the burning squadron
the rampaged streets
the glorified hysteria
the savaged protest.

they wanted this,
they got it.
they go home thrilled with their decisions
and we sit here and contemplate what next steps we need.

protecting rights of those who smash property
justifying governance to those who see tyranny
challenging militarization in the face of scared grandmothers
defending pacifism to those who are violence’s witness.

mutual satisfaction
spread thick, a layer of oozing external contempt
and internal validation
with their snickering smug “you’re welcome and go fuck yourself” attitudes.

my dialogue is mostly an inch from my face;
this has never been the realm for staunch idealists
to debate what painful testimonies must erupt
before change is ever actually made.

I await further exposé,
but undoubtedly in vain;
they did well at colluding that day
to limit what price they’ll ever pay.

my anger is threatening my skin’s softness.
my frowsy disheveled quarters can wait out my neglect.
my supervisor can go fuck herself.
my future lacks definition anyway.

I have a fist.
I have a voice that quivers this glass
before my launched projectile shatters it.
I have a presence.

We are surrounded by violence.
We are children, not siblings, of the perpetuators
who daily inflict us all with scars deeper than these tears.
We are a consequence to their actions, not vice versa.

they’ll sweep it all up, anyway.
they’ll cover up the real problems, anyway.
they’ll dilute the message of the peaceniks, anyway.
they’ll market us, anyway.

that is the beauty of their chaotic system.
I simply aim to expose its repugnant core.

tilling fields, harnessed energy
demonstrates what power the body
generates when cooperating
with nature.

so why the destruction?
glass needs to be made, melted and glazed,
not shattered for needless entertainment.
where are the constructive voices?

the day does arrive for protest,
the hitching up of like minds into a corpus,
a movement, a cyclone of change
that they will vilify, oh yes.

there are such causes.
presented with desertion,
engage thy brothers and sisters and take up the
spades needed to evade desolation.

with all that wealth,
all that privilege,
all those shedding layers of sweat and tears,
assemble and harvest.

emptied pockets limit what lint we can leave behind.
the mind musters and scampers,
farming the thoughts for insightful commentary.

I doubt I had the experience necessary to really tap this well.
unlike my witching,
I can’t find every source of fruitful thirst quenching for this craver.

however:

only briefly did I accumulate doubt and fear,
only momentarily did I hesitate about my attendance,
only fleetingly did I assemble fears in my gut.

love is the universal smile,
the unspoken longing in those eyes,
the opulence of life in another.

I know. the hurt is beyond skin deep.
such is life,
armour never fully latched up
when the battle starts raging.

the best chance for redemption
in your future purgatories
is the clouded air of pretend,
then.

storm this beach as if the
winds are behind you,
gales of destiny transforming the weakest strides
into the collective million man march.

don’t let the overcast dreariness wear;
“you better bring your own sun.”
the pantomime would be a useful fellow to mimic:
just go along with the charade.

what propeller could possibly maneuver
this battalion out of the harbouring dangers?
what anchor needs releasing to lower the weight
and free me of captivity?

to obvious external eyes,
even a pseudo conscious level in here,
it’s apparent.
I know the answer.

I want what I do not have,
and never am satisfied until that is resolved.
and in this case,
I know the resolution is not pretty.

I’d rather be at war
with the metaphors policing my state
than to squelch this opportunity
to revisit past battles of analysis.

The danger is that there is no trust
in what is not apparent
even when all explanations show
exactly what the answer is.

truth is, we can’t fear
what unknowns lurk out there.
there will always be those doubts.
counting on them is the only security.

so:

inhale the oxygen out of his lungs
as if it’s the last air to breathe.
as if those pink sacs are collapsing
in on themselves, into obscurity.

run to the end, and then run some more
past where the trail marker dictates is safe.
as if those ankles were machetes,
slicing away the brambles.

dance; spill the sweat; drench that floor
and don’t look back.
hold on to what energy remains tucked
in the crevices between tendons and bones.

this is all we’ve got.
throw your hands up, if you must.
but this is our only security.
what limited control we have.

with less than a perfectly manicured hand
curled eyebrows overflowing
burdened belt buckles
I will be there, raising my musical voice.

with meager resources at my beck and call
frugal assortment of associates
minuscule personal sacrifice
I will be there, agitating my aggressors.

with scantily prepared arguments,
captain of an wayward ship
rising fortunes lifting any doubts
I will be there, foraging for my fight.

why is anyone getting ahead?
you ask.
you huff,
as if blowing down the brick house was ever an option.

dude,
DUDE,
you live in a brick house.
you’re only inflating those precious lungs of yours.

this world you inherited -
and don’t doubt that you did, for a moment, sir -
it’s not so peachy.
you think you know that, but just hold on.

they – insert any one of them here -
don’t always have it easy.
and just because you think that incident in fifth grade
qualifies you as oppressed, I dare ask you to think again.

you don’t wake up and find yourself coated with doubt
of the very essence that you are
simply because of some particular, non-specific,
characteristic of personhood.

you don’t walk out your door and question whether what you wear
is ever going to be misconstrued as too flamboyant,
too political, too nauseatingly cliched
to be assumed to be something that you’re not.

you don’t bow your head in shame when people just like you
make insensitive, bigoted, obnoxious, ignorant, rude or hateful comments
about your skin / religion / sexuality / culture / gender / ability /
identity.

you need to chill, man. seriously.
we’re not taking your jobs, as if they were assigned to you,
or your women, as if they were your property,
or your neighbourhoods, as if you owned the whole damn block.

and no one cares how many blog hits you have.
no one cares how many times you’ve flipped through Ayn Rand
or how many times you’ve checked out the wikipedia edits for some conspiracy.
the doubts you have are yours unto your own.

the rain isn’t really coming down that hard.
if it was, you think we’d give you the time of day to spout all that nonsense?
we kid. of course we’d let you speak.
just when that time comes, have something smart to say, okay?

almost like natural armor
plating their vulnerable chests with
faded thin dyed cotton.

Guys who wear wolf shirts
do not drive a new Audi
and do not see the point
of a smart car.

Guys who wear wolf shirts
begrudging shave
but, as a stand off statement,almost political,
grow their mustaches into handle bars into goatees.

Guys who wear wolf shirts
like domestic
rather than overinflated import
beer.

Guys who wear wolf shirts
sign the backs
rather than the fronts
of cheques.

wolf shirts define class
in North America.

(Written at some point on the morning of May 5th, 2009)

at an altitude of 36000 feet
the desert is blue and
the horizon – there is no horizon -
blurs into a
pink peach tangerine tan

we might be flying upside down;
how would I know?

sand. it is immense.

it has literally moved mountains;
it carves its own.
the scales and tails of long ago rivers
ripple and stretch;
their fingers like forests fanning out
on the sea below.
the last cried tears left trails of their salty tears
that confuse and make us think:
oh, water.

only historically, it would seem.

but then. the movement of sand builds, and falls.
and the orange hills graduate
into green and blur -
could this be? are we at the edge? yes, those look like
real rivers and simple vegetation and
did I just see waves slapping at the shore?

oh. more sand.

that is its ability to conceal
in insolation its game.

now everything has turned blue.
dusk darkens the tones
and mutes them all out.

the sea of useless matter -
what, humans can’t seem to find
much economic use with it, thus it olds no value, right? -
has blurred further,
lying cold and restful in dormancy across the desert.

somewhere 1944 kilometers from Accra
there is a particular spot where
nothing distinctive takes shape.

its barrenness is unrivaled;
in the sea at least the wind plays and frolics
and foams up a shark or something.

that is a complete void -
an expanse of staleness, numbness,
a holding ground for future violent purgatories
or zen spaces
depending on the day’s heat.

then a ripple – a small one.
more sand.

December 16th 2009 5:32 pm

Of course, what is not included is that the Fleet Foxes’ album and EP were the most-played, most devoured bits of music for me this year.

I think the list has a bunch of dance music on it for a reason: workouts.  I think this list lacks any indie credit for another reason: hipster backlash.  I can’t be on top of music like I used to be.  It just doesn’t seem worth it.  That said, I always appreciate good recommendations.

1. Erykah Badu – That Hump
2. Crystal Method – Slipstream (featuring Jason Lytle)
3. Tori Amos – Flavor
4. Peter Bjorn and John – Blue Period Picasso
5. Pierre Lapointe – Je reviendrai
6. Basement Jaxx – Scars (featuring Kelis)
7. Madonna – Celebration (Benny Benassi Remix)
8. Felix Da Housecat – LA Ravers
9. Bloc Party – Signs (Armand Van Helden Mix)
10. Bat for Lashes – Daniel

11. BONUS: Shakira – Why Wait

what to some might be fevers
I fanned flames of the infernos
igniting until their last gasping breaths.

what to one might be solitudes
I shuttered out the abandonment
sequestered in this tormented mind.

this has not been my year,
and yet it has.

the boy from the bush
knows his orienteering lessons.
alignment with the righteous,
perhaps not one of those situations.

but the self-conscious
know the vim and vigour comes from only one source.

I tap into it, on occasion,
when the current well runs mohave dry.

shuffled out of the assortment of emotional backlogs
we find utility in the cards that lay ‘em straight.

we want all that we do not have,
and never seem to appreciate what we already possess.

three books -
volumes to be impressed upon the strangers who find such things
impressive.

security -
strategy to be let loose in the likely chance the circumstances will be
lost.

clear breathing -
inhalation to be demonstrated to those who rapturously applaud a healthy
demonstration.

I am approaching a turning point in my life.
seven years ago, I leaned back and felt a wave of
surging assurance that this was it.
the experience.

seven years later, the pent up causes and lost memories
of the moments of bliss – great and small – have assembled themselves.

I want simplicity in these experiences,
to relish, rejoice, rekindle and reuse incessantly.

I want the vocabulary bulk of convictions and fortitudes
to pierce beneath my tepid exterior and convince the dormant idealist
this is all worth living for.

I want the history of humankind to mean something other than
an accumulation of lost chances, broken hearts, resentful disagreements or
lingering regrets.

I want challenges. daily.  not of the kind, of late, that make a mockery
out of my survival instinct refinements.
Merely awaking passion for living would suffice.

I want unresolved tensions to fissure into glass blown objects,
embodying a transparency of their solution’s clarity.

I want anxious moments to dissipate faster than the microclimates
that shift around me from sunlight into showers and vice versa.

I want doubt to be an inspiring platform, a cliff to leap off,
a mere hesitant moment prior to trascendental soaring.

and I want to notice the fortunes that have bestowed this journey
with more than what the average fellow over the centuries has ever been
justified in tossing aside, let alone neglected.

I have privilege, then—
the crescendo of this exercise desperate to burst—
and all I seek now to do is to use it to my fullest advantage.

that will bring peace within.
and that, a wise one said, will bring peace to others.

kg / november 30 2009 9:43 pm

It started a really long time ago – December 6, 1978, to be precise – I’ve gone back to check it, believe me – and I knew there was potential in my plans. I wanted to escape, probably exactly like what a lot of people feel like doing when they’re that age and things aren’t going the way they like. When you’re six and you hate your world, which is so incredibly small to begin with, you just want to get away. You want to turn and flee; you want to punish others, not your own feeble little mind. More than just physically escaping, you want to turn back the clock to when you felt better. Those are the moments you hold in your core as the rationale for hope, right?

So I looked it up. I read all the best; the adventures that H.G. Wells wrote about gave me the best inspiration, to be honest. I’d skimmed them in my youthful fascination with all things Sci-Fi and I guess they stuck. They’re probably what others used before me when they embarked down similar paths. Just that I didn’t stop at the reading, the thinking, the dreaming. I envisioned it. And not just to a thought. To a specific, logical conclusion. What would it really be like, to travel through time? To really make a change in your present dimension and depart the current, real world, and find yourself somewhere else along your life path?

It is not that hard to imagine that these conclusions found their own manifestations in my work, and I was able to achieve what I started. I didn’t want to just rest assured that I, theoretically, could do it. I wanted to achieve something no one else had ever done. And so, just as you see here now in those documents I’ve mentioned, I’ve detailed the whole process, from startup to get go, from the conception to the realization. It’s there, for the taking. Follow the steps, 1, 2,3, and ta-da! I invented time travel.

Logically, I used myself as the first test subject. Because I believed that there could be a certain conclusion to my results, a particular finding in my trials, I thought it best that I be the first to really experience all that I had discovered. And, looking back, maybe that was my biggest fault. But I gotta be easier on myself, too. Who else would try my unproven methods? Exactly. That’s what I thought! No one!

So I went ahead and – trial and error, little by little – I figured out the best method for actually getting time to change for me. It’s not at all like those representations you’re used to. It’s not a bolt of light, or a puff of smoke, or anything overtly like a spectacle. It’s a quiet, basic, simple, procedure. Oh yes, there is quite a bit of warping away of your present circumstances, but it’s nothing like traveling through a worm tunnel or anything. I’m not even convinced we could do that if we tried! The process is what I call “Objective Dimensioning,” and there is a whole chapter laid out there in those documents about exactly how I did it. In retrospect, it was pretty simple, really, and I can’t believe someone didn’t stumble upon the process before me.

Of course, in my trials, I found a pretty substantial restriction that surprised me at first but I’ve grown to appreciate for what it is. One can’t merely jump to any period of the universe’s existence. If you didn’t exist, you can’t be in that time. It really is that simple. The revelation was certainly limiting, to be honest. I had these thoughts – probably from the Sci-Fi, maybe from popular culture’s horrendously inaccurate depictions of this sort of thing – that I could be visiting the stone age, or at least a few hundred years ago! In practice, though, it doesn’t work that way. I didn’t know if it would be worth any further tests when I found I couldn’t go beyond my birth. Hell, you all know that 1972 wasn’t nearly as exciting as, say, 1968. You can basically go back, but only as far back as you’ve physically been around. Your life can’t exactly invent memories from the past, now, could it?! So this was pretty shocking, and frustrating, at first.

