Sunday Drivin'

We veer left off the number 10 highway somewhere west of Balcarres; we head south. The paved road did not take long to transform into a dirty, dusty back road. An upcoming junction in the dust indicates a decision had to be made, and it was. Had we not gone east we would have drove to the Motherwell Heritage site: a stone house and farming property that has become an important piece of the Canadian historical puzzle for reasons beyond my understanding and knowledge, despite having gone there on a field trip in Mrs. Edwards’ grade four class over a decade ago. But there was no time for Motherwell, not today – that’s for sure. After one more turn, we head south once again.

Dusk grasps onto the hills of the surrounding valleys for as long as its grip could hold – 20 minutes, maybe. We pick up speed and kick up dirt seeming reluctantly certain that we are going the right direction. Guided by our faith and a dirt road, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of the red 2008 Impala slows as the trail dives and twists downwards. I slip ‘er into third . . . “Whoops! That’s neutral . . . There we go.” I slip ‘er into third.

Anybody who says South Saskatchewan has got nothing to see hasn’t driven through the grid road valleys on the cusp of clear and colourful sunset. Orange, amber and if your lucky, even purple; colours so brilliant that the greatest poet would not dare to rhyme them. The scenery is vivid; I continually remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. We carry on through the dips and dust, trusting whatever direction the road steers us.

Finally, the dirt trail straightens for the time being. Confident and calm from the soothing sunset’s subtle withdrawal only minutes ago, our speed increases. On either side of the road we can see hidden farm houses through the tall trunks of their matured shelterbelts.

“WHOA!” Out of the trees dashes a big brown animal! I jerk the steering wheel left but fear it’s too late. We’re going to smash into it. Will we be okay? Will the car be okay? I accept that I am about to kill some kind of wild beast with big shoulders. There is going to be damage to the car. These thoughts and more circulate through my brain within the fraction of a second it took for this drama to unfold. It's a dog; a Rottweiler. We pass by without hitting it, but the swerve at high speeds on loose gravel and the shock induced screams from the two of us were humbling to say the least. The fear and panic of this heart-stopping moment spawns laughter. The near death experience suddenly becomes uncontrollably hysterical. Our laughter intensifies.

This triggers a flashback for Jody, my beautiful wife, passenger and part time navigator to my right. Suddenly she remembers that road. She remembers that farm house, she even remembers that dog. For her it’s like déjà vu. Apparently, the dog is so familiar with his driveway that he can run full speed towards the road and stop on a dime without actually being in the way of traffic. I am telling you, it was inches from the car before it stopped.

Even more determined than before to find our way, we continue driving; still occasionally chuckling. It is dark now and I can see us approaching another valley. The entrance to this valley is not very steep, causing us to slowly engulf ourselves in its depth and darkness. The lower we get the darker the night grows. We see one car in the distance travelling on another road, perhaps on a Sunday drive of their own; it is refreshing to see that sign of life.

The curvaceous dusty trail leads us across a bridge, then across another. Jody begins reminiscing again about how she used to close her eyes because of the steep incline that we are approaching. It was very steep; I could see why it would frighten a weary young girl. She points left and remarks that the road used to be over there when she was a kid; now wild prairie foliage grows in its place. We climb the new road and out of the dark valley without looking back, knowing for certain that we are being led in the right direction, truly confident and moving forward.

It’s after 10 pm. Lights from the Trans Canada Highway can be seen as the empowering horizon quickly draws nearer. “It’s good to know these back roads”, says Jody referring once more to a childhood memory. We had survived our Sunday evening adventure. Unpredictable, unforgettable, beautiful, treacherous and even hilarious: this is our journey. It may be the road less travelled but I would not want it any other way.

Its Part of Life and Life is Real!

The lights were dim. Most of the eyes in the room were on me. Some of the people were drunk, yelling phrases not commonly heard; they were a paying crowd and could yell whatever they wanted to. It didn’t really matter what they yelled because I had the microphone, and I was yelling too. “This is it!” I remember saying with authority, pride and, most of all, confidence. “You don’t get another shot!” I reiterated. I was about to say it one last time, but then Dr. Dre’s, “The Next Episode” suddenly took over the speakers. The song’s hypnotic intro echoed throughout the small building as the men, women and children surrounding me almost unanimously jumped up and began to cheer – no, erupt. I had been in this situation so many times before that the song had burned itself into my brain and I knew what was coming next. His name was Big Daddy Kash. He was no bigger than me but no smaller than me either. He burst through the doorway and charged directly at me. For a brief second, I took it all in: the loud music blasting through the large speakers being drowned out by the even louder screaming fans that had grown to hate me and the Central Canadian Heavyweight Title belt that was around my waist. As Kash approached me with his fists in the air and swinging at my head, I thought to myself, “Is this real?”

