearly bus pass, and access to greater educational opportunities.

So why don’t I do it? Laziness, inertia, lack of focus, lack of drive, timidity. It all amounts to the same thing, a tendency to hold back from life and cling to my dirty little perch like a bird that is afraid of flying.

But every day I get a little better, even if now and then it does not feel that way. Sometimes it feels like I never get anywhere in life, just keeping pacing the yard in the same slow sad circles.

Luckily, deep down, I know better. I know that the upward spiral can fool you into thinking you are going in circles, but you are really going ever upward.

Maybe not in a straight line, but since when have I done anything straight? I was born bent. Everything I do is crooked and dented and perpendicular and sideways and wrong.

Yet somehow, I muddle through. Life goes on. The river flows ever onward, and yet, the river also remains.

And somehow, day after day, I am still here. I keep going on and remaining too. I have faith that I will unlock myself one day and move out of my shallow little life into the bigger, broader world.

And once I am out there, I will do my best to catch up on all the life experiences that have been denied me by the cruel embrace of mental illness.

I swear, give me just a minimum wage level of income, and I will show the world some serious shit.