The universe works in mysterious ways, and a limitation on how extensive time travel is possible is apparently one of them. It was a sobering thought. The other reality is that you can never travel forward without having experienced those moments first: until you’ve lived your life, you can’t be there in time. It was dissatisfying for me, but it also makes a lot of sense which I’ve grown to appreciate. Why would the universe, with all of its brilliance, allow for its own future discovery? The answer is it can’t. It’s one of its plans, I guess; an unwritten rule that just sort of… exists. I disagree with it, and I think it runs counter-intuitive to some of the secrets I’ve discovered, but, you know, you can’t argue with it. As much as I’ve tried.

So let me tell you what it was like, that first journey. Being six again was quite the profound moment. Okay. Let’s be clear. It wasn’t exactly “being” six, but more like, being “around” when I was six. I was there, and I was quite capable of recognizing my six year old self’s presence. Just that I couldn’t interact in that world whatsoever. I could just, you know, hang out in my six year old self’s life. Be present. Feel. Be there. But not alter it. Thinking about it now, it makes a lot of sense: any interactions I might have made would have royally screwed up my present ability to check in with the past! So the moment I arrived back in that time – in my documentation, I call these periods the Selected Juncture – I hardly knew exactly what I was experiencing. That’s why I say profound.

I wasn’t surprised to see myself sitting alone. I recall a lot of those moments from my childhood. But in this particular instance, I was crying. I saw that little guy – and I knew it was me – not feeling well at all! And then I tried to reach out – only I wasn’t able to, remember – and I wasn’t able to comfort myself. And that was a painful moment. Utterly aggravating, really. There were lots of things that caused trauma for me back in those days. It might have been school, might have been something else. I recall those moments clearly now, especially after checking into the Selected Junctures around that time. I was right there, with this strong desire to say to my six year old self – hey, it’ll be better! Just you wait, you’re going to shine. Brilliantly. And I wasn’t able to. It is a humbling experience of life.

The Selected Juncture is almost like a moving picture, rather than a fully enabling moment where you could move around and really do some serious interaction with your former self. It was restrictive and caused me great internal strife, that first visit. Every time I looked around, tried to feel out what this Selected Juncture actually meant, everything reminded me of all of those feelings once again. The pictures I had drawn that hung on the walls, the assembled rocket ships on my dresser, the socks scattered by the hamper in my bedroom, the sounds of my mother’s television shows drowning out the afternoon from downstairs, the noticeable absence in the home of my father, the unanswered barking of our family dog, Chippy, from the backyard – all of it will draw out these otherwise undetectable depths of our existence. So not only was I living the moment by observing myself, I was also rekindling all of those feelings. It was like a double whammy – the pinnacle of an experience!

It was in this I really grew to appreciate what I had done. By now, I knew the significance of what I had discovered. But I wanted to do more than invent some new process: I wanted to demonstrate the usefulness of this exercise. And I figured people wouldn’t necessarily find such Selected Junctures, these moments of depression, or sadness, or childhood ache, particularly useful to their present mental state. I certainly didn’t.

So I started to stew on the issue for a while. If I was able to tap into these sad moments, these Selected Junctures of pain, and feel nothing but the same tormented emotions, what would I experience if I was able to dial back to the days when I felt total bliss? This idea preoccupied me endlessly. I found a purposeful agenda: just imagine how incredible the emotional rush would be when I can capably reconnect with instances of sheer delight and gratification! Just imagine how wonderful it would feel to not only observe oneself in that euphoric state, but also to be rekindling these feelings from within for the second time! I knew the answer to these questions: It would be ecstatic! Rapturous! Total jubilance! It’d be the best pain killer in the world!

I had a goal, now, you see, that went far beyond my initial discovery and documented process of Objective Dimensionism. It was turning this new potential into something far beyond a mere exercise of rearranging the antimatter and challenging previously held conventions of quantum physics. I was going to save everyone who needed saving by helping them to be in their happy place – whenever and however they felt like they needed to be! Because, I suspect, most people’s happy place is really a state of mind about a how and when and why, rather than a physical location. And we all know that, if we really needed to be there, or if we really felt like bucking reality, there are very few barriers to physical travel to relive those places where we’ve had happiness in the past. I’ve taken those trips many a time, up the coast, down to the beach, into the forest fringe. They sometimes work wonders, I’ll give you that. But what if we could *really* transcend those barriers – and be experiencing again, fully, *how* we felt so good, *when* we felt so good, and *why* we felt so good. Beyond the good fortune of actually having my discovery work, I now had a precise goal for what to achieve with it.

I plotted for a while to figure out precisely when I had been so damn happy. It took quite a bit of effort. You know, when you think back at your life, there are those happy memories, for sure. But what are the ones that trigger immediate moments of pure, unfiltered glee? What are the times in your life when you consciously stop and think to yourself – this is one of those moments never to be forgotten?! And seriously, stop me here if I’m going on too long – but did you make that concerted effort to actually memorize what day, what time, what moment you really were that happy? Did you?

Because I am guessing you didn’t take quite that level of inventory of those moments, now did you? You think now – of course, in my past, I had these junctures where I was able to say at the time, man, this is the life! – but did you actually ever think of when they precisely were? Because what I’m getting at is time travel is no walk in the park. It takes so much effort to really get somewhere and go through these intricate re-experiencing sojourns. So are you going to spoil this splendid opportunity to re-experience your life on some random moment in your past, where you could be doing anything of sorts, or nothing of sorts? What if you were walking to work, or standing outside in the rain in a torrential downpour, or stuck in traffic? What if you were shitting? What if you were listening to the worst lecture you’ve ever heard, or frustratingly waiting for something to download, or sleeping? You don’t want to waste this great exercise on those menial, tedious, boring moments of life, now do you?

That’s what I’m trying to say. You gotta make an inventory.

So once I figured out I didn’t want to be in my six year old Selected Juncture, or any other Selected Junctures like it, I started to actually make a list. What are the moments that make me the most happy? I got them all in a chart. I categorized them from “OK” to “Ecstasy.” And then I started the hard work. What were the years? What were the months? What day of the week was it? What time of day was it? You need precision when time travelling. You need to know it was at precisely 4:13 pm on Friday March 24 1993 when you left your last college class and felt that relief of finishing something so monumental. When the last physics lab wrapped up, the last struggle through the education system, all of that – it ended. At least, I knew precisely that was the date.

But for someone else, that level of meticulous recollection could be mighty difficult. You gotta trick yourself into remembering. Perhaps you remember what sweater you were wearing at the time. If you can, you likely can piece together when you bought that sweater, and maybe gauge the year or the month from that. Or maybe you can remember what the weather was like. If it was summer, that narrows things down a bit, right? Or if you were doing something really specific, like building that model rocket, you can probably guess how old you were, or when your birthday or Christmas had been when that set arrived in your hands. Triggers like that are really important in pinpointing the Selected Junctures that you’re going to need for this inventory.

That’s why making this checklist is so damn important for this whole exercise. You’ll see, in my documentation, I dedicate a whole chapter to how I recommend you flush out your inventory. I picked things that I knew would be easy triggers. Important dates, obviously. When I got my dog, Dirac, in 1996, it was worthy of remembering that moment. But it wasn’t just my memory that came in handy. Some call me a pack rat for my collecting efforts, but I think of my filing as merely efficient planning for moments like these when I need them. So I have a lot of documents of my past. I traced back the ownership transfer agreement and all the veterinarian appointments in 1996 and pinpointed the date – Monday, August 5, 1996 – and guessed I must have picked Dirac up after my day in the lab, so that would have been about 5:40 pm given traffic in the region back then wasn’t nearly as bad as it is now, or so I hear. Anyway, important dates like that. Oh, and for the record: yes, getting Dirac – that is in my “Ecstasy” category. It was sublime.

So I’m describing all this to you for a reason. They don’t want me to share what I’ve discovered. In fact, they don’t want me to talk about it at all. That’s why I need your help. I haven’t really been that open to discussing my discoveries until now. That’s why I’ve given over the documentation. That’s why I’ve gone to great lengths to inform you of the necessary steps to take to follow what I’ve done. As I’ve said, I don’t think they fully understand it.

They came to the lab one night, after I had been to a particular Selected Juncture. It was a really simple one: I was living out Christmas 1998 again, which was really special for me because it was the year I took Dirac home to my mom’s place and we just had a really good time. I wanted to feel that warmth again that night, so I booked myself some time in the lab and started the journey. But they didn’t really understand what was happening, you see. The security guard had come by the lab. This happens a lot when you’re working alone at night, but usually I take my journeys at random times. I think this must have been a new guard. Anyway, he didn’t know what to think, I’m guessing, seeing me in that state.

Oh, I should tell you. In case it happens to you, when you’re following along and trying this out on your own. Your body never leaves the present. That is essential. There must be a linkage with the present. But what happens to you – the mind, the spirit, what have you – it’s not exactly something easy to appreciate to those who don’t know what’s going on.

So, anyway, the security guard came by and must have been a little shocked by my antics. They weren’t my present antics, but a transformation of my antics in the Selected Juncture into the present. It’s the weird way your body reacts in the here and now to what you’re experiencing. Anyway, I figure he must have called my supervisor, or something. I haven’t been able to piece it all back together yet. They really haven’t told me too much since that night.

When my lab supervisor arrived, I was already back from the Selected Juncture, but I think it was too late; he started shouting at me about abuse of my lab privileges, and started to really get in my face about what had happened. I tried to calm him down and explain what was going on, but I guess I wasn’t ready yet to fully relay my important discoveries. So I stumbled, I suppose. I told him lies. I told him I was doing work, but it was obvious I wasn’t. And then, when it was all looking like the evening might have just ended then, I got up the nerve to lean into my supervisor and fill him in on what I had done. And he didn’t react well. I told him all about it; the Selected Junctures, the inventory needed to tap into them, and my plans for creating these happiness journeys for all.

I guess it was overwhelming for him. Because I wanted to leave, but at that point he had the security guards arrest me. And I think I overreacted myself. I started to punch and scream, and I think I might have bit one of them. I fled down the hall to get away but there were more guards there. I don’t know where they get them all from at that time of night but they sure did seem to have a few! And after you’ve been tackled onto the pristine clean floor of a physics lab like that one, with a guard’s boot on your cheek and a forceful grip holding your arms tightly twisted behind your back, you don’t know what pain is. I thought I had experienced my share of pain in life until that point. When you’re forced into such a corner, you find yourself with your back up, ready to charge forward and demonstrate all that you are made of. And I guess that night I wasn’t made of that much.

So they’ve had me here for a while. I haven’t really had access to much, besides those papers, so that’s why I’ve entrusted you with them. It was a big feat to actually get them to deliver them to me. They had the ward’s main counselor in here daily, probably for a week or more, and I was finally able to convince him to get these documents from my place so that I could at least be sure they weren’t going anywhere. He really wanted me to trust him, so I gave an inch, like they say. I told him about where the documents were located and trusted beyond any level of trust I’ve ever held before in life that he would be able to deliver. So I’m happy about that.

I don’t really know what else to do now, though. That’s why I’ve presented this to you. I think you’re going to need to do some convincing for me. I thought I had everything laid out here. I even showed the counselor what I had compiled but he didn’t really seem to notice the significance of all of it. He said – can you believe this – it doesn’t really count as proof. As if he would be able to understand proof, then, when it’s laying right in front of him! When it’s demonstrated to him right in front of his eyes! I asked for some equipment from the lab to see if he’d let me demonstrate but he said there will be a time and place for that in the future, not now. I don’t really know what he meant. It’s a little confusing, honestly.

So see what you can do. And, like I said. I hope I’m not sounding too contrite over the matter. I don’t really feel too much hostility to them, anyway. They are only doing their job. I just hope they realize they are preventing me from advancing us – us all – the longer they keep me here. So. Do what you can. See if you can get it out there, a bit more. And thanks for listening tonight. You’ve been a good friend.

He looked around the rented hotel suite. His suitcase sat partially closed at the edge of the bed. Three articles sat on the bedside table. He embarrassingly stuffed them into the remaining space in the bag. How could I be so stupid? He thought, trying to minimize any remaining damage to be done. He grabbed the lint brush from the edge of the case and rubbed off the hairs still clinging to his paint legs.

The toilet flushed. Moments later, Cassandra emerged from the washroom, attaching her left earring as she flicked off the light and closed the door behind her. “So? What have you decided?” she asked calmly.

“I haven’t,” Roger replied.

“Haven’t what?” Cassandra asked.

“Haven’t decided. This is going to take on a life of its own anyway,” Roger sighed.

“Well you don’t have much time to cross that bridge,” Cassandra retorted, anger in her breath.

“I’m well aware of that,” Roger replied.

“Really, now,” Cassandra said, as she fished through her purse for her lipstick. “I could have guessed otherwise.” She couldn’t find the shade she was looking for, and went back to the washroom to search there.

Roger didn’t answer. He looked at the television. The rally had started. Placards bearing his name had risen amongst the clutter in the crowd, a swell of anticipation running through the convention centre. The anchor of the show was bantering with an expert on these things. The days’ headline was clear on the scroll across the bottom of the screen. “It all comes down to this.” In a moment, Roger’s handlers would be here, awaiting his departure for the acceptance speech. How today’s revelations would play out was unknown to him. A tinge of panic attacked him. He reached for the cellphone on the desk and flipped it open. No new messages. In his small moment of hesitation, Roger dialed the only number that mattered right now. Three rings later, a female voice answered.