Pro-wrestling, or as I have grown to lovingly call it, wrasslin’, is a spectacle that has shaped me into the man I am today. I have been involved with the wrestling industry since I was in high school. A common perception of wrestling is that it is staged, phoney and stupid. Of all the labels given to wrestling, there is one that I dislike more than any other: fake. To me, wrestling is anything but fake. It is very real; real emotion, real competition, real physicality, real pain and real life. Wrestling has allowed me to live moments that were far too real to be associated with the word fake. From near death experiences to life-changing injuries; from inspirational opportunities to death, wrasslin’ has taught me more about real life than I ever could have known without it. Professional wrestling is very real to me.

My dad died of a drug overdose in 1999. Looking back, it was near the same time I had my first professional wrestling match. I had been working with a local wrestling company for three years before that doing odd jobs like ring crew, security and music. I was given free wrestling training in exchange for my dedication and volunteer work. After over a year of being trained how to wrestle by Charley Hayes, Rex Roberts, Todd Meyers and Massive Damage, they finally agreed that I was ready to wrestle in front of a crowd. These wrestlers became my family; at eighteen-years-old, I was lacking any real male role-models aside from my older brother who was dealing with the same problems I was. I looked up to them and always tried to meet their approval.

Years went on, and I was still wrestling. Occasionally, I would travel to Winnipeg or Saskatoon to wrestle a show, almost always paying my own way there and using what little I got paid to get back. The hard work seemed to pay off because I was eventually given an opportunity to make some real money. The Canadian Wrestling Federation (CWF), which was the National Wrestling Alliance’s (NWA) Canadian affiliate, requested some wrestlers to go on tour with them; I would be one of them. This meant a lot to me because the NWA is arguably the oldest surviving pro-wrestling promotion in the world with lineage that stretches back to 1903.

The tour gave me a chance to travel to multiple Northern Ontario reserves in a plane that comfortably seated 12. At the end of the tour, our crew was ready to leave Kitchenoomaykoosib-Inninuig to fly back to Sioux Lookout, where we had driven to catch our first flight two weeks ago, but we still had to make it there. During our take off, I looked out the window and saw the darkest grey storm clouds I had seen all summer long. I asked the promoter, “Are we flying into that?” His reaction was a lot more satirical than I was hoping for, but I decided to relax and enjoy the ride. It wasn’t long before our plane was engulfed by those very same clouds. The rain pelted the windows so furiously it sounded like we were under attack. I could see lightning in the distance – at least I hoped it was the distance. The plane no longer flew in a smooth straight line; instead, it shook nervously like a boiling pot of water that had been pushed to its limits. In an effort to lighten the mood, Baron Von Meaner and Sammy Sadistic to my right began to sing Richie Valens’ “La Bamba”, while behind me Plum Loco and Spyder were yelling at the pilots using their best Joe Pesci impersonations. Suddenly the plane dropped! We weren’t even flying, we were falling. I cannot remember whether we all went silent or screamed brief expressions of fear, but I will not forget that moment. As quick as it fell, the plane levelled out again, only to do this a few more times. Everybody started acting serious. I heard one of the pilots saying “Mayday, Mayday” followed by what I assumed to be our location. Eventually, we did make it back to the comforting dirt runway of Sioux Lookout unharmed but slightly humbled and perhaps better off because of it. There was nothing fake about this experience; it was the reality of a pro-wrestling tour.

In total, I must have talked to just short of 10,000 kids about the importance of goal setting and drug-free lives. During these tours, a group of wrestlers would go into the schools before the wrasslin’ shows to talk to kids of all ages; some of these kids were in desperate need of role models. There were times when it would get quite emotional as we wrestlers would talk about personal experiences that we felt were beneficial to the kids. One community had just experienced the death of some kids after they had gotten drunk and fallen through a frozen lake; another community had just had a gang-related murder, we even cancelled a trip to my home reserve, Peguis because of snow-mobile related death. We went to a place called Kashechewan that was featured on the news shortly after we left because the children were getting diseases from the water; luckily we knew to never drink the water at these communities. Sometimes being a role-model to these kids was a little too real.

