“Meaning arises only out of dialogue with the world.” Dr Alfred Langle, a colleague of Viktor Frankl.

I have had numerous ideas for this blog, several false starts, and so many grand ambitions that failed to materialize. A phenomenon rather analogous to my life. You need to write, friends have told me.  You really need to set up a blog and share all your ideas with people. You need to focus and get your stuff out there. Write man, write. I smile. My cheeks ache. I say, yes, that’s a good idea or yes, I have something on the go or yes I intend to but I’m trying to settle on a theme, a plot, a constant, a frigging idea that will simply stay put long enough for me to pursue it. Truth be told, those wickedly lascivious witches Apathy, Procrastination, and Frustration have successfully deterred me for a hell of a long time.

Blogs.

The term elicits an eye tic, Magical Mexican Jumping Bean spasms in my left eye socket. Everyone and their dog, cat, rat, ferret, rabbit, fern, cactus, spirit guide, penis and Jesus-faced-potato, has a blog. Literally. It’s ridiculous. Inversely, there are some damned good writers out there, sharing interesting and relevant information. However, it seems that the ridiculous outnumbers the credulous by a pillaging, plundering horde’s margin. If I were to start writing a blog, where would I fall? If I’m fortunate, into the great digital well of obscurity (and then oblivion), sharing company with an invisible mass of  nobly intentioned writers.  I have no illusions about hitting the Elysian heights of notable bloggers. And my pessimism has me acknowledging the probability of being caught in the ridiculous riptide of the self-obsessed and frivolous.

What do I have to add?  What do I have to say that hasn’t been said by either the knowledgeable or the ignorant?

The answer: I do not know.

So, if I do not know, should I stop?  Should I delete these words, this fledgling attempt at communication, at cracking open my head and firing my thoughts out into this cacophanous info-sphere? Concede defeat. Embrace the silence. Live in a cave, dressed in ceder park undies and a fern leaf hat, surviving on toe-fungus and attempting telepathic communication with rocks? Do I accept a way of life that galls me, chasing a simplistic bliss that in the end, avoids all the issues and (compounded with all the other bright-siding bliss seekers) bites preceding generations in the ass? Do I stop caring? Do I stop having an opinion? Do I stop listening, learning, and adding my paltry two cents in the vain hope that perhaps, just perhaps, those two cents will eventually help tip the scales in the favor of a sustainable, livable, intelligent future?

Well, since I am still writing, I suppose I have answered my question.

And symptomatic of most answers, I have reached the threshold of another question (actually, two related questions): what should I write about, and why would anyone want to read it?

I have just spent the past 30 seconds staring blankly at a blinking cursour.

I’m not certain what the content of this blog will be. Nor do I know why anyone would be interested in reading whatever the hell it is that I decide to write.

I do know what I don’t want to write about.

Myself. My day. My friends. My lifestyle. Any topic that can begin with ‘My’ or any related possessives. I do not want to turn this into the digital equivalent of Narcissus’ Pool.

With one exception.

This being an introduction, I should at the very least introduce myself.

A few minutes ago, I almost decided against this, keeping myself anonymous, presenting whatever I decided to write without any context as to who was in fact writing.

Bad idea.

This might mislead people into thinking that I am some sort of authority on what I’m presenting.

I’m not. Not even remotely.

My goal here is to learn, and share what I learn.

One of my issues with so many blogs  out there (or reporting that has now becoming diluted by the Juggernaut of the blog paradigm, leg work becoming click work, articles reading more like insubstantial blogs themselves or mere expanded headlines) is the spurious presentation of information as irrefutable, immutable fact by people who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Or, to be less antagonistic, the presenting of opinion as fact without any sort of qualifier.  The spread of misinformation pisses me off. So, let me state this clearly: I am no authority on the subjects that I write about, which won’t stop me writing about said subjects; however I will supply citations, links, references for (interested) readers to pursue lines of inquiry. Anything that is personal opinion, speculation, philosophy and/or hypothesis will be clearly identified as such. I encourage everyone to read, to research, to sift through the reams of fascinating information out there to arrive at their own (informed) conclusions.

Now, for a little more context other than a confession that I am just another wanker off the street.

Who am I?

I have wanted to be many things. I have even called myself many things (on occasion, unflattering things). I have been an academic who was too interested in too many subjects to actually settle on any sort of coherent discipline. I have been a fiction writer, published in numerous obscure low circulation print journals and e-zines (are they still called e-zines?). I hope none of those stories are floating around out there. They were terrible. I made all of $80.00 dollars on one manuscript, though I accrued a considerable number of ‘contributor’s copies’ (industry speak for we’re too broke to pay you, but here’s a copy to prove to your friends that you are actually published in our low rent rag). I still have a photo0copy of that one and only paycheque, egotistically framed, in a box somewhere. My pusillanimous literary career ended about a decade ago, though I persisted in calling myself a writer for years afterword. I was still addicted to a dream. I like to think I’m clean now. I’m might be deluding myself there. I have notebooks full of ideas scribbled out over the intervening years that have yet to manifest a coherent sentence.