“Peter Dreadwell campaign,” said the cheerful woman on the other end.

“It’s me, Raquel. I need to speak to Pete,” Roger said.

“Uh, he’s in makeup. Let me see if I can get him,” the woman replied.

“It’s urgent,” he answered.

A few seconds past. Silence on the other line. Cassandra came out of the washroom. When she saw him on the phone, she hesitated, and then spoke. “I hope you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”

“Shh,” he beckoned to her. Finally, a voice on the line.

“Roger I have fifteen minutes before I speak. What is it?” the man said.

“Pete I need to tell you something before we accept,” Roger replied.

“What is it!?” Peter shouted back.

“Pete, they know,” Roger answered, trying to muffle his voice as if it would make a difference.

“Who knows?” Peter replied, this time much calmer.

“The papers. The opposition. The staff. It’s going to spread. How much time, I don’t know. But it’s out there,” Roger said.

“How can you be so certain?” Peter said.

“Cassandra just heard it from her insider in the Daily’s newsroom. Apparently it got leaked by someone from the hotel last weekend,” Roger said.

“Any idea how much time we have?” Peter answered, calculating.

“Maybe an hour. Two at tops. Just after the speeches, I am guessing,” Roger said.

A long pause. Roger hesitated on the phone. “Should I call the ship?”

“Yes, alert them. I am going to think up some revisions to my speech. We don’t have much time. Hurry down here to the stage when you can,” Peter answered. “And I mean hurry.”

“Yes, Pete,” Roger replied, and hung up the phone. He let out a great sigh. “Well, that is over. Can you call the ship for me?” he asked Cassandra.

“You’re asking a lot. But that wouldn’t be the first time,” she said. She took her communicator out of her luggage and set it up on the desk. “You better hurry. Get downstairs.”

Roger agreed and grabbed his suit jacket. A tuff of fur tumbled out of a pocket on the floor behind him, but he failed to notice. He opened the door just as the handlers came up the hallway.

“We’re ready for you, Mr. Stead,” said the younger one, puffing slightly from the pace.

“I’m ready too,” Roger replied, without much convincing in his voice.

The handlers walked in front of Roger as they made their way down the hallway. They took the elevator to the first basement floor of the hotel. There, additional staff were waiting and grabbed ahold of Roger’s arms as soon as he stepped out onto the floor. “Mr. Stead, we have makeup in two minutes and then you’ll be seated at the edge of the stage,” said one of the staff.

“Where is Peter?” Roger asked.

“He is already rehearsing with his staff. Last minute changes to the speech, apparently. We don’t have much time. Come this way please,” said the staffperson.

Roger followed and sat in the brightly lit makeshift makeup station. An artist applied some basic powder and concealer. His forehead was particularly shiny from sweat. “Getting nervous, huh?” said the woman, cheerfully.

“Always a few jitters before a moment like this,” Roger replied, trying to smile.

“You’ll be fine. Just picture them all naked!” laughed the makeup artist. Such a terrible, useless old joke, Roger thought. Especially in his case.

After a quick application, Roger was rushed out of the makeup chair and next to the stage. As he walked forward, he noticed Cassandra exiting the elevator. “Roger! I have to speak with you! Now!” she bellowed.

He paused and turned back. “What is it?” he asked.

“Let’s go and find Peter,” she said.

Roger looked at the aid next to him. “Where is Peter rehearsing those changes?”

“He’s in the prep room next to the stage, but… he’s not to be disturbed,” the aid hesitated.

“Take us there, now,” Roger commanded.

The aid flinched at the directness. He escorted Roger and Cassandra to the prep room. He held open the door for the two to enter and then scurried away, afraid to have made a gross miscalculation.

Peter looked up from the paper he was reading from. “What is it?” he said directly at the pair.

“Cassandra just spoke with the ship, and said she needed to inform us of their commands,” Roger replied.

“Well, not exactly,” Cassandra interrupted. “But they did have this to say.”

“What?” Peter asked, belligerently.

“Don’t tell them about the kitten eating at first. They are pretty sure the humans will not respond well to that,” she answered.

“I wasn’t going to,” Peter replied. “It’s going to be enough of a shock.”

Roger was relieved. He had secretly hoped it wasn’t going to be worse. There was a chance the commanders on the ship would have required something much more of them – perhaps, to withdraw their joint candidacies, or flee, or worse – to caution the human race for an attack.

“Should we tell the rest of the staff now?” one of Peter’s aids asked.

“No. They should find out like everyone else,” Peter replied.

“Okay. Just checking. Because this suit is really itching on my scales,” the aid replied.

“Well keep it on. You don’t have to wait much longer,” Roger answered. He, too, was frustrated with the suit he was wearing, but just like in the past, he had to get through another day with it on. After tonight, it might not matter anymore.

“Are you ready, Roger?” Peter asked, noticing his eyes shifting around the room. “I made appropriate amendments to the speech.”

“As ready as I probably ever could be,” Roger replied.

“I’ll be right out the side,” Cassandra added. “Just get through the initial shock and… play it from there.”

“Could we have a moment, then?” Peter asked the others in the room. “I need to talk to Roger in private.”

The staff acknowledged their boss’ need and left quietly.

“We made it this far. There is no turning back now,” Peter said to his friend. “Even that is impressive.”

“I know,” Roger answered. “It’s just going to be so.. different. Do you think they have a clue what’s coming?”

“What, that a couple reptilian kitten eaters are running for the leadership of the United States? They haven’t got a chance!” Peter laughed. “But you know what? I don’t think it’s going to matter. They would vote for a fence post if it promised as many tax cuts as we have.”

“I hope you’re right,” Roger said, a slight sign of relief that the moment had arrived. “Come on, go get ‘em.”

The door opened. The applause awaiting their arrival on the stage had swollen to a feverish pitch. The two newcomers to the country made their way. Pioneers, Roger thought, as Peter took the podium and began beaming with excitement.

Was this really the afterlife? He thought to himself. He knew he had left his life – that was an instant realization. But this world! It was so stunning! So intensely pure and awe-inspiring and beautiful! Eddie’s fortunes had just been revealed.

He looked out, upon feeling himself placed high on a branch. Perched above him, a small yellow bird, perhaps a canary, he wasn’t sure, sang sweetly. The rustling of its wings shook a twig from the branch and it cracked in the tiniest of pleasurable sounds to tumble below. Eddie followed it with his gaze as it gleefully swooped down to the ground, landing softly in a dense mat of the most luscious moss.

Eddie swirled his head around in order to gain some orientation. He had, in fact, morphed out of this tree into this world – there was no question he had come from behind. But where that source was? There was no obvious permeable opening to the bark, nor a hole that he might have tumbled from. He certainly did not recall falling here. That would be impossible! Somehow, the notion of being reborn into this world was anything but distressing. A calm embraced his whole body, much the same way the sun’s rays began to warm his skin. And that was when Eddie realized he was not wearing anything! Not a stitch of fabric, no loin cloth, no watch, no glasses! He was bare naked, seated high on a branch, in the midst of a beautiful grove of trees. To be reborn is to be renewed in the most humbling of ways, he thought. Of course I shall be naked! What a freeing experience!

Eddie looked down at the branch beneath him. While he was seated fairly high, perhaps 3 or 4 metres above the ground, he felt at ease with the distance. He decided it would be worthwhile to climb down and see what other sights awaited him in this new reality. He slid himself carefully back against the trunk of the tree, cautiously to prevent scratching his exposed self, and stood up and turned around. Slowly, Eddie moved his feet down to lower branches, wary of the potential for falling but euphoric at the potential of this new experience. Prudently, one foot after the other, Eddie made his way down the trunk. It was almost too easy of a journey; the tree seemed to have grown exactly into a ladder for Eddie’s descent. He looked around as he descended. The floor of the forest was covered in an abundant cover of flora, mushrooms peaking out of tree roots, flowers of a rainbow of colours exploding out of tall grasses. Eddie could hardly contain himself. He quickened his descent and rushed to the ground.

And with one foot on the mossy surface, all of his present reality changed. The brilliant sun seemed to close itself into the sky, filling the air with a cold, dark storm. The tree branches that had guided his climb morphed into cancerous bulbs of rickety old bark. The flowers that had, moments ago, stood so elegantly in the grass undertook a transformation of malaise and wilt, collapsing into darkening piles of drooping, dying leaves. Rather than allowing for an exploration of the forest below, Eddie’s descent caused the degeneration of his surroundings into a regressed, withering netherworld. His mood changed abruptly too. Eddie’s skin, no longer heated by the warmth of the sky, grew cold and developed rapidly into a series of goose bumps. No longer feeling a euphoria of happiness, Eddie didn’t know what to do. Everything had seemed so simple, so wonderful, only moments before. He tried to scramble back up to the tree, but it was no use; the branches he had used for descent had wilted into the trunk as it became moist and wet to the touch of his hands and feet. There would be no immediate way to climb this thing.

A flock of pigeons swept by in the bristly dark air. Pigeons!? Eddie thought. I didn’t even know they came out at night. Their formation was tight, scripted almost. Eddie followed their movement with his fearful eyes. They soared upwards and landed on the branch above where Eddie had first found himself in this mysterious place. And then, upon resting on the tree, their eyes looked down ominously, as they opened their beaks and cooed loudly. This was their territory, in other words. Eddie sensed their possessiveness.

He made a decision. Rather than waiting around, Eddie started to run. Dashing naked through the trunks of the trees, he ambled as quickly as he could, hoping to find some sense of shelter. What had been so simple, real and joyful had morphed so rapidly into a nightmare. This was far from enjoyable. Eddie passed what seemed like hundreds of trees. Rocks on the ground shot pain into his feet with every foot’s impact. The moments, each ticking by so slowly, took on what felt like an eternity of anticipation and anxiety. What seemed liked a cry from behind him only hastened his pace, pushing Eddie to run even faster, his heels aching now from the impacts on the solid cold ground, his sweat an unhelpful armour on his already chilled body. All he wanted was escape.

The smell of decay lingered into his nose in every movement. The sound of howling, danger and darkness penetrated his head and seemed to swelter in the air. Eddie was in no wonderful place; the forest, rather than engrossing him with comfort, was a foreign, dangerous and inhospitable place. Eddie wanted to cry, but in this afterlife, there were no tears. Just torment and pain. He wanted to duck down, to crawl into himself, to tear apart the very reality encapsulating him. He wanted to be rid of this new reality and replace it with something — anything! — that would free him from the fright lurking around every corner.

And it was in this moment of fear that, just as quickly as things had changed before, they changed again. Suddenly, the forest’s wretched character rescinded back into itself. Like a fog lifting, the clarity began to rise as well: the forest undertook a transformation once again. The beauty and wonder of Eddie’s original landing space took over. Clouds parted; rays of hope shone through the once black spaces and filled the floor of the woods with an affectionate temperature. The pain once sheering through his feet converted itself into a comfortable, resonating fondness for the soft earth.

Eddie slowed his pace and caught his breath. What he lacked in knowledge for what exactly this place was, he held in appreciation for the end of the torment, if only temporary. He grabbed at his knees and breathed deep. Lungs filling with sweeter, warmer air, Eddie indulged in his surroundings. No longer a forest culpable of nightmarish horror, the woods had opened up to a beautiful clearing, the tree line receding to reveal a small brook babbling about. Eddie walked forward to the water’s edge and was amazed to discover the clearest, cleanest looking stream he could ever recount. There, pebbles glistened under the sparkling undulations of the rippling surface. On one of the larger rocks, Eddie noticed movement. A small frog had hopped from under the bank of the stream to sun itself on a ebony stone. Eddie kneeled down to get a closer look.

The frog, instead of startling itself back into the water, appeared to look directly up at him. And then, it did something even more profound. It began to speak.

“Welcome to your new universe,” the frog said.

Eddie reacted as one would expect. He moved back with amazement. “You can speak?” he asked.

“Just as sure as you can live on in an afterlife, yes!” the frog replied. “This is a parallel universe to what you considered your real life. Here, unlike where you felt you lived, you are still living. And things here are different.”

“I have noticed!” Eddie remarked. “For one, the frogs talk!”

“We talk in your universe, you silly. You humans just fail to notice us,” the frog replied.

“What do you mean, universe? I thought I was dead?” Eddie asked, inquisitively.

“In your universe, yes, you died. But here, you have just started your adventure,” the frog said. “That blip you just experienced was part of the crossover effect. Sometimes when someone transitions, there is a minor irregularity between life and death. In this universe, death is a mere process rather than a finality. It always results in more life.”

“Well, frankly, I think that’s how it works in our world too,” Eddie said. “But usually things don’t come back to life.”

“Oh, they do, just that you refuse to recognize them. That’s the reason why most of you end up here, eventually. So you can appreciate the completeness of this place,” said the frog.

“You mean there are others here?” Eddie asked.

“Of course. Go out and find them,” the frog said.

Eddie was delighted. Rather than feeling tormented by his present circumstances, he felt a sense of potential and kinetic energy. Before he got up from the brook, he inhaled and asked one more question.
“And who are you? Why do you know so much?”

“Why, I am you,” the frog said nonchalantly.

“Me? How is that possible?” asked Eddie.

“The universe operates in mysterious ways. Even you – me – we do not understand it completely. But in time you will find there is more to your existence than merely yourself. You will start to see shreds of your former self all around you. Pay attention: these are signs from the universe to ultimately enjoy and appreciate life to the fullest,” said the frog.