I have been told by specialists that I no longer have an anterior cruciate ligament in my knee and that my medial collateral ligament is partially torn with some damage to the cartilage surrounding the knee. This happened while defending the tag team belts with my partner, The Screaming Eagle. I was fortunate he was there to help carry me out afterwards. The pain was excruciating but the promoter and I felt I had to wrestle one more time to lose the tag belts so I could get some time off. One month later I wrapped up my knee and endured the pain for the good of the wrestling promotion. I would return a few months later, never fully healed.

The reality is that pain and wrestling are inevitably linked. It is the job of your opponent to do everything he/she can to minimize that pain; however this is not always the case. Many wrestlers are very aggressive and feel the need to punch and kick for real. Some guys are simply too big to control their power. I have wrestled the seven foot, 360 pound Titan Tower many times, and he is not delicate. He hits very hard and needs to be struck back the same way in order maintain realism; the bigger the man, the bigger the swing. I wrestled a massive steroid induced man named Rock Jaw Radcliffe who knew nothing of the word fake. Even though pro-wrestling is a cooperative performance by two or more professionally trained people, it is a live-action portrayal of violence that includes real contact, much more than it is often given credit for.

I’ve hit the ditch in the middle of the night during a white-out somewhere between The Pas and Moosimin. I’ve toured some of the most beautiful parts of Canada. I’ve been rescued by a man on a snow mobile from an isolated frozen forest after a day of stone-cold fear; we almost lost two guys to the cold that time. I’ve seen wrestlers have to fight off angry fans that have jumped into the ring to attack them. I’ve met wrestling legends who have more booze in their gym bags than anything else. I’ve been in communities where we wrestlers were seen as iconic and the kids were crying just to meet us. I’ve been beaten with a chain that I wished was fake and I’ve been smashed through tables that I incorrectly thought were meant to soften the blow. I’ve been on the receiving and giving end of injuries. I’ve heard wrestlers’ stories of their experiences in the business, some of which are far more surreal than mine – a first-hand version of the murder of legendary Bruiser Brody at a wrestling show in Puerto Rico is just one example. I’ve had conversations with wrestlers that have died shortly afterwards due to the enormous stress and abuse induced by the wrasslin’ business. I’ve watched close friends age much more rapidly than they deserve. I’ve seen and been part of real fights breaking out between opponents while performing. I’ve been one half of amazing displays of athleticism and showmanship during matches that are already locally remembered as classics.

Pro-wrestling is not just a hobby, or a sport, or even a job; pro-wrestling is a way of life. It evokes passion from those who are fortunate enough to be involved in it. It demands a certain willingness to accept that wrestling is a part of life and that life is real. Wrestling is as real as the hockey player that plays through the pain because he loves the game; wrestling is as real as the high school football team that is forced to take the long, silent bus ride home after a tough defeat; wrestling is as real as the sweat stinging the eyes of a tennis player as it drips off his forehead. I’ve been wrasslin’ for ten years and this is all very real to me

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An Untitled Compare and Contrast

The end result of an essay is often seen as the most important part. If an essay ends without coming to a conclusion, it would be hard to call it an essay at all. It is important to have a sound result but it is also imperative for essays to have a well thought-out approach before delivering the well thought-out conclusion. Writing a compare and contrast essay, for example would require knowing the words, compare and contrast, and their uses well enough to apply them in any given situation; this would strengthen the approach of the essay. Comparing and contrasting may seem like one in the same ideal; however there must be a key difference between the two words, despite their similarities. Otherwise, comparisons would not be so frequently accompanied by contrasts and contrasts would not so often dare to compare. Both a comparison and a contrast are different approaches in their own right but when combined as a compare and contrast, the approach is broadened in hopes of a reaching a result that is clearly sound.

The enormously credible Dictionary.com defines the two words as follows:

com⋅pare –verb (used with object)
to examine in order to note similarities and differences; to consider or describe as similar: to compare two pieces of cloth; to compare the governments of two nations.

con-trast – verb (used with object)
to compare in order to show unlikeness or differences; note the opposite natures, purposes, etc., of: Contrast the political rights of Romans and Greeks.

