AWAKEN TO CONCIOUS LIVING, an ad for the Toronto School of Philosophy on the subway promised in larger-than-life capitals.
Being a new arrival in Toronto, it made me think the city must be an outrageously bohemian capital for there to be a school solely dedicated to philosophy: the dissection of reality, as I understood philosophy to be. And that school has such a wide reach that subway advertising was the most effective method of reaching prospective pupils – future students, ready to question the nature of their existence, and they just happen to be riding pubic transport. What kind of intellectual utopia had I moved to, and could I walk among them although my proverbial stature is no match for their apparent might?
The ad promised,“the school goes beyond ‘armchair philosophy’ and offers a setting for conscious self discovery.”
The first class
“Know thyself,” our teacher seamlessly carried on from the ad, before asking, “Why did you come to the school of philosophy?”
A hand shot up instantaneously. “I have social anxiety disorder. Speaking in groups makes me so anxious.” The group of 20 people half-heartedly listening suddenly got interested. “Speaking right now is really hard for me.”
Although this didn’t seem to be addressing question, or even adequately address why she felt it necessary to tell a group of strangers that she was scared to death of speaking to groups of strangers, the group of strangers responded in turn that she was doing fantastically, and they would have had no idea about her anxiety because she was doing so well.
Wisdom loving
Philosophy is the love of wisdom, the class was taught. What makes someone wise, we were asked. Answers popped up around the room. Calm, someone said. Another, fair. Informed, balanced, and pure and variations on like all made appearances at some point. Think of the wisest person you know, the class was implored. There was a heavy weight of a room full of people collectively thinking OPRAH.
The exercise
Each week, the class was taken through what is (cultishly) called The Exercise. Really, it’s just meditation, but at the SoP, it’s The Exercise. Rest your hands in your lap, then individually and systematically focus on each sense: touch. Smell. Taste. Sight. Hearing. Simply rest in this great awareness for a few moments, the instructions read. Or, ya know, in layman’s terms, ‘Just sit still’.
The cult of philosophy
The inference to a cult didn’t end with The Exercise. As people who were just starting at the School of Philosophy, we were ‘level one’. The servers in the cafeteria were level four, and in line with apparent level four curriculum, were sequestered to working in the cafeteria in order to become acquainted with servitude. The school, meanwhile, remained acquainted with free labour.
Beauty
There’s beauty in everything, the class was taught in another lesson. Or, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. See some beauty in something this week, the class was instructed.
I responded well. There was a person I work with that shat me. To tears. I looked at him. Not just with my eyes looked at him, but looked at him. Through him. Sure, I thought, there’s beauty there. Not physical beauty specifically, though I could see how someone could find him attractive once I took a step back from my preconceptions. Inner beauty. He meant well. To me, he may have been an annoying prick, but there was honourable intent in his endless whining. He was trying to help me when he could have been bitching me out to anyone who’d listen behind my back. That was beauty. He has it.
“I saw beauty,” another classmate offered after I shared my ultimate break though. “My good salad bowl,” she told us. “I only bring it out when I’m hosting a dinner party. Why is that?, I thought. So I ate my salad out the good salad bowl all this week.”
Reasoning
Much like a cult, people began to resign from personal ownership of their problems. The school offered an alternative to making tough decisions by yourself: levels of reasoning. Take it one step higher, the school taught. Is it best for the individual? If so, is it best for the family? The dilemma was propelled through society, humanity and the universe to reach a conclusive answer. Sound reasoning, to be sure. Class, discuss.
“I have a problem,” proffered one lady, who’d be fairly silent until this point. “I have a delivery coming by courier tomorrow. They say they can only tell me they’ll be at my house between 9am and midday! I have to be at work!”
Philosophising about what was learnered
The 10-week semester culminated with a bonus week where the class was invited to demonstrate to the class what they had learnt from the school. If not directly, evidently they were informed they could offer an abstract demonstration.
Salad bowl lady brought a bowl of salad for the class to share.
As per every single statement he had made in the class that semester, a man stood up prefaced, “I’m a graphic designer.” He continued, “But I’m also a spoken word poet. I’d like to perform for you all.” Which he did, before handing out copies of his CD to each classmate.