“I will, then,” Eddie said, smiling, as he stood up and made his way off into the woods. “Thankyou,” he called out, over his shoulder.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

A hand outstretched from the covers. It swooped quickly and hit the snooze on the alarm. The beeping stopped, at least for the next nine minutes.

Eddie rolled over and grabbed the pillow that had fallen over the edge of the bed. He shoved it over his head and buried himself from the morning sunlight.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The alarm sounded again. This time, he flipped the alarm off and pushed off the blanket. “That was one fucked up dream,” Eddie thought to himself, as he yawned. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. 6:54 am. Time to shower.

Eddie crawled out his warm bed and walked to his washroom. He flipped on the light and looked at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw did not impress: where his ears should have been, Eddie had developed mutated, amphibian-like slits. He was becoming a frog.

“Let’s go inside,” Derik said, inhaling deeply from the smoke.  “I’m freezing.”

Chelsea nodded, grabbing the cigarette for one last puff before tossing it into the bushes beside the door, the butt still burning slightly.

“I need to pee,” she said as Derik held open the door.

“Again?” He replied.

“Yeah,” she said.

They made their way to the side of the entrance hallway and joined the long line of gallery attendees lined up for the two single use washrooms.  Mostly women ahead of them, in various stages of costumed dress.  One woman’s shirt hung low on her left shoulder.  Another’s draped barely across her chest, bra straps and pads clearly visible as she leaned against the painted black non-functioning radiator running up the wall.  The conversation in front of them was mostly self-indulgent banter.  Someone laughed at a joke.  Someone sneezed into a bandana she had to pull out from her front pocket.  The woman directly in front of them spilled a drop of red house wine on her blouse as she was bumped by the sneezer.  In reaction, she looked down and laughed gleefully.  “I should stain the whole thing with wine!” she said, patting her breast with her sleeve.

“I wonder why Cory didn’t come tonight?” Chelsea said, ignoring the ongoings in the washroom line.

“Probably went to that jazz thing on Main,” Derik said.  “He sent me the facebook invite but I didn’t really look at it that hard.”

“Oh,” said Chelsea.  “Where was that showing?”

“I don’t remember,” Derik answered.

“Do you want to get some food after this?” Chelsea switched topics.  “I am really craving a milkshake.”

“The Templeton is always open,” Derik suggested.

“Yeah, let’s do that.  I’m done with this show anyway,” Chelsea announced.

“Me too,” said Derik.

Another ten minutes went by.  “Papa Don’t Preach” echoed through the hallways of the gallery.  People in line were getting anxious to use the washroom facilities, but started dancing in their spots anyway.

“Ooh, I love this song,” Chelsea sang along.

“Meh, she’s so overdone!”  Derik said.  “Every fucking party! Another Madonna!”

“Whatever, you’re just jealous of her,” Chelsea teased.

“Jealous of her brood of children? Nah, she can keep the diapers, thanks,” Derik laughed.

Finally, the two were at the front of the line.  Chelsea was squeamish.

“I think I need to go too,” Derik said.  “Good thing I waited with you!”

“You’ll have to go after me, I can’t hold it any longer!” Chelsea said.

The two entered the washrooms after what seemed like hours of waiting.  Derik waited afterwards for Chelsea by the door.  The line had mostly slowed down following the pair, a mere pack rather than a queue.  The gallery was slowly clearing out.  The DJ had started to play slower songs and the bar had only a few clingers hanging out.

“Let’s go get that milkshake!” Chelsea said as she scampered down the hall.

“I don’t know if I want one anymore,” Derik sulked.  “But let’s go get a drink or something.”

“Fuck, I want a milkshake though!” Chelsea whined.  “Maybe they serve booze there?”

“Couldn’t you just eat McDonald’s?” Derik questioned.

“They have, like, beef fat in that, Susanna told me,” Cheslea said.  “I can’t eat that.”

“Well no shit, it’s animal fat in a milkshake you retard,” Derik said.

“No, like, real fat! She was serious!” Chelsea defended her statement.

“Okay, fine, like I care.  Let’s get the fuck out of here then,” Derik retorted. “I’m going to call Cory and see how that show went.”

Derik took out his phone – the newest model, a shiny, skinny bar – and called up his friend.  “Cory?  Where you at?  Oh.  I can’t hear you. What? What? I still can’t hear you.  What? OK CORY WE’RE GETTING THE PRINCESS HERE A MILKSHAKE.  Can you hear me?  Call me when you leave!”

“What did he say?” Chelsea asked.

“I couldn’t hear a fucking thing he said.  I think he’s still at the show.  Man, is it cold out here!” Derek shivered.  Neither of the two were wearing anything remotely warm enough for a cool fall evening like this one.

“Let’s get a cab!” Chelsea suggested.  She waved down one on the street and hopped in, pushing the door open behind her for Derik.  “To the Templeton on Granville, please,” she beckoned to the driver.

The cab dropped them off at the cafe and sped off.  The two found a booth in the back and ordered one large chocolate milkshake and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon for Derik.  They danced in their seats as a familiar tune by Johnny Cash played on the jukebox.  The other patrons laughed at their conversations and looked around at each other out of the corners of their eyes.  The waitress swept up a plate of half eaten french fries and dumped it into a bin under the counter.  The place was humming, especially it being  midnight.  Two smokers kept the door open as they finished a cigarette.  Someone yelled for them to shut it, and they complied, with a laugh.

“What should we do after this?” Chelsea asked.

Derik drained back his beer.  “I don’t have any plans,” he answered.

“I thought that show sucked, to be honest,” Chelsea said, after swallowing a big gulp of her chocolate shake.  “It was super super lame.”

“Whatever,” Derik said, not paying much attention.  He looked over at the waitress, wiping up one of the booths recently vacated.  “What do you think of her shirt?”

“I love that plaid look,” Chelsea answered, totally engrossed in the basic conversation.  “I want to get one of those.  I saw them at Urban Outfitters.”

“You can’t be serious,” Derik snarled.  “You have to go vintage or don’t bother.”

“Ew, gross!” Chelsea said, piercing her lips in a sour face.  “Those places stink.”

“The stink makes the clothes more authentic,” Derik said with a smile.

“I don’t really care about authenticity.  I just think it looks nice,” Chelsea answered, sipping again at her shake.  “I also like that belt.”

“Whatever, you could totally make that out of twine from the Homo Depot,” Derik said.

“You’re so crude!” Chelsea laughed.

The two bantered lightly as they finished their drinks.  More young people flooded into the cafe and filled up all the remaining booths.  The sound of the place grew; now the conversations over plates of greasy food and more beer and shakes was loud enough they could barely make out the muffled sound coming from the fairly ancient jukebox.  The old Elvis clock hanging on the wall read 12:35.

“The night’s still young.  What do you wanna do?” Chelsea asked, her shake almost gone.

“I don’t know, I’m feeling kind of tired,” Derik yawned.

His phone rang.  He picked it up and answered.  “Cory!  Where the fuck are you?”

Chelsea sat and waited in anticipation for the conversation’s results.   “Uh huh, uh huh, nah it sucked.  You are there? Why?  Come join us at the Templeton!  Oh. Fine then. You loser! K, let’s talk tomorrow.  Peace,” said Derik.

“What? What did he say?” Chelsea asked, inquisitively.

“He went to the gallery, but now he’s going home with some chick.  The dork,” Derik said.

“You’re jealous!” Chelsea smiled.

“Of Cory?  Not. possible,” Derik said.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Chelsea said, after a moment’s pause.  They paid their bill to the waitress with the loose plaid shirt and walked outside.  “You wanna take a cab?” she asked.

“I think the bus is still running.  Let’s walk over a couple blocks and see.  I’m broke anyway,” Derik answered.

A cab rushed by the street. The rain runoff, having not drained completely, had created a small lake in the road.  The cab splashed a wave of the water on the two as they made their way down the sidewalk.

“FUCK!” yelled Derik, his legs now soaked from just below the knee all the way down to his retro-looking high tops.  “I just got these!”

Chelsea whimpered.  “I know!  My pumps!  I love these!  And now my feet are going to freeze!”

A guy stumbling down the street from one of the bars a block or so away saw the splash.  He pointed the pair out to his friends, none of which were wearing a sweater or jacket.  In their t-shirts, they laughed.  “Fucking hipsters! haha!” he said.

Derik didn’t say anything.  Neither did Chelsea.  They took a sharp turn left and walked to the bus.

“Get me home, I’m freezing!” Chelsea uttered, her teeth clenched, after they turned off the street.

“Tonight was so not cool,” Derik responded.

“Tomorrow let’s go to that show at the Commodore everyone’s been talking about,” Chelsea said, as the bus pulled near.

“Can we get tickets?” Derik said as he flashed his pass at the driver.

“There’s no way it’s sold out.   It’s supposed to be super obscure,” Chelsea suggested.

“Awesome, I love that shit,” Derik remarked.  The cold and wet pair made their way to the back of the bus and huddled in close, inhaling the warm radiator fumes and waiting out the ride home.  Just before crossing the bridge, the bus splashed a big wave of rainwater onto a bunch of young people spilling out onto the street from one of the bars.

“Ha ha!” Derik laughed.

There is a certain futility to expecting change. Adam had a lot of futility, tonight, it seemed.

“Well I know, but what else am I supposed to do?” he said.

“Finish your fucking assignment, that’s what!” Steve said, passively. He picked up his fork and drove it into the steak in front of him, piercing the flesh solidly.

Here, catch up: Adam didn’t finish the term paper for the joint course on chronic drug abuse. Steve did. They may have been friends for years, but Steve has always been uber-protective over what he considers his. Especially when it comes to school. Adam, the easier going of the two friends, hasn’t always been the most studious of students. This situation has played out many times before. This is simply the latest in a series of confrontational dinners the two friends have had. And it’s the beginning of the end of the friendship, in all reality. The two just don’t know it yet.

“I tried, but I just can’t! I’m exhausted,” Adam retorted. He noticed how hard that fork struck the meat. He knew that was like digging into the sand.

“Bullshit. You haven’t tried at all. I saw you playing Halo for hours last night. You sat on your ass while I fucking slaved to get done. And you know what I’m going to do tonight? Fuck all! That’s what! Because I’m finished!” Steve answered.

Adam didn’t have more to say. He’d tried this line of reasoning many times before. It was true. At Halo, he was an excellent player. Efficient, clean, direct. Academics, not so much. Borrowing from others, as in Halo, Adam excelled. Just that Steve wasn’t that other.

Adam cleared his plate into the sink. He didn’t bother rinsing it off. He stormed down the hall and slammed the door to his room. Steve opened his mouth to yell, but stopped himself. This tension had built for weeks. It wasn’t the assignment, Steve thought, it was something else about their friendship that was culminating in this current strain.

Steve shrugged to himself and let out a loud sigh, hoping Adam would hear it through his shut door. He finished his meal slowly, pausing and resting his fork after every bite to chew an appropriately high number of times. He put his plate in the sink above Adam’s, careful not to have them hit together, and ran some luke warm water from the faucet over them. Shutting off the light in the kitchen, he went to the den of their shared apartment and turned on the TV with the remote left on their ragged but comfortable couch. An infomercial for some new exercise routine was playing. Steve flipped through the channels, the noise of random car crashes, dialog or shitty background music filling the otherwise empty air in the apartment. Finally, he settled on a rerun of some old movie. It might have been half over; Steve didn’t really mind. He wasn’t paying attention to it anyway.

Adam looked down at his desk. Scattered amongst a few plates covered with crumbs, ketchup and pizza crusts, papers stained with the rings of coffee mugs looked up at him with disgust. Adam hadn’t finished an assignment on time for most of his college years. Tonight would be the same. The subject matter at least interested him, but it wasn’t his conviction to hunker down and tear through the writing that was needed.

Adam looked at the laptop. Three instant messages sat unanswered. Two were from girls from school he was busy flirting with, the third his younger brother. He clicked through the first one: “What u up 2 tonite?” He closed the message box. The next: “Are you finished this assignment for psych?” This was from Samantha. “No,” he typed back. “Any ideas?” He waited a moment, but there was no reply. Must have gone offline. The final one, from his brother: “I whooped your ass last night,” referring to their Halo match. Adam closed that box as well. Underneath the instant messaging program lay open his word processor. Four short paragraphs sat on the screen, unedited quotes lifted directly from the readings scattered across the desk and the floor of his small bedroom. This was going to take some serious work.

Adam looked away from the screen and to his window. He could see his reflection, a tired and pained face, a man with too little sleep, a worried soul. Why do I always have to fuck this up? He thought.

Steve’s anger had dissipated a little, but the movie didn’t hold his interest. He stared at the screen, trying to grasp what was going on. The characters were so rigid and stiff, he thought. There is no real emotional connection between them. Why does anyone think these movies are any good? He thought. He was trying desperately hard to focus on his evening. His assignment complete for a full day, Steve actually had the night to relax. But one of his greatest obstacles was that he didn’t really have anything to do right now. Usually it was Adam who would entertain him on a night like this, taking him to a pub, or a party, or challenging him to a video game or something. Why does he fucking always have to be behind on his schoolwork!?

Adam looked back at the screen and exhaled. He raised his fingers to the keyboard and typed. “Chronic drug abuse has been a problem for all of human history.” He wrote. “Since the first time man discovered hallucinogens, he has also found what it means to be addicted.” There. a start. two sentences. Shit. This paper is not going to write itself, he thought. Adam turned around in his desk chair and got up. He walked over to the stereo on the shelf near his bed and turned it on. A hard rock radio station played loudly. He pressed a button and it switched to a CD. Some new soft rock band Steve had lent him. Not exactly his cup of tea, but good background music. He turned it down so it was audible but not disturbing. He looked around. The bed, unmade, really needed to be washed. There were clothes scattered across the floor, CD cases strewn around the shelf in no particular order, and a poster coming unhinged from the wall from its top corner. This place is a mess, he thought. Adam picked up a couple of the CDs and stacked them next to some old textbooks on the shelf, and threw back the cover of the bed to give it a slightly better appearance. He picked up a couple socks and pieces of underwear, a sweater and two t-shirts and threw them in the corner of his room next to the closet. A porno, half exposed now under his bed from where a t-shirt lay, looked out at him. Adam picked it off the floor and stuffed it behind his bed. No need for distractions tonight. Must write this fucking paper.