Despite the similarities when comparing the two definitions there is a stark contrast between them. The definition of contrast reveals the unlikeness of objects. Contrastingly, the definition of compare is designed to focus on the similarities between objects. Therefore, comparing things like apples and oranges is often seen as hypothetically unsuitable because they are different. Although, a brief comparison, by definition will show that there are many similarities between apples and oranges: they are both fruits that grow on trees, with brightly coloured outer skins, and can be found, relatively in the same section of the grocery store. This example shows that comparing two seemingly different objects can reveal their similarities.

In comparison, contrasting the same two apples and oranges should reveal the dissimilarities: they are two different colours and textures, they both taste very differently, an apple has an edible skin, while the orange has a skin that is normally peeled then discarded, and they are normally sold separately at a grocery store. This example of contrast focuses on why apples and oranges are different. When compared to the comparison before it, there is a contrast because the comparison shows why they are the same.

By the definitions given in this essay: a comparison is an examination of objects that makes note of their similarities and differences; and a contrast is a comparison of objects that focuses only on their differences. This means that a comparison will inevitably include some type of contrast and a contrast will fundamentally be based on a comparison. The contrasts between these two words are unavoidably linked by their similarities, yet when compared they both showcase their opposition. In other words, when seeking out their sameness, it is their differences that are revealed and when searching for their opposition, they are brought together by their likenesses.

Based on the evidence so far, a comparison can and normally does contain a contrast and a contrast will have to include a comparison. However, there must be some objects that when compared are found to be identical, thus revealing no contrasts. Identical twins are often viewed just as the name suggests, but personality traits are never exactly the same; even the physical traits would reveal some subtle differences in a comparison. The public was told that Dolly the sheep – forever known as the first cloned sheep – was truly identical to its other sheep self. This means that a true comparison between the two scientifically identical sheep would show no contrast, but contrastingly when shown in pictures, one of the sheep is sitting on the left side of the photo while the other is clearly sitting on the right side of the photo. Logically speaking, two different objects can never occupy the same space at the same time; therefore if two objects are in two different places, they are two different objects and the contrast prevails. It could also be assumed that when compared, two genetically identical sheep would not have each strand of wool on their bodies grow in exactly the same way. This comparison does then show a contrast between the two sheep, even though they are supposedly identical. When comparing this comparison of the cloned sheep to a contrast, it would naturally seem that the same observations would be found. Therefore, a comparison and contrast of two identical sheep will reveal the same similarities and dissimilarities; the only difference is the approach.

A contrast seeks the differences, a comparison seeks the similarities. Interestingly enough, both may end up at the same conclusion. This does not mean it is safe, when doing a compare and contrast to eliminate a contrast from the comparison, or a comparison from the contrast. The path to reaching any conclusion must include as many possibilities as possible. That is, the means to a result is just as important as the result itself – if not more so. It could even be argued that the comparing and contrasting of comparing and contrasting can be compared to the result that has recently been reached. In contrast, if the result has never been less clear than it is now, read the essay again, compare the results of both your readings and the contrast that arises should help to clarify.

A Symphony of Unpredictability, Sports Cars and Cottage Cheese

Running downhill is a dangerous thing to do. At first it seems like something that will be manageable. Even though the hill looks big from the top, I assure myself that this time I will not stumble. The problem is, no matter how fast I think I can move my legs, the hill demands that they run faster. As I near the halfway point of the hill, the task seems to be approaching a very difficult spot. I try my best to speed up but at this point, I am fooling myself; my legs are not moving any faster and the bottom of the hill is rapidly nearing. Inevitably I stumble and begin falling downhill. I can only hope that my reactionary, impulse movements will save me from injury as the pace quickens. As I fall, I prepare myself for the stark reality of the hill’s end, but no matter how prepared I think I am, the end comes sooner than I expect. Even as I watch it getting closer, I am unexpectedly stopped by its certainty. Once I have reached this point, I look back and wonder what I could have done to make this semester of post-secondary education run a little smoother.

At the beginning of the semester, I am excited to begin all the new assignments that are soon to be given. I do them with pleasure and revel in their completion. The semester only seems to operate this way for a short period of time. After the grace period is over, assignments pile up and desire for education can turn into a struggle to meet deadlines. Balancing work, school and family is an act that deserves award-winning recognition for those who do it well. It seems that no matter how hard I work during the semester, there is always an assignment or two that lingers on past their expiry date like that cottage cheese at the back of the fridge that I just refuse to confront. Even, the cottage cheese has to go at some point.