Spoken word poet man had a talent for such things, but this was no requirement to contribute. Another man performed a song that he had performed at a friend’s wedding to great adulation from the other class members.
I feel it’s necessary to explicitly point out that these are demonstrations of what was learnt at the school of philosophy: spoken word poetry, off-key singing and salad.
I didn’t partake. I didn’t take part: because my ‘skill’ is writing. If I were to deliver an honest opinion to the class, I would have spoken about the notion ‘know thyself’. I now know myself, I would have begun, enough to know that I do not belong to the same category of broken that has encouraged the rest of the class to attach to this quasi-religious course with such gusto.
I’m glad I didn’t take that opportunity though. While the School of Philosophy didn’t dissect any fabric of the meaning of reality, it did expose a societal fabric that showed that, despite the flawed execution, these people were only trying to dissect their own reality. It’s not up to myself to take that away from them.
Toronto School of Philosophy
29 Madison Avenue, Toronto
416 960 4833
Got tired of waiting for Xtra! (Toronto's gay street press) to publish my piece. Figure I might as well get some mileage out of it. Enjoy.
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El Convento Rico: it’s Latin. It’s gay. But it’s also straight. So basically it’s College Street’s Ricky Martin.
If you’ve not heard of Rico bar, it’s a dingy basement Latin drag bar in Little Italy. The translation of the name is open to interpretation: “Convento” definitely means ‘convent’; however “Rico” could mean a number of things, like ‘rich’, ‘delicious’ or ‘tasty’ (which is probably the preference).
Open on Friday and Saturday nights (plus Sunday nights on long weekends), Ricos is decidedly a gay and lesbian bar. When it opened 17 years ago, it was a little thorn in the little boot of Little Italy. The area was densely populated by recent European immigrants who didn’t really take to the idea of a gay and lesbian bar right in their ‘hood. El Convento stuck it out, however, to become a staple of College Street, nestled right next to Blockbuster and a thousand Italian restaurants.
While not being in the confines of the gayborhood (read: Church Street) has been tough, they see their location as an advantage. “That’s what makes us different,” general manager Fab tells me. “And that’s what helps. It gives our gay clientele the feeling that they are accepted.”
Although they opened as an outwardly gay and lesbian bar, they’ve now “evolved” and pride themselves on their mix of gay and straight clientele. As Fab explains, “Originally we opened to the gay, lesbian and bisexual community, and now we have evolved to cater to… everybody. No matter what your sexual orientation is – gay, straight, confused – we’re just here to satisfy everybody.” He mentioned that there is a misconception in the gay community that the bar is turning straight. “Over the years, it has progressed– but I think it’s hit its plateau. I can honestly say we have a 50/50 mix.”
Fab doesn’t agree that the onslaught of straight punters cheapens the experience for the gay crowd. “A lot of our gay customers enjoy interacting with the straight community,” he countered when asked. “I think they feel that they’re not sequestered to being open about their sexuality just in a gay club. Or, be going to a straight club and not being able to be open. Here, you get a bit of everythingwhich makes them feel, ‘I’m just like everyone else’ and it doesn’t limit them to what they can or cannot do.”
They’re doing what they can to ensure that they don’t lose the gays. “A majority of our performers are female impersonators,” Feb tellsme. “We make sure that we do hold our special Mr and Miss El Convento Ricos; our anniversary parties, which are gay-orientated; our New Year’s party, which is gay-orientated. Our music in general – yes, we play Latin and top 40 – but you can’t get through a weekend without hearing that disco tune.”
Ask for any stories which illustrate the club, though, and you’ll hit a wall. “Stories do no justice,” says Alisha, the reigning Miss El Convento Rico. “You have to experience it for yourself.”
“I think it is a magical place,” Fab piped in. ”As soon as you walk in here, come down these stairs – it’s like a different place. Whatever problems you’re having in the world, or whatever problems you’re having in your day-to-day life, it all goes out the door. You come down here and forget about everything.”
I came down the stairs, and wondered if there was separate entrance that I missed because my perception of the world hadn’t changed in any seismic fashion. It was just a smallish room that was playing host to what appeared to be a stagette night. At least, that’s what the sea of feather boas suggested. During the course of the night, the TVs displayed “Congratulations to our new brides!” while the stagettes’ names rotated on a marquee and gaggles of hens squealed at the digital recognition.