Steve’s eyes glazed over as the movie took a predictable turn and the credits went running. This night sucked. His best friend was pissed off at him, he had nothing to do, and he felt really lonely. Sitting there on the couch, Steve’s face sank. He didn’t feel good. He wanted to at least understand what was going on here. He didn’t mean to piss off Adam, but goddamnit, why did he have to procrastinate his school work so much? It’s his fault we can’t do anything together tonight. If he’d stop being so lazy about school, the two of them could be doing something besides sulking in separate rooms. Steve didn’t really care all that much about this particular assignment. Maybe I should just go and help him. No, I can’t. He’s got to write it on his own. It’s the only way he’ll ever learn.

It was a hard thought for Steve to appreciate. Even if he knew it was right, he didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to help Adam change. He wanted to show him how, if he just managed his time a little better, he could be more free to do the things he really wanted to do. Adam just needed to be reigned in a little. That’s all. He just needs a bit more self-discipline.

Adam sat down at the desk again. The cursor blinked back and forth after his two sentences. He started to type. “So, if abuse of drugs has been a character trait of man for all of time, why do we not have better ways of treating chronic users?” Three sentences. In the month leading up to tomorrow’s deadline, Adam had crafted three shitty, pathetic sentences. He knew Steve could help him focus his thoughts. He just didn’t want to go there again. He had asked for help so many countless times before that he felt he had pushed Steve perhaps one too many times. It wasn’t like tonight’s reaction was the first time he had been yelled at. But he also knew that perhaps Steve was growing tired of always bailing him out with school.

Mind you, Adam thought, I’ve always been there to bail him out of his own shit. Steve was a total introvert, and Adam was always more than happy to push him just a little to get out there and have a good time. That is how their friendship had remained balanced; one pushing the other, each in his own way, to make the small changes necessary to do a bit better in life. Not that either had succeeded greatly. Adam still took forever to finish his homework; Steve still sat around aimlessly without really socializing too much outside of Adam’s group of friends. And even then, he was only doing that when Adam brought them by or invited Steve out with him. Adam sighed. The screen hadn’t filled itself with any more writing.

Steve got up from the couch and went back to the kitchen, after a half an hour or so had passed. He took the kettle off the stove and filled it with water from the tap, turned on the element and waited for it to boil. In the meantime, he found a box of tea from the cupboard and picked out something with a green label. He thought he heard a stirring, so he turned around. Adam was standing in the door of the kitchen.

“What’s up?” Steve said, a bit startled. Adam just stared at him, deep into his eyes. “What, what are you looking at?” Adam didn’t reply. He waited a moment, in total hesitation. Then, he moved quickly. Almost too quickly. He saddled up to Steve, grabbed the back of his head with both of his hands, and laid a giant kiss on his mouth. Steve, startled, also hesitated, and then after a moment, kissed back.

Adam pulled away. “You’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Steve replied, totally unbalanced.

“I know you. You wanted that, and you want a lot more. And that’s fine. I’m okay with it, Steve. Just that I’m not into you. You know I like chicks. But I’m totally okay with you,” Adam said.

Steve stood silent. He looked down at Adam’s arms. They were relaxed at his side. A moment passed, what felt like eternity. It was a moment of acknowledgment.

“So you want help with that paper or what?” Steve said, finally.

Ozhaawashkwaa, my name, is mine because they gave it to me. But now I have a new name. Now I am James Henry Wilson. I didn’t choose this name. It was chosen for me, a gift they said, when they took me from my home. Took me from my natural place on this earth. Now, James Henry Wilson is the one who goes to school and tries to make friends with the other kids, none who are brown like me, none who were named because of the swift flowing currents, none who inherited this world alone. Now, James Henry Wilson studies diligently in the attic of a new family, a white family, a family who prays at the dinner table and cherishes the warmth of the hearth instead of a fire and who do not like it when the rabbits are caught in the traps I set in the yard. I am not comfortable here as James Henry but it is what the Wilson family wants. I do not have a choice.

I do not need to be someone else. I was already someone. Why did they choose to make me someone I am not? This is a strange community. The people are not like back home. The people here say they are caring for my best interests. I don’t think they really know what my best interests are. If they did, they wouldn’t tell me to stop when I speak my way. They do not like it when I do that. When I use the words I was given. Like my name. Ozhaawashkwaa. They do not like me to be myself, really. They want a good son, even if he is a brown son. They want me to adapt to their ways, to their beliefs, and to their ideals for the future. Me, I would like to go home. I know that ideal grows further and further away from me each passing year, however.

I tried to go back, twice. I tried to return home. I was foolish, though. The first time, I left in the middle of the night, thinking they wouldn’t be able to find me until at least the morning. But somehow I startled the horses, and then Mr. Wilson – he wants me to call him father, but I know my only real father is somewhere down the river, not him – came running after me. He saw my tracks in the mud and found me. The second time, I thought I was smarter. I made it to the river before anyone noticed I was gone. But it seems I picked up too many traits here in this foreign place. I acted more like James Henry Wilson than Ozhaawashkwaa. I was caught again, a day later, cold and shivering. Mr. Wilson hit me really hard that time. I could feel his hand on my backside for days. After that, they didn’t allow me out of the house on my own like I used to able to do. I had to go with the other Wilson children to school, and they had to watch out for me.

To say I am sad is to acknowledge too much power to this place. I am not sad. I am simply wanting something else. I have patience, though. It is not something you can learn here in this place. It is something the river teaches you, and that is what I remember the elders teaching me. Have patience. You will find your time and your place and you will come home. Except they said it to me in our way, and thus the Wilson family and the experts from the school did not know what they were saying as they picked me up. I didn’t cry, for I believe them: I will find my time and my way. I have something they do not. I know what the river brings every year, in the deepest of the emerald movements. It brings renewal. I will be that renewal to my home some day. Just not tomorrow. I have to go to school.

That’s the part that really bugs me, I guess. I thought, hell, here I am, dead. And I had to sit back and watch the rest of the world pass on. They kept going, of course after a bit of grief and sadness. How could they not? I impressed upon them a lot. Even though it was called a travesty, and even though they all thought I was taken so soon, I know that they enjoyed having me as a memory. As a measuring stick, of sorts. They wanted my stories to be their stories – remember that time when Eddie said this? ate this? did this? Yeah, you get the picture. They wanted me dead, in a not-so-subtle-way, so that I could clear the room of my own presence and let my memory be their folly for humour! The nerve.

So death is kind of like a long bus ride. You see many people get on, get off. They sit beside you, and they don’t talk. It’s the opposite of friendly. You share this common journey and they just sit there. They don’t motion, and if you wanted to open your mouth to talk, you can’t. It’s shut. Believe me, I’ve tried. You know that ability to shout, the one that’s buried deep within you? Yeah, that feeling. I’ve shouted, many a time, well, at least when I was alive. Instead, all I can do now is to feel like shouting, but I really can’t. So I just have to sit there, and ride along with these strangers, and we all are just travelling. That’s it. You can stare out the window, you can see the passers by, you can wave a bit, but they don’t really look up or notice you. You’re just a bus full of death. There is nothing for them to really interact with.

I get annoyed at times with the other dead people. I was freaked out by the ones that died really grusomely – those really startled me at first. They had this way of sidling up to me in everyday encounters and really making me jump. And it’s not like they say anything. Like I mentioned, they can’t. They just have this ability to get at your nerves. Well, if I had nerves anymore, I think that’s what they would be getting at. The blood has long gone dry – in fact, it’s not even there. That sometimes is the creepiest part. There’s nothing really there – just the outcome of whatever you know was a really painful, really disgusting death – saws, weights, bullets – what have you. You get the sense that their families really didn’t enjoy those moments.

Okay, who am I kidding. No one really enjoys it. I know that. I wouldn’t have said such a thing if I was still alive. But you know, I just really thought I would figure things out a bit more now that I have all this free time. It’s not like I can have what could be considered hobbies. I raom. Is that a hobby? I mean, for some people, maybe, but they’re going home later, or getting a bite to eat, or at least interacting with others along the way. Instead, for me, I just roam, wander, and try not to be around those who I left behind. I found that to be the toughest part off the bat. When I showed up at my family’s home a couple days after the funeral, and I heard them sobbing, it was too much. And then I showed up at my class, and I saw their reddened cheeks and saddened eyes, it was gut wrenching. Well, I bet it would be wrenching, if I truly felt anymore. But I don’t. So instead of filling this void with the *potential* to feel, I just don’t fill it. Besides. I know they’ll join me, sooner or later. And it’s not like I’ve been granted any more patience these days. If anything there’s even less of it. So it’s best not to think too hard about when they’re joining me on this side. I just push it aside, the thought, and keep roaming.

There are only so many times you can hang out in one place, anyway. Not doing anything. And by anything, I mean anything. There is no enjoyment of sitting by the sea, for instance. When you’re alive, you really feel it. You know that the air and the water and the sounds of the seagulls and the lovers holding hands and the children and all of that – well, you know it adds up to a moment. When you’re dead, there are no moments. It’s all still there, it’s just. It has no impact. It doesn’t matter. It all will join you, minus the water, and the air, and the scents and the beach and such, on this side anyway.

Yeah, I forgot to mention. That was the really freaky part. What joins you in death. So you know how we think when we’re alive – oh yeah, there’s life after death. Well, it turns out – even the plants and the fish and the animals are all here. Those seaweed bits that lie around decaying in life? Well, they’re here. Sitting out, being seaweed. But just like in life, you can’t really interact with them or anything. They just are there. And they seem to be just the same as when I was alive – they have no real purpose. I don’t get it. And the fish are there, and if you look down at the beach, you’ll see ‘em. Just that, here in death, their being here doesn’t really make anything special. Many a time I can notice them and then just not care. It’s pretty dull, have to say.

I guess the one good thing I’ve noticed is the ability to do and be anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Curiosity thankfully doesn’t leave you when you’re dead. It stays exactly where it was. In fact, I’d say it’s heightened. I don’t get any enjoyment, like an emotional reaction or anything, out of being a voyeur. But let me tell you: in death, you can see whatever the fuck you want. When you want. I have been in the changing stalls at many a swimming pool. I’ve checked out all the biggest department stores, and I’ve wandered into many a private bedroom when the residents are doing the nasty. It peaks my interest, okay? it’s something to do. Hey, chill. I mean, I’d judge me too. But if you were in my shoes, and you were dead, and all you had to do was wander around all and roam all day, well, you would probably be a voyeur too. Just because. When you can do anything, why not do what you can’t do when you’re alive?

I miss a few things, that’s for sure. I mean, not all of life is all that we say it is cracked up to be. Shit, I do not miss work. That drone! I’d say it’s way worse to be at work than to be dead. At least when you’re dead and you’re bored you can say “I’m bored to death” and really mean it. Ha. A death joke. When you’re at work, and you’re bored, you just *want* to be dead. No, that’s a world I don’t miss whatsoever.

I also miss friends. I miss the interactions. The ability to actually share something, you know? I especially miss what I used to be able to say and get across over a nice drink or two. Maybe a meal. Maybe the moments right before a good movie, when you’re sitting in the dark, judging the lame commercials they put up before the film, and you laugh and notice that you and your friends share the same dislike and distrust for the corporate world. Those kinds of moments. When you’re dead, there’s none of that. It’s pretty sad.

And popcorn. If I had to name one thing that I really miss, it’s eating, and it’s definitely eating popcorn. So I say to you: don’t forget to get popcorn every time you can. It’s something you’re •really* going to miss when you’re dead. Trust me. There’s something about it that no other food really did for me. I don’t even think I ever really ate it all that much. But I certainly know that now, I sure wish I had me some popcorn. Right here. Not that I’d be able to eat it, but I know it’d bring me comfort. Well, maybe not. But the thought is what counts.

Don’t forget, I’m new to this whole thing. Maybe I’ll have better things to say in a while. After a couple months, though, I’m not really sure I was ready. Well, I already knew that. The whole process is so life changing. Ha! Another death joke. Okay. Maybe you should stop listening. Get ready, though. I have a feeling you’re next. Hey, when you get here, want to roam downtown with me? There is a clothing store where a lot of hot people go. I bet we would have a pretty good time. If we could enjoy it, I mean. Cuz we’ll be dead.

Baagh looked out, longingly, for home.   She peered across the clouded jungle below, her sight unwavering from the ravine some distance away where her cubs lay embarrassingly beholden to the pending evening’s potential.   A monkey’s screech from some far off branch broke the stillness of dusk’s arrival and brought with it the urgency of her return.  The villains of the jungle would soon be hunting, and here Baagh stood, without prey, languishing before the hike.  There was one goal that remained this evening: bring home food.  Well, really, it was two goals.  Getting home was no worry, even through the quickly descending night.  Food, however, was a different story.

Baagh had encountered this before. The last cubs felt the pinch of hunger in their tiny rib cages many a time.  The jungle was lush, full of life, amply decorated with potential kills.  But something about Baagh had changed.  Her instincts — natural, organic, raw, motherly — were fading.  Her ability to feed — to murder for food — was weaning out of her with each passing day.  Why?  Why would such a creature, destiny ingrained, care to give, food to forage and feed to her young, find such difficulty in the basic notion of survival?