I sometimes struggle trying to find a topic that will inspire me to hand in a well-written assignment once the semester is over. I scroll through the rolodex in my head searching for something that will allow me to write clearly and coherently in the short period of time I have allowed myself. Now here I am, with an essay that needs to be written and only a few paragraphs of ranting about running downhill, deadlines and cottage cheese. The truth is, I have started this essay once before. Initially, I was inspired as I began to write. The words were flowing out of my fingers and onto the screen with the fury of an Italian sports car taking corners at incredible speeds but then I hit a wall. Luckily, the victims were minimized to a me and a teacher who is forced to put in extra time in order to frantically grade the final remaining assignments of the semester. All is not lost. The Lamborghini (Or was it a Ferrari?) that hit the wall remained in tact and is still capable of performing when called upon. Below is the essay I began to write, but then for one reason or another I could not finish:

Life: a twisted ride from a starting point that has not been negotiated to a destination that nobody knows the likes of. Everything along the way is a random, display of happenstance and daily appearances at scheduled and scripted events. The world through the eyes of some people is a serene and beautiful place where men walk with birds near the sound of gently running water. For others, earth is an anarchical series of days, occurrences, places and persons loosely strung together by a frayed fabric that could snap at any moment. A select few of us humans are comfortable knowing the unpredictability each new second brings. Like the notes of a song we have not yet heard, we are constantly confronted with unknowns. Each person is his own composer; each person is her own composer. The epic symphony of life is filled with symbol crashes and subtle moments, deep strokes of the cello and light, care-free flutes. We are all presently the result of the seconds, the days, the years, the decades and even the centuries before us. We are the cause; now is the effect.

The portion above is what I began writing as a Hunter S. Thompson inspired tale of his enormous influence on my writing style and view of the world. Somewhere between then and now I decided to change the direction the essay. Unpredictability took over and the effect is what I am seeing in front of me right now, which will ultimately be what you are seeing in front you right now. Hunter S. Thompson, or HST would often write in a way that could make the normalcy of any given day seem like a surreal situation that only he could get himself into and only he could get himself out of. Perhaps the way he lived, and the things he did caused these things to happen to him, or maybe his writing style dragged the reader into a world filled with imagery of fear and excitement through his intentions as an author; I think it was an erratic emulsion of both.

Like the books written by HST, the downhill marathon of post-secondary education is a treacherous experience that seems like only I can get myself into or out of. It is filled with great potential for success and failure. No matter how difficult the workload seems in school, I am confident that the end result will be success, despite stumbling near the end of the hill. Besides, there is always next semester to improve my downhill running skills, at which point I am certain I will casually jog across the finish line.

The Tyranny of Storms: One Child's Quest to Emerge from Oppression

“I love you God, I love you. I love you God, I love you. I love you God, I love you . . .” Cheyenne repeated those words without a break in between. The young boy was breathing heavy; it was the fear. He glared out the large openings of the massive building. The multiple levels of concrete were not enough to keep out the terrifying sights and sounds. Thunder and lightning so loud and so bright the world around him shook with anxiety. His only chance was to huddle close to his mother and hope that it would be over soon. This storm, like the others before it, caused a flood of emotions for the boy; it was a rough ride. Fifteen minutes of eternity later, this storm’s time was up as it rode off into the sunset. The clouds were gone, but for how long? Moments like this were far too frequent for a boy growing up on the prairies. He couldn’t help it. Every summer brought new storms, bigger storms. The feeling Cheyenne would get when the ominous power of the nearly black storm clouds tumbled closer was something that always struck him with terror. As a child he was forced to cower beneath the land of living skies. Oppressed by the power and uncertainty of this land, Cheyenne lived with the hope of seeing a time when his fear of storms would be conquered.

Years later, Cheyenne stood paralyzed, watching the formation of a tornado, no more than 100 yards away. This moment caused his fear to climb to the peak of mount faintheartedness. Where would he go from here? As he peered out the window of a basement-less cabin, Cheyenne began to realize that he was in the midst of surviving his only true fear. It was not the thunder he feared, it was not the rain. It was the potential for something bigger; it was this – a tornado. Perhaps, if he could weather the storm just one last time, if he could persevere and outlive the violent beast, he may escape the mighty clutches of phobia.