In an attempt to aid the coherent manifestations of those sentences, not to mention paragraphs, and hey, perhaps even a story, I plan on using this site (in part) as a writing journal.

I have also been a globe trotting vagabond, a freelance writer and editor, a totally unqualified ESL tutor and a writing workshop organizer. But, if I am to be honest about an occupation, when asked, I am a bookseller. I have spent 20 years in the industry now, quite unintentionally. And I have spent 20 years trying to escape the industry. Problem is, I love books. Grew up surrounded be them. Books and animals. If I’m not around either, I turn into a twitchy freak. Seriously. Spasms. The degree I did settle on was Literature (and Philosophy) which, more or less, guaranteed me a career in a bookstore.

20 years.

Crazy.

I started when I was twenty, and now I’m forty.

I have worked both for the corporate chains as well as the struggling independents.

I am witnessing something now that I never anticipated.

I am watching the book industry slowly perish.

I have been watching it happen for a long, long time.

I almost feel like I have spent years tending to a terminally ill patent who stubbornly refuses any form of treatment.

Just the other day, I gave a talk to a group of publishers who had, for some reason, decided to start off their two week intensive workshop in the little store that I manage. I looked into their interested eyes and did my damnedest to put a positive spin on a dire situation. I felt like a fool and a liar.

The next day I received word from our company’s owner (who has been a dependable presence in the book industry in this town for over 30 years), that my location is facing a not unexpected, but sooner than anticipated, quietus.

Reason. Deteriorating sales (a phenomenon afflicting all our locations, as well as all the other booksellers in town, including the big chains) and inflating overhead. Basically, high costs and low profits.

The love of my life, the constant in my life, is a critically endangered species. Hmm. Okay, I think I will continue writing on this subject in a dedicated blog, chock full with news links and business articles on the state of publishing both in my native Canada as well as globally.

Jumping topic.

I also live with a unipolarity disorder. MDD. Major Depressive Disorder. The new term for what used to be Clinical Depression. It runs in my family. Among other things. I’ve wrestled with it since my twenties, though symptoms were manifesting much earlier, and things became progressively worse until the big crash in my thirties.  I lost a good decade and more of my life to it. It led to lifestyle that was, ahem, textured. I have been clawing my way out of that cave for quite some time. As a consequence, I have a profound interest in psychology and neuroscience. I will undoubtedly write on this topics as well, only using my personal experience as a mirror to put research and debates in context.

I am also an atheist, raised by atheists (intellectual hippies). My childhood was infused with philosophy, folklore, natural history, eastern religions, anthropology (physical and cultural), psychology and the various sciences. I was, of course, totally obsessed with dinosaurs (still am). I do not intend on turning this into another militant atheist rant site. However, since I am interested in philosophy, anthropology, psychology and the social sciences, I will (from time to time) write about issues pertaining to belief, be it religion, spirituality, primitivism, magical thinking etcetera.  This topic holds particular interest for me in the domain of conservationism, where belief often impedes adaption and progress, both ecologically and socially (a term I will drop with annoying frequency is socioecology).

As mentioned earlier, another constant in my life has been animals. And, as might be inferred by previous statements, I am also something of a science junkie. I have had a secret passion that has persisted through my life. Paleoanthropolgy and primatology. The later more so than the former, though by a narrow margin. In recent years, I have become increasingly focused on primatology and primate conservation. Last year I decided that it was past time I changed careers. I embarked on what I have called my Year of the Ape, a process of self education leading to formal education (self education translating into reading a hell of a lot of books on the subject whilst saving my meager bookseller pennies to afford an accredited distance  education diploma course, which will hopefully lead to either an internship at a sanctuary or field site somewhere, and then a formal BA/BSci program: I’ve been eyeing the Primatology Program offered by the University of Calgary). That’s my current plan anyway.

Some of what I will be writing about here will focus on Primatology, constituting both items of curiosity as well as my progress towards fulfilling my ambitions.

So that is me.  A forty year old bookseller and armchair intellectual. I am, at least, attempting to lever myself out of the armchair and enter the field. Ironically (or masochistically), it is a field preoccupied with another endangered species.

My intent with this blog is simple.

To engage the world.

To take part in a meaningful dialogue.

This is what we should all be doing.