Of course, they had survived.  She found glimpses of her natural calling every few days. But her victims were the easy targets.  The limp birds, settling down into the foliage’s floor, hiding and shivering and protecting themselves with the permeable coverage of poor camouflage.  The sick, the dying, the innocently young: all the pathetic easy wins of an otherwise deadly hunter, now a victim of the animal being carved out of her.  The cubs fed, and moved on; they prospered in their own territory far into the distance.  The new cubs came, and fed, too; but Baagh’s condition weakened.  Her paws had begun to show the wear of too little food; her coat, once so shiny and full, now left puffs of fur on the edges of pointed branches or in the nooks between rocks.  Her face, once the visage of a natural born killer, now looked tame and limp.  Survival became redefined: to live means to get through tomorrow, rather than the season.

Baagh descended down the cliff.  Her movement had slowed; her pace had lapsed into a crawl.  She knew this trek well, for her mother had bestowed it upon her in those formative years, long before They captured her.   Long before she was left to her own survival techniques, Baagh knew the best spots for tracking a meal was from the heights.  In this valley, the myriad of hills and treetops created a lush canopy of distraction.  From this height, however, the wisps of sound, the scents of a quick meal, the sights of a fluttering wing could be gathered.  And tracked.  And chased.  And targeted for a kill.  And so, Baagh ventured here, hoping to rekindle that conviction, the one implanted from birth.  The one that draws the blood out and smears the flesh with wounds so deep there is no escape from rigor mortis in a victim.

It rarely came, these moments, these ventures into the truth of her being.  Instead, Baagh often found herself distracted, aghast at the passing hours — the ripe, plentiful time meant for foraging given up in exchange for a dalliance by the pool, a waterfall’s cascading arch, a romp through the orchids swallowing up the hillside.  This life, with all of its important details, still allowed her to become grossly disinterested in the necessary tasks of the day.  Today, like many before, was an exercise in futility, no victims captured.

Baagh’s body ruffled the edges of the leaves with little movement as she descended.  The crawl through the foliage was unnoticeable save for the orange streak bobbing behind her, steadying her growingly unstable walk in a horizontal balancing act.  Her passage through these trails was common for the surrounding animals who had learned their scurrying away needn’t be so hasty when she was around.

And then a sound.  Like a boulder smashing into the water, except all at once: a pierce through the air, whirling past with great speed, blowing the silence apart and missing Baagh’s belly with a centimetre of far too little comfort.  The explosion was so foreign to her ears; unnatural, unprovoked, jarring and potentially jeopardizing.  And at once, within the moment, her heart bounded upwards, filling her chest with swelling blood, draining out the muscles of her body of adrenalin and charging her forward.  Rather than flee, nature took its course.  Baagh fought.

They had come, it seemed. With this little light, the nerve! The sheer despiration of their failed, but almost succeeded, unprovoked attack!  Baagh grabbed hold of one of Them.  With a mighty roar, her paws tore through their unnatural coverings and ripped at the flesh.  Her teeth sunk deep into the exposed veins of his neck, piercing the lines of blood and gushing it outwards.  Dripping with his warmth, Baagh bit deeply, innately.  The scream that followed sounded strangely like that of the monkey, earlier.  Perhaps a connection.  The other one ran, feet flinging the dirt behind his boots as quickly as gravity would allow them to leave the soil.  He pressed on into the fallen darkness, anxiously tearing at the leaves and branches in front of him, hoping to create some distance, a blockaid, anything.  All for naught.  Baagh had dropped his mate who no longer screamed onto the jungle floor and had started pursuit.  One, two, three seconds.  A leap, pushed upwards from the earth with that mighty balancing rod of a tail, and her paws pulled downwards until she was on top, all her depressed weight saddling against his resistance as she chewed at his neck with a vengeful ruthlessness.  One, two, three seconds later, the second one stopped screaming as well.  The jungle had no need for these sounds.

Baagh looked up, her  face saturated with the crimson red of accomplishment, as stars crept out of the darkening blue sky and filled the air with a blanket of twinkling lights.  Two victims of the night laid still in the trail with their discarded long, branchlike objects  tossed to their side.  On top of one,  a tiger perched.  What had been disappointment and a struggle only moments before had become a rekindling of a great  disparity: those who wish to hunt and those who actually succeed.  It is what is in the blood that counts, rather than any immediate convictions or lack therefore, it seemed.

The long evening home would be hobbled only by the slow dragging of the bodies up to the den, rather than by the plotting of a kill.  The instinct, a visceral reaction, still remained.  And for tonight, dinner for the family would be fresh, tasty and ethnic.

It was at this precise moment, as the wisps of water vapour pulled themselves out of the coffee in his mug and the chattering in his favourite coffee shop drowned itself into a continual harmonious blur, that The Noise made itself present.

Rather than a voice, instead of an omniscient presence in his mind, and contrary to any previously head beliefs about physics, The Noise filled Eddie’s head until he could hear nothing more than the buzzing tune of solid sound.

Eddie gasped. The intensity of The Noise’s presence was thick and its unwelcome character commiserated with his doubts about existence extremely well. He looked around with fleeting, frightened eyes to see if any of the other coffee shop patrons were ajar in their looks. Strangely, they were not. The faces around Eddie were buried into books, or were stealing glances from love interests, or were mired in their caffeine addictions so deeply that The Noise may not have made a difference to them anyway. Was it an electric hum from the coffee shop’s cooler? No, The Noise was much more still and unwavering than an output of an electric device. Franticly, he pushed himself back from the table and reclined ever so slightly in his wooden chair. The Noise was still there. It wasn’t just the exact location he was sitting – Eddie thought for a moment it might have been a vent, a broken electrical outlet, something! – but rather it permeated his entire mind with an intensity of unbroken loudness he had never experienced before. Quickly to his feet, Eddie jumped out of the chair and walked over to the counter where an employee of the shop leaned against the edge by the till with a pen half chewed in her mouth.

Eddie pleaded. “Uh, excuse me, but do you hear that loud sound?” he said.

“What sound?” the girl replied, without looking up from her dazed expression, her eyes fixated on the people walking by the window outside on an otherwise bright sunny day.

“I hear a really loud buzz, a hum, or something, and I think it might be coming from your stereo, perhaps?” Eddie said, slowly realizing his thoughts were becoming convoluted in the mess of the The Noise filling his mind. He knew it wasn’t a stereo buzz but he hoped he was wrong.

“Nope, I don’t hear anything,” the employee answered, and looked purposefully away. “Maybe get your hearing checked or something.” She busied herself away from Eddie to avoid any further questions.

Eddie would normally have said thanks, even without being thankful, but instead returned to his chair. He grabbed his shoulder bag, shoved the writing book he had laid out with a few scribbles on the pages into the bag, and downed the last few remaining drops of the Americano resting in his mug. He scurried to the door to get outside. Perhaps, he thought, he just needed a moment of fresh air. Perhaps the sounds of the street would shake his head clear of the presence.

After all, his inner voice echoed, he hadn’t been sleeping well. His head had been in the clouds of late, not only because of this assignment for his class – an assortment of selected topics on moral and social philosophy – but because life, even outside of university, had become a frequent sea of drowning expectations. He restlessly remained awake late into the night, scurrying between bed and his couch, trying to find sleep. His friction with life was complex: the previous week had delivered a series of disappointments, including a failed blind date, a miserably unhappy phone call from his parents to relay that they had put down the family dog because she had become a burden on their social lives, and a general sense of life peeling away from him. Yes, it must be these restless thoughts, Eddie thought, that has tensed me up. It must.

The outdoor cool air brought no justice to Eddie, however. The Noise emanated in him. He felt it transcending his mind and entering his mouth, his nose, his ears and his face. Eddie grabbed the sides of his head and pulled his hair at his temples – a visceral reaction to a headache, perhaps, but not to this sound. He looked at the sky: the sun, setting slowly above the buildings ahead, seemed to glow with an otherwise normal illumination; nothing funny there. He looked at the street: cars with one or two passengers sailed on the road beside him with a lackadaisical care. He looked down the sidewalk: puppies out-walking their owners, children in baby carriages pointing at colourful street vendors, lines of hungry tourists forming around a new hot dog vendor’s corner. Nothing in Eddie’s world was out of place. Nothing but an all-encompassing, tyrannical and and ruthless sound that filled all the spaces in his body he thought sound could not. The outside world, it now seemed, cared little for Eddie’s condition. It functioned whether he imploded under this pressuring sound or thrived under it.

Eddie rushed down the sidewalk, unfocused, lost and confused. The Noise deepened within him. He could describe it back to himself, now: rather than painful, it was simply overpowering. It took his full concentration to merely see which streets he was crossing. The maze of the city seemed to close in around him, reducing the clarity of his everyday movements into a hazy and disconcerting mess of urban clutter. What were familiar streets on any other regular day were now the barriers to a simple goal of getting home. Home. That was the most logical thing Eddie could imagine. Get home, lie down, relax. Drink water. Take an aspirin. Go to a clinic, maybe, if this sound persists. Just get *home*.

The street corners were bustling, which was strange for this late in the day. Normally by now the mobs of office workers had all but descended into their humble abodes and stayed there for later into the night. The city’s buzz of people, however, complicated the navigation home even more than ever. This was no rush hour of pedestrian traffic: these were blockages in the single artery of getting to home. Rudely Eddie pushed his way past the crowds, shoving many a side or a shoulder as he tried to make a space to charge forward. His apartment was only blocks from where he had started, but The Noise had hastened his movement to a much faster pace than he normally moved. Someone yelled at him, “Hey, watch where the fuck you’re going!” as he careened a passerby’s shopping bags into an oncoming suit. Eddie didn’t stop to apologize. He focused solely on himself. Must. get. home.

Finally, he arrived at his gate. He flustered with his pockets to dig in deep to find his key. Fumbling, Eddie opened his door and cringed his eyes. The Noise was so intense now he had little focus. The gate remained swinging open behind him; rather than wiping his feet at his mat, he trampled in to the kitchen, boots on carpet throughout the entrance way. He searched for a clean glass – should have done these dishes last night! he sighed to himself – and finally settled on one with about an inch of stale-looking water remaining at the edge of the sink. He rinsed it carelessly and filled it up with the lukewarm tap water. Eddie pushed open the the cupboards, a heightened panic in his pursuits, probing the clutter for a sign of an aspirin bottle. Finally, after littering the counter with the spices and candles that were in the way, Eddie grabbed ahold of a generic bottle and twisted the cap to get at its contents. He shook the pills into his hand, tossing two back into his mouth and stuffed the remaining ones back into the container. He dropped his head back and swallowed quickly, trying hard to prevent the pills from dissolving too quickly and leaving his mouth with too much of a bitter aftertaste. Eddie drained the water into his throat and rinsed the remnants of the pills out. Immediately, he dashed back to the living area by the entrance and dropped his body onto the couch. It was still littered with yesterday’s newspaper and unfolded laundry left there since the weekend. Breathing deeply, Eddie closed his eyes and focused intensely on The Noise. He pleaded with his mind. Just stop it!

Of course, it was no use. The aspirin had a chilling effect on his muscles, releasing a small amount of the tension he had built up in the previous moments. But no matter his resolve and focus, The Noise remained. By now, it filled all that was Eddie. It engulfed his heart, dripped out of his lungs, permeated his liver and intestines, saturated his thighs. It was now within every cell. Rather than simply hearing it, Eddie embodied it.

And it was here that Eddie had a true glimmer of truth. While laying anxiously with his eyes sealed to the world, arms crossed and lips quivering, Eddie understood it all. It was a realization, his entire lifetime in planning, that this was it. This was his confirmation. This Noise was his purpose, his existence, his life. Rather than fight it, Eddie needed to appreciate The Noise meant he *was* alive. He existed! Rather than pleading with the universe to make The Noise stop, Eddie needed to plead to have it continue! Every moment The Noise filled him was another moment of confirmation! Rather than tuning out that which agitated him, he must use this newfound sound as the drive to make something of himself. Rather than forcing out The Noise from his body, Eddie needed to bring it in even closer to his core: every atom must contain The Noise! Every breath must exhale with The Noise embodied in it, shared with the world as the most authentic proof that he existed that could be found! It was a realization that carried such intensity Eddie grinned and laughed copiously.

His phone rang. Eddie popped open his eyes and grabbed for the receiver.

“Hello?” he shouted into the phone.

“Uh, hi Eddie,” said the voice, timidly. “It’s Rach. Why are you shouting?”

“Rachel! I figured it out!” he yelled back.

And as suddenly as The Noise had permeated his body, it left. Before he had a chance to explain to his friend’s lingering question of “Figure what out?” The Noise left Eddie’s body and took with it his life. Pulling out from his body, The Noise carried with it the essence that was this young man. It abandoned his corpse on the couch, a hand drooping over the edge with a phone receiver dangling from its fingers. Rachel’s voice echoed out into the empty apartment, “Eddie! Eddie! Hello? Hello?” but there would be no answer. Just as swiftly as The Noise had taken his sanity, it relinquished Eddie in an abrupt ending.

And when they found his body that evening, the ambulance attendants encountered a man at home in his otherwise vapid home with a smile blazoned across his face.

To lay there,
unbenownst to even myself weeks ago,
was a risk they took when they
folded proteins and moved seabeds aboard land.

To joke,
unnoticed to even myself days ago,
was a goal spelled out in the
falling of leaves on forest floors in continents that no longer exist.

To quiet,
a flurry of soundwaves had to come crashing together
only to stall in that moment and create a space.
there had been enough noise.
the ears had waited.