As a young child an unfairly strong fear of storms had always bothered Cheyenne. He had developed resentment for the season that brought them; he hated summer. The terrifying memories of storms were recollected and reorganized every year. After time, this collection began to serve as a retrospect of all the storms he encountered, all the storms he survived. Analyzing these memories over and over helped Cheyenne become familiar with the extraordinary energy that powerfully, potent storms can exert. The not-so curious case of growing older allowed him to dissect and scrutinize the very aspects of storms that were most intimidating. He began to realize that when understood, fear is an emotion best controlled. He would learn to harness his fear of storms and use the fear in the same way it used him. He would use the fear to make himself stronger in the face of storms, just as the fear had used him to grow stronger so many times before.

Unpredictable weather in Saskatchewan is very common, perhaps even predictable – which is what scared Cheyenne the most. The instability of the hot and humid prairie atmosphere is far more reliable than the forecasters who predict it. It seems every night during the summer months storm watches and warnings are being given merely as a precautionary method. Some thunderstorms may generate frequent lightning, strong winds, large hail and possibly even tornados, these forecasters tell us. This all sounds very intimidating. To an eight-year-old boy, it was downright unsettling.

When Cheyenne heard these weather warnings transmitted over the TV or radio, his chest would tighten up and he would be overwhelmed with nervousness immediately. However, night after night and year after year these warnings would begin to feel redundant. The storm warning began to develop the same merit as hearing mom or dad say things like, “Be careful on that bike”, or “Don’t go play by the creek”. As a result, the feelings of extreme anxiety would turn into a calming angst towards the very idea of having a weather warning every summer night. Cheyenne’s revolution against fear was just beginning.

Power outages are unique. Maybe there is something romantic or adventurous about having the darkness of the black sky consume the surrounding air in a simple second. Lighting candles that flicker with the warm and unsettling breeze that creeps in through an open window might be enjoyable for some. Waiting in the dark, looking out the window, picking up the phone to see if it still works is a stark reminder of Mother Nature’s power. Cheyenne would not forget the power of nature but instead of fearing it, he moved to respect it. Soon power outages too, grew to be something he feared not.

As quick as a room gets dark, it lights up again, brighter than ever before. For a fraction of a second a wide-eyed reflection is visible in the mirror; then darkness again. Tremendous anticipation begins to build knowing a crack of thunder that Zeus himself has thrown is rumbling closer and closer. Some people look forward to moments like this. They take pictures of the storm or write stories about them, maybe even blogs. It can be inspiring. Cheyenne coerced himself into this group of people; a part of his aim to control the fear that once made him feeble.

The erratic, yet fantastic display of lightning from the view of two very human eyes creates a sense of awe and admiration. Staring at the staggered path the electricity carves out of the sky has turned into a hobby for some, a profession for others. Pink, orange, white, blue – all these colours emerge during lightning’s fiercest moments. They generate a spectacle of electrical proportions, too random to predict and too phenomenal to ignore. Instead of hiding under the arm of his mother, Cheyenne began to stand strong in the awesomeness of storms. He found he was very fond of the sights lightning brings. He would be bullied no more.

The unrestrained power of the storms began to lose their impressive standing in Cheyenne’s world. The tornado he watched grow through the eyes of a timid young boy glaring out the window of a basement-less cabin was not a tornado at all; it was merely a water spout. As a result of his newly maturing confidence, Cheyenne began to look towards storm season with excitement of being witness to a magical spell only nature could produce. His fear had finally left him. The ominous, oppressive thundercloud no longer held the ferocious power it utilized in the past. A life of liberation and freedom was to follow, a life free from the tyranny of fear-mongering and torment that he had grown up with. He had stared into the mouth of the beast and claimed victory. He now walks tall and proud in the land of living skies. There is no fear.

Essayists: The Chicken or the Egg?

Writing an essay about writing an essay is something most essayists may say they’ve never done. The very idea of it seems to be a little bit vain. Theoretically, every essayist writes an essay the same as every other essayist. This is not a cheap shot at essays or essayists; in fact it is the exact opposite. An essayist writes as though he/she is the guide on a midnight journey. The reader on this journey does not know where they will end up, or how to get wherever they are going. Only able to see that which is directly in front of them, blind to everything else. The guide leads them on a path that is unique to his/her own self and in most cases, a path that he/she believes is best. Some readers may disagree with the path taken or even the final destination. However, by looking close enough at the path travelled, the true identity of the guide may be revealed. Presumably, the essay can say a lot more about the essayist, than the essayist can say about the essay.