Fab had already told me that the bar is a popular destination for bachelorette parties. “They like to come and enjoy the show, watch everybody and party with everyone in here,” he said. “It’s one last hurrah. It’s a new alternative to going to a strip joint I guess.”
The music dimmed, and an announcement warned that a drag show was coming. The announcer also promoted the forthcoming long weekend Sunday night at Rico because the Chippendales were appearing. “And guys,” he cooed to the men, “if you’re thinking, ‘why would I want to go to that?’ – last year,all the women came and got all fired up over the men… but had no one to go home with.” I couldn’t see the announcer, but the tone of his voice in the conclusion suggested major sad face. So not only am I at the first gay bar inthe world that has to so desperately encourage their male patrons to come and see the Chippendales – the CHIPPENDALES – but they do so by promising a bounty of dripping wet pussy.
So, is it a gay bar, or is it a straight bar that features gay people? “We’re still a gay bar,” Fab reassured me. “We characterize ourselves as a gay bar and make sure everybody knows that we are. We’re proud to fly the gay flag outside.”
Drag shows are interesting at El Convento Rico, as there’s no stage – so the shows are perfomed ‘in the round’, with the audience making an accommodating wide circle on the dance floor so the queens can mime and gesture from the centre. The positioning means that really only one side of the audience at a time is getting to see the show proper; while the other half of the club is literally getting a bum deal.
Similarly, whether the gay crowd or the straight crowd is getting the best proverbial “view” at any time at ‘the tasty / delicious / rich convent’ is also open to interpretation.
El Convento Rico, 750 College Street Toronto.
http://www.elconventorico.com/
What happened to me? I used to write real good and stuff.
Facetiousness aside, it does feel like I’ve fallen off the horse. When people ask me what I do these days, I earnestly say, failed writer. And being endlessly self-critical while simultaneously magically blame-y, I have a few reasons.
I’m not writing much
lately
I had a run with posting daily on my blog to see if any magic would come from cyclically spewing words on to the page, but all that did was make my own voice echo in my own head with the sameness of each blog post.
This excuse wears thin though, because aside from the produced blog posts, I wrote few articles this year: several for CitySearch Australia, which is edited by a “friend” who was doing me a “favour” by letting me write for free in the name of getting me 'back on the horse'; and I’ve wrote an article for Xtra!, a gay paper here in Toronto. That article, which I’ve just re-read, was written on spec - and pretty damn good if you ask me. Good enough to be accepted by the publisher, so spec won – however it’s been ‘scheduling pending’ since August. Which is fucking ridiculous, and killed my confidence in getting paid work for the time being.
My head is busted
A dear friend told me that one of their concerns when I was in my traumatic brain injury-induced coma is that I would wake up and not be able to write – because “we know you like to think of yourself as a writer,” was the gentle way it was put. And honestly, this is the one that freaks me out the most – maybe I lost a bit of myself after the accident, and that was the bit that wrote well?
I only write about
myself
This one was pointed out by my travel buddy Bree, who has been urging me to write because I moan about it so much. When I told her I was writing this very blog post, she said, “Do you ever not write about yourself?”
Another monkey on my back, my sister Bec, has my blog bookmarked, which is awfully sweet and sisterly. When I noticed it recently, she asked why I wasn’t posting much. I told her I was bored of it; bored with my voice on it, talking about myself incessantly. “Isn’t that what a blog is?” she asked. “Kind of like your own personal reality TV show?”
Her idea of a blog’s purpose is contentious, but she was right about why I’m bored of it. I’m tired of talking about me. With the accident and moving to Canada, there’s been nothing but self-centric posting going on. I moved to Canada to escape the selfishness of overcoming trauma, except I only left the trauma behind and not the selfishness.
If there’s one thing working holidays are good for, it’s trying on new and different faces. So I’m starting a new tone for the blog for 2010. I plan on mixing it up with actual publishable work (addressing central questions and everything); maybe even some short stories, if I can develop my fiction-writing skills enough to produce something I want to share. And I promise: no poetry.