To belong,
a million meetings had to be forcefully ended,
creatures stirring out of their seats,
coffee sought out. light beams entering dark rooms.
all to create a space for participation.

The only righteous thing I can say
is that it feels good to want to belong
to something greater than myself
even on days when I haven’t moved from beyond myself.
even the selfish know
we are a product of past calculations.

at least, that is what I think I saw.
perceptions can be such messy, impolite opinions.

with a shrouded secrecy,
she sauntered.
she may just be a burger baron
by night, a whitespot chef who delivers,
but by day: the ambler strode through the streets
with limitless potential.
enshrined in fur, perhaps one wears
more than a mere hide of concealment.

the grossly overstretched sleeves
became the garment openings for hands
too logical to do more than pick the best of
recyclables.
he had no problem sorting our rubbish,
descending into the burdensome task of
making a fortune from bottle collection.

the point being,
if there is one,
that the collections of animal hair did more for
me today
than they usually do on the bodies of
well off people from well off worlds with well off expense accounts
and well off intentions.

when worn by the peasants,
they transform the potential loneliness of existence
into an appreciation for beauty.

when it all flows south,
longing for a river’s end to be engulped,
the ocean current carries away the flood.
with it, the distillation. the emptying of the poison.
the letting of violence, of suffering, of humility,
of the blockage.

change that never seemed close
becomes the closeness that envelopes the heart.
the postage that sends comfort along.
the ventilation airing out the stuffiness.

porting no disguise,
the only shawl draped is one that shall give sanctuary.

no longer stifled under the restraint of misery,
let the stars ignite in a trillion impacts of light and heat!
let the smiles gather into a pool of brilliant enamel!
let the stones befriend us in a feat of solidarity!

let these two weeks
be the first breaths of patience
expanding into a reward of the good life.

I have shared this in the past, in its entirety.  However, I feel it deserves its own post this time, one without the mumbling ramblings of someone who thought he knew everything.

A year and some months has passed this book was completed.  There is only one printed copy in existence.

Since then, I had no idea what emotions would burp, torment, twist, blossom, spring and jump for joy out of this mind.  Luckily, I contained a few of them in ensuing writings.

I hope you find this somewhat worthwhile your downloading time.  If not, fear not: I shall not judge, for once.  For the audience of this work has always been me.

Enjoy!

Altruism: my life’s purpose (PDF)

Your time has come.

we do not stop.
we needlessly do not stall.
we do not hedge our futures.
we willfully do not quit.

what sacrifice time can make of our lives.
bleeding the experience out of the veins
that would otherwise sustain hope.
what looked like a weapon was merely a needle-and-thread mending kit.

suspense, an innately human creation,
does not belong in the animal world.
awaiting the decisions of the page turner,
of the revealing of the great master plan – it’s all bunk.

in this trivial allegory
let us turn the page
and begin, again.

lime,
you inebriated margarita lover you.
tequila dribbling down your chin,
you make my eyes cringe with anything but a sour impression.

kelly,
homage to the island
tell me a story of leprechauns who wince over pints,
or gnome forest coverings installed for a layer of security.

jungle,
envelop me  under the fronds
distill the dew from the perspiration,
the  luminosity filtered under your permission.

fern,
the unassuming welcome mat,
versatile and comforting.
be there for me always.

interesting things that happened along the way:
- The new Canada Line skytrain has a station called Templeton, where I planned to dismount. Except Templeton is a station literally in the middle of nowhere. The access road is a rough gravel road. Note to self: do not expect stations to be connected to anything in this crazy world of ours. I imagine big box stores will go here
- Bike on bus – no problems. I had worried about that.
- On the bus ride, I passed a pumpkin patch at the ferry dock. I’ve never seen a pumpkin patch before! did you know pumpkins are orange from the start? who knew!
- Get to ferry and realise I have left the key to my bike lock in Vancouver. doh!
- Get to Galiano and immediately find the bike shop – there is one. The owner is super awesome and gives me a lock to keep for FREE.
- Bike south on the main route and hit the Bluffs first. The hills were a little steeper than I had imagined, and I had to sweat. They were totally, totally worth it: my pics do not demonstrate how incredible this park is. There is a fire ban throughout the Gulf Islands, but even with the browning grass, everything feels so lush and cool and really inspiring forest-like.
- Riding down the bluffs is a little scary on a road bike, not going to lie: my tires are not meant for the roughness and incredible drop in altitude going down the west Bluff Road was intended for. I make it out alive and my hair is dry from the breeze.
- Pass an awesome Italian yard. Just sayin’. They had beautiful flowers.
- On the first beach I found a sea lion (i’ve been calling them seals, but I think they’re actually sea lions) popping his head up numerous times right by me. They gather on a small rocky island in this intense channel between the islands, where the currents and eddies make the most interesting water patterns.
- I skipped hiking Mount Galiano, mostly because it’s 300+ meters and I wanted to do other things.
- Farmers had vegetables, fresh and organic, sitting at the side of the road unstaffed with a cash box. local food ++.
- Riding across Montague Road to the marina was a challenge. Google Maps made the altitude look easy, but in reality I couldn’t make it up the hill without walking a good couple hundred meters.
- Marina almost spoiled the island for me, for it was full of boats and things. The provincial park there is gorgeous though; looks like one of the nicest campgrounds I’ve ever seen. The shell beach – the sand is almost entirely ground-up shells – was spectacular.
- Somewhere near here there lays my peanut butter and honey sandwich, which fell out of my bag at some point and I lost it. I was sad
- Riding back up the hill was intense. I walked a good 15 minutes with my bike, which actually wasn’t that long but felt like death this time. It’s 8 km from the marina back to the ferry and I was actually 1km west of there, so 9 km later I was pretty tired.
- In total, pushing pretty hard, the biking took 4 hours or so. Probably could be done in a shorter amount of time but for a first-timer constantly looking at the map so as to not get too lost it took a while. About 30 km I figure from start-to-end.
- At the ferry dock ate a Falafel sandwich (Gotta love hippies who have fresh falafel in a burger place) and the biggest. icecream. cone. ever. – 1 scoop, but she actually put three. It was peanut butter / chocolate. delicious.

Awesome awesome adventure day!

so go the days.
habits formed long heretofore,
the nerdiest of traits
the folding of mores
opening of eyes, troubles glaring back.

must be something
to this pattern.
I ate, quenched thirst,
drank in the moments

of figurative fireworks I’ve constantly enjoyed.
I bathed, cleansed pores
opened the closets, sobbed on the daemons.
must be something
to this desire.

all the jigsaw pieces.
every single butterfly, pinned,
wings still fluttering on the cork
all the weights on my shoulders,
eyelids, kneecaps, mouth corners.

I recognize the shores,
swimming alongside so frequently
how could the treeline not rekindle memories?
must be something
to this anchor.

without repetition they do not impress.

I’d like a smidgen of quantum
molded around that history
and the possibilities it could reform.

take from me the flesh,
the possessions, the hysteria.
but leave the healer.

that dripping vessel
fully absorbing and waterlogged
with the pungent past.

all to be rinsed,
all to be cleansed with its own
penchant for joy.

I desire far less these days,
because the simple explained to me
the tempting truths.

I just want to get what I want
one more time.
it’s the brewing storm I would welcome.

I thought pain. the harbouring,
wind comes in and brings winter,
icicles, blizzards.

I thought isolation. the minimalist,
soul-quenching solitudes that keep the mind
busy busy busy.

but when the trees came down,
burned in this fire,
the fuel kept me alive, just barely.

here I am, in a desert,
the kind where loneliness may still find me,
lurking amongst the scorpions and minimal plant life.

but I exist, without the same quantities
of old enemies,
the ones who shifted into my life for a time.

unwelcome guests.

there is too  much pain right now.
the celebrities, the minions,
the new faces in our memories
only because of their deaths.

there is too much hurt right now.
the rabid attacks of anguish are not welcome,
shoulders are drooping, weight is baring heavy,
the sting is imploding our wills.

we need a call to arms,
the kind that link all humans,
the wrapping around the neighbourhood kind of peace love in
that might make some change.

you make friends in strange places,
stealing looks from those who otherwise would hide them
and bend the rules of confrontation just a tad.

you move the way they instruct,
but in your own way. a planned, engaged, saddened saddling
between destinations you have no choice in choosing.

you eat to nourish,
filling the void of enterprising creativity with the images
of what tasted good on the outside in those formative years.

you shit in buckets,
trying your hardest to lower your shame from humanity,
the judgment only relative as it reflects on everyone’s face.

you are the brunt of humiliation,
internal and external laughter, taunting and strife
over why the walls of this prison block any escape.

you are the will of determination,
suffering only from a hope that burns through ice ages
and melts all who think they can’t withstand a mere seven days of agony.

but also, regard.

the composure of a dive,
stretching these arms to eagle length
before they take a body into flight,
a hovering above water that simply lasts in its moment.

the festivity of a protectionist mother,
a waterfowl daycare scattering along the shore
racing through the calamity of a predatory approach
into obedient line behind the matriarch.

a fish, eviscerated on the weed covered rock,
the hunger briskly quenched of this fresh otter,
cheekily admiring his new star shining brightly
in the eyes of two land-locked disciples.

a toe that has rekindled friends in fingers,
meeting somewhere between offering and devouring,
the stimulant that provokes,
the sign of true, sophisticated love.

I am exhausted.
aching with blood sugar depletion,
mental fortitude weary,
brink is near.

I need a trendy hollywood style
reboot.

I gain from this day
a chance.

I gain from my past courage
ability to handle that.

they say three strikes.
that rule seems like an imposition.

three cubed
is but one expression of who I will be tomorrow.
when one doesn’t understand
the triple dimensions under which I live:
physical, emotional,
and spiritual.

age
grow
understand

that is what 3 cubed brings me.

the trail, an ocean current
trenching through the tide
with all hell loose in its tow,
tried desperately to befriend me
with its villainess.

but look who I had on my side!
freely repaired chariot
blazoned with the dusted remains
of previously conquered goblins and trolls

slick armor.
slowly absorbing then wicking away sweat
the stench will act as a repellant
to those who dare attempt to disrobe me
of my protection.

and for one of the first times,
courage.
foreign, like logic
rabidly missing most days.
those blood vessels-
needing intense pumping- churning through
the epic battle front for a piece of my own mind.

the motivation worked
against the history books’ diatribes
about what we should learn is possible
I came through, for me.

peaking
the descent – an enriched disruption
of the old and tired and guaranteed
a pleasure cruise three kilometers long.
end to end, white elephants trampled
in a domino rally of repetition
bliss after glory after goodness.

I found a simple moment
that will live independent of my mind
as a pocketful of magic.

they blocked the access route.

there was a stool, sometimes I sat there.
sometimes I played that cassette tape
for what probably felt like hours,
wondering whether that little mirror..
why was there a mirror there?
would ever become that access route.

grandma’s birthday brings me back
to a time when ham was often served
to the picky picketarian
to the fresh jam often laden
on the picky one’s homemade bread.

I recall the conversations about criticism
about the rambles
as if they would assume that the void is full
when they are not around!
oh, how I recall the righteousness I felt
when those words blessed my ears.

I bet she would be proud.

I hope I make her proud.

short stories haven’t been my forté,
maybe because the blood line was well reserved
for one to be the composer
and others to be the producers
of volumes of other silly rambles,
like this one.

there is a strange, uncrossable gap
in the way the universe has arranged
these atoms
that blocks the access route to you.

I wonder if,
upon stumbling back into that world,
the one with real magic,
desires for greatness,
homeliness and charm,
I could get in once more
and really cherish it this time ’round.

grandma’s birthday often came and went
without much thought to its significance
on my part.

now, I will take this day
and make it my access route
to these memories.

pieces travel internally,
externally, within and
throughout our
atmosphere.

they do that like
we feel compelled
because our atoms
shift and
decide to make the chemical reactions
that it takes to
feel.

and so,
in death,
another transformation
occurs.

where the universe decides
it has another tree to fuel
with our carbon dioxide.
another lump of steel to form
from our iron.
another thermometer
to make from our mercury
and perhaps,
another life to create
from ours.

november 10 2008 / 11:41 am

(written in the Oxbow United Church, in front of the open casket of Evelyn Mae Banks, my maternal grandmother, the morning of her funeral.)

“Hey buddy, I just need some food,” came the scrawny voice, crawling out of a decrepit chest. It was too soon to tell what caused this malformation, but the hunchback gave away at least hints of osteoporosis.

It was also too late for me to make up a further excuse. Lacking current mode of transport, trying to pull out the torn sleeve, I gave up.

“Okay, I think I have something in my backpack.”

I reached in, a cavernous tanker now perched on the bike seat, where my ass had just been moments before. Beneath layers of paper, half read books, headphone cables, more paper, a crumpled bagel wrapper and a card from my grandma wishing me a happy birthday, I grabbed ahold of the prize.

“I have an apple juice, here,” I offered, and a hand that otherwise would function as a claw in an old Disney film reached out and receded with the box into her nether regions or side, not sure which.

Digging around a bit more, I came upon a familiar squeeze in my fingers, a folded and tense bit of metallic plastic wrap that meant only one thing. “Here, one of those of breakfast bars. It’s kind of mushy but it should taste fine.” The claw repeated its extension and recession once again.

“Can I ask you something, though, in return?” the words sort of tumbled out, fumbling their way past the hesitant social acceptability in my head and the anxiety that dictated a need to just get going.

Her eyes looked back, curious and held in a gaze for the only moment of this fleeting encounter. “What?” she said.