The deadline is quickly approaching and little, if any work has been done. There were going to be a lot of great ideas included but getting rid of some of them, maybe most of them will save a lot of time. Procrastination is a bug that bites all, from the best to the worst. Sometimes great works will be achieved in the dying days of a deadline; sometimes not.

Absolutely every angle has been covered. All the loose ends have been tied, undoubtedly. The information is probable, persuasive and smooth. Thorough is not just the word that best describes this style but it is actually the middle name of the essayist who practices it.

Hard-hitting opinions disguised as intelligence, insisting a thesis instead of proving it, perhaps restricting any conflicting or contradicting evidence. The bullish writer has many admirers in the house of mirrors. This headstrong pencil pusher is his/her own biggest fan. The definition of fan naturally being: blower of air.

The preceding examples are merely minor in comparison to the majority of possibilities. Though, they illustrate that a style of essay can reveal much about he/she who writes it. Any style may be entertaining in its own way, providing it has one key ingredient: creativity. Writing is a creative process. In fact, it seems hard to imagine a single piece of writing that did not have at least some creativity. Writing needs creativity, no matter the style, no matter the category. Categorizing writing can be tough and possibly a mistake for the essayist. It is similar to categorizing music. If a musician tries to write a song but is too concerned about staying within a contrived category, confinement will consume creativity.

Creativity produces anticipation and excitement. The guide who chooses the path with unforgettable scenery leaves an impression on those he/she guides, at the same time the essayist whose creativity walks the edge of ingenuity awards the reader with an eagerness to know more.

Every essayist has strengths and weaknesses. Strangely enough, refusing to acknowledge weaknesses may be an essayist’s biggest strength. Do not fear the pen; do not fear the keyboard. Writing with no other purpose in mind but to find a purpose is a good way to exhilarate strengths. This could be compared to jamming on a guitar or even walking through Wal-Mart. Entering that big, blue and white store, not really knowing where to go or what to buy can be intimidating but a casual step by step process that includes ignoring unnecessary distractions may result in leaving with a really nice, low-priced sweater. That is a true strength; finding the really nice sweater that is hiding somewhere beneath a plethora of thoughts, words, interruptions and opinions.

Every essay is a creation. Every essayist is a creator. No creation can be created incorrectly, only created as a snapshot of the creator’s state of mind. The essay parallels the essayist . . . Or is it the other way around? Now if you’ll please excuse me. I have some reading to do. I, myself look forward to finding out what type of person this essayist truly is.

The Obama Effect: Fill in the Blank

This morning on my way to my first class I made sure to randomly greet strangers with the phrase: Happy Barack Obama Day! I noticed different reactions every time I said it. Some laughed, others gave me the same greeting back, another seemed to ignore me all together. The part that urked me to say the least is the very last greeting I gave.

I was walking through a narrow hallway as middle aged woman was walking towards my direction. As we crossed paths I said: Happy Barack Obama Day! Her response was unlike any I had heard that day.

She said: Pfft . . . How long will he last?

I said: Eight years of course.

Her next response: Yah Right.

This urked me to say the least and I went to class a little disturbed. If Obama has taught us anything it should be that the race of somebody is not important, so I will not mention the race of this woman. However, both her responses left a sour taste in my mouth.

I do not know if Obama will bring true change to a free world that seems to be on the edge of peril but I hope he does. The woman in the hallway did not believe in Obama. She may have hoped that Obama will make a difference in some portion of her soul but she did not believe it enough to get excited about it.

That right there is the problem. People are lazy and scared. They don't want to believe in change because they are afraid of what this chnage may bring. Change is always happening, even as I add words to the screen and even as you read them. However, when I asked many people during the election: What will Obama change? I was never really given a straight answer. What do we need to change?

I will tell you . . .

We, as a continent (North America) need to change our lives. We need to change our priorities. We need to change what's cool and what's not cool. Barack Obama has made politics very cool for a lot of people who never would have paid attention before. This trend must continue, not just in politics but in all aspects of life.

Don't be that pessimistic woman in the hallway. Claim the world in the name of change and begin as soon as possible. The best way to change is to learn new things.

I encourage all people to learn. Read. Write. Claim victory on knowledge.

Learning to love learning is a love I learned to love.