“What do you think is your greatest contribution in life?” I asked, almost like a young rock journalist running out of interview steam, looking for a final zinger for an approaching deadline. “I’m a writer, so I always write down things about people I encounter.” I already had my hand on one of my useful pens.

Those eyes shifted. 45 degrees right, 57 degrees up, and fixated on the skyscraper above, a blue mirror of reflected clouds and seagulls. For a moment of this contemplation, I almost thought I would get an answer. Instead, following the same direction as her glare, the woman escaped the inquisition and melted into the brick lane of garbage cans, soiled mattresses and pools of collecting rain water and urine.

*

Years later, long after we were both gone, a glorious sight appeared on the river side downtown in a far, far away city. A rib cage, potentially human, even, washed up on the sand. The ribs were not predictably aligned, however, instead encapsulated and entwined into each other like antlers of the final great battle between two valiant stags.

On the tips of each ivory scrubbed stem, a pink bouquet of cherry blossoms bloomed. The petals, carried honestly with the intentions of a saint, later flew away from the ribs and fertilized the hillsides until they were pink, too.

—-

Spilled ink
Vegetarian pasta
Puppy golden labrador movie called Marley
Dolly Parton working 9 to 5
Sushi sushi taco taco
That french song by queen celine that’s ok
The others walked to the back to get more coca cola
We talked about how far I’d come in a short year
Now sunset says we’re almost there.

I can’t see beyond the clouds
Buy I can sense it’s simply bliss out there
They have some sort of aboriginal mexican on the 100 peso note

Two made out frequently only to then play on their two laptops
We didn’t get an extra seat but oh well

This is the part of the afternoon when everything gets coated in gold
Perhaps I’ve reached that for even now
With one of modern society’s largest cities below
I am so rich
Blesssed
And travelling the easy path to. Paradise of life.

I think I’m going to like this country.

April 9 2009 5:59 pm

—-

the scent comes back as if it never left my nose,
which is strange, for I’ve never smelled
what the calles de la ciudad de Mexico smell like

jorge our friendly cheap cabbie
rushed the red lights
past the beggars exhaling lighter fluid
and striking matches in front of their mouths

market sweep
the thousands of workers everywhere!
everything is well staffed
either they pay so low they can pay so many
or someone pays a lot for all of these bodies

why do I get the sense it’s the former?

I like pesos,
never needing decimal places
everything is ten times the price
and ten times cheaper at the same time.

and how ten bucks is actually a big bill.

and how 125 bought food, service of four employees,
in a hundred year old building housing
a lovely restaurant chain

where the food was fast,
the servers carried the gigantic plates
usually reserved for assistant managers
and the assistant manager asked us if everything was fine.

speaking of everything,
in walked the white priests in their full easter garb.
i wonder if they are vegetarian.

the indigenous people. who are simply mexicanos, here,
sat at tables like everyone else.

why this surprised me so much,
perhaps fishing lake knows.

four hours in this country
and I already love it.

April 10 2009 12:22 am

—-

4 pesos for two canadians to ride and ride and ride the metro
we might have been a little displaced,
given we had no destination
and rode all the way downtown
only to walk around, turn around
and take off from the same station

lunch at wings, ordering a ham and cheese sandwich
minus the ham, of course
and getting a coffee instead of a refresco for a drink
after a second or two of confusion

flight! that awe inspiring moment when
we leave earth behind
and observe what humanity has done
while serving as this millennia’s caretaker

I saw fields,
dusty circles of some sort of plant life
a ranch or two in between one gigantic bull ring
somewhere north east of the big city
I saw a few swimming pools, but only a few,
and a progressively greener terrain as we
carried on in the brief journey to the coast.

the atlantic ocean, the carribean sea! which of you
came to delight me? or are you both there,
lapping waves at my eyes?
tropical, with animals roaming small areas
and people roaming larger ones.

a moment of bliss to see a child embrace his mother.
a moment of awkwardness to see a foreigner stumble to say it’s hot.
two talking parrots, one who likes me already,
another who is older than me and showed distain
for my relative youthfulness.
coca cola light in a tiny courtyard I wish I could rob
and take home, promising immediately to read through
at least one or two of the classics in the baking but shaded stone work.

we are at the hotel, and we have a bed, and a large balcony,
and there people who mull around on the boardwalk beneath the window.
and then that luxurious sea sits there, waiting cargo,
waiting for fishing boats, waiting for divers looking for coins, apparently.
It looks like it goes out about seven miles and then disappears,
into a blurry line between the clouded sky and the edge of the earth.

this city may be a little crumbly,
and sure, the people may be colonial and indigenous,
mixed together.

but I already like it.
time to go and find a cafe.

April 10 2009 7:37 pm

—-

why it’s so clear this evening
perhaps because I suffer, a little,
in a different way.

the strange thing about how
they suffer is the lack of
pain, however.

this is a good life,
laughing at children who dance
with the best crowd-controlled moves they know.

dancing a little in the square
with random strangers surrounding
a few gawkers on the side.

eating the local food,
prepared with care by those who
earn a little pocket money with their cooking.

photos of family posing,
next to the sailors, the marines,
the boats, fountains or even the sky.

there are fish being pulled from nets,
and children scramble to watch the flopping
just as they sat patiently observing the catch.

there are sea urchins plucked
from the rocks they cling to,
happy in their new containers, unbeknownst what the future holds.

the people are chubby,
indigenous, brown and dark.
but they suffer only from an outsider’s judgment.

this scenario is far from poor,
long from terrible, wrongly assessed as anything
but the good life.

We may have everything,
but I seldom feel we ever notice
exactly what that means. so I suffer alone.

April 11 2009 9:11 pm

—-

There is a corner by the oxxo where we’ve learned to hold our breath
There is a part of town predominantly in the old squares where we learned to avert our eyes
There is a gap in the beach where we’ve learned to stop swimming
There is a conversational topic where we’ve learned to shift focus

Celebration, however, of those who are strategically aligned
Celebration, however, of those who have been lifelong friends
Celebration, however, of the neighbourhoods of success
Celebration, however, of the simple chain store positioning

There are things unsaid
And places unvisited
And people ignored
And topics untouched

And just as common
People and music and parks and beaches and jobs and moments and children and puppies and wealth and relativity celebrated.

April 12 2009 10:57 pm

—-

read from a hand,
nothing truthfully revealing
other than compassion
for the children
bred by poverty.

a thousand sales people
to every guilt-ridden northerner
who ventures here exclusively
out of that guilt.

of course we are captive
to be taken advantage of!
of course, given the money’s minimal impact on us,
it makes sense.

so many outstretched hands.
which mouths do we feed with compassion
and which are doomed
to suffer?

if only, rather than gold plated crosses,
the people were cared for,
like we heretics try to do
in our own little ways.

April 13 2009 11:39 pm

—-

I interrupted a motherly comment
to remark how 99 tables likely meant
there are four hundred people in this particular cafe.

no worry.

it was a mother I cut off,
not a saint.

but what a kind one she is!
besos para los dos, I recall,
as the taxi pulled away
with a night full of memories in the exhaust
and more than a tiny bit of sadness in our faces.

we ate the simple
the cheap
and the delicious.

we walked, arms linked,
through the smelly street,
across the difficult traffic patterns,
between the hordes of tourist mexicans and local mexicans.

we saw the precious
the resting
and the festive dancing.

we noticed the small,
the feeble, the tired selling all the trinkets
they continually peddle late into the night.

and we walked again, and drank again,
and watched again, all the while conversing
about the simple, agreeable and never disagreeable things.

life, food, music, travel, beer, snacks, people,
children, merchants, change, schedules, prices,
clothing, photos, packing.

I will recall a few particulars.
there was a bright pink lipstick that only she will ever wear in my mind.
there was a timid hand on my arm that only she will ever use.
there was a scolding of her son that only she will ever deliver.
there was a flinch to her knees that only she will ever walk.

I have a positive impression,
and that is why I sit
a bit sad
that, while it was a struggle to communicate,
I did,
and now I can’t,
for a while.

dos hombres, she said.
and that was the truth.

April 14 2009 11:30 pm

—-

the basics of life out here.

fire
to clear away decay

ground water
to quench all thirsts

plants, some for export
to cultivate

trees
to shade the weary on their lunch breaks

mountains
to inspire us to remain grounded and small

sky
to shield us from the unknown outer-space

animals
to tend to and provide us with nourishment

people
to find meaning in the basic life of work

nature organizes itself well.
we adapt to that standard
it provides the basics.
we provide the rest.

April 15 2009 1:24 pm

—-

there is a fulfillment in the zocalo
that one is part of something big.
in a space somewhere important.
in a true moment of human history.

the pavement does not explicitly tell,
but there is a good chance many millions
have walked this area.

there is an even better chance those who come here
are likely just as awestruck
by magnificence
as by the sheer number of people
who make their living, or attempt to, in this square.

plumbers for hire.
aztec dancers for payment.
cheap drinks in a bag for convenience.
religious institutions for reforming.
anarchists for a dose of amusement.
poor children for a sense of reality.
crowded buses for an air of community.
tourists for a comparison.

the church, the government,
the streets with the merchants,
the people, the workers,
those clinging to the edge as
the ship sinks, slowly, into the
ocean below.

it may be dry,
this bed of water,
but a feeling of grandness flows through
and reminds us
we are not the first to parse these currents.

April 17 2009 12:19 am

—-

what emperor and government structure existed
didn’t matter, when they abandoned
teotihuacan.

what remains is not how and why they governed
but what they made of their time.

apparently, it is all worthless, unless we tell the story.
so, uncovered, we found the story unravelling.

they left nothing to chance.
the stairs, the heavy lifting of legs to climb,
all numbered and aligned to the facade of the distant hills.
the waterways and the plains, largess in their expanse,
all controlled and centrally planned by the brilliant.
the smoothed seashells, the glistening glaze,
all planted on the ground with a distinct attention to detail.

there is a good flow to such a place.
when there is a purpose to our creations,
they feel right. they have a sense of fulfillment.

no, today, after climbing la piramide de sol,
I know little about who these people were who carried those heavy stones
without transportation systems.
all I know is effort builds incredible structures,
and with a little effort, I will contribute
to such a structure in our lifetime.

even if it is not recorded as such,
I hope the remains linger and impress
in such a way as the heat filled air
around the dusty stone masses did for me.

April 17 2009 10:37 pm

—-

there is no longer an indigenous land
(at least, in population)
underneath me.

now we end what we began,
because that is the way this life goes.

frankly, it never feels long enough
and always feels to be too distant from home.

that is how we remove ourselves
from what is the current circumstance
when we are away.

a scant amount of days scattered in the past
now compose memories rather than
the present moments of experience.

an infrequent attachment to a culture
of sustenance and peace
will quickly be replaced by one of survival.

one would think it would be the opposite,
for we have so much.
but I learn every time I leave, the physical means little.

it is the way the people behave to each other,
as if countrymen and women
as if part of a truly shared experience.

it is the way in which the history is alive,
rather than a taught substance easily diluted
and replaced with minimal modern worship.

it is the way in which living and working are one,
rather than a disciplined distinction between the two,
a path of hardship that seems to bare no sweet rewards.

in our world, we would frown upon such an existence,
but why? why is our time, and our fractured lives,
so enjoyable?

compared to a people who dance in public parks
on saturday mornings
who carry their children every day.

compared to a people who know their history
and live it with an identity
celebrated and embraced by all.

compared to these things,
our existence is meek.
so we return. to try to build such a better life.

April 18 2009 8:27 pm

—-

Why, Orion,
Am I the hunter’s child?
Why the curious niño from
A remote rural village?

I like random moments
When you appear
and suggest to me this is the right path.

I recall them very clearly
Like the cloudless sky above this plane
The plain laid out options
Where we push the window a degree too hard
And tumble into the onyx below
Harsh like mined stone
Or we rest and marvel at the expanse
And think dreamy thoughts
Like how did the mountains truly form out of the sea
And how will I find my next calling

Now at least I know from you,
Orion,
the path so far is correct.

Give me the continual reassurance
So that the shackles of insecurity
find their grip to be loose.

April 18 2009 9:53 pm

this is what the good life, I assume, is: the breathing, the in-taking, the conversations, the calamity, the worry-free attitude.

then: the minor moments of doubt, and consequence, and piss, and sourness. 

I float by when these times come.  the cycles of the past tell me they come more often than they should.

I have been writing, somewhat, to satisfy this need to get by.  

rather than swimming with the school, rather than running with the herd, rather than flying with the flock, I float by.

rather than merely getting by,
I float by.
it’s the enjoyable way
to make it all seem enjoyable.

where to, next?

I don’t know.  I float by this life.

Get me to somewhere
Where being lost is not considered a knock on progress
Get me to the far off
The medieval lingering villages
The emotional fountains of youth

Get me home
Warm engine
Happy and free

Forthright, yes, and brimming with perhaps
too much enthusiasm
misplaced attention to detail
information about the mundane

but a real chaser of a dream
that no matter a person’s path
they will also find solace in the fact
that we can change
and be, hopefully, better.

I need them to know
I will be kind.

Smothering, potentially, of who might be viewed
as needing kindliness
fondling the unforgiving
mollycoddling the meek inheritors

but a real diehard to the cause
that an adamant position on life
gives one a hope for something better
than the convening of random intangible moments
and a mustering of meaning.

I need them to know
I will be me.

the long-winded and long-winding way
to the end.

where it all began,
where it all happened,
where it all will be.

I wanted it desperately,
and it wanted to be free.

I yanked deep,
but it did not release.

it was there.
I felt it.
I anchored what I thought I could,
pulled down the hatches,
and pushed off rapidly from shore,
hoping for a tug.

but it did not unleash.

I knew it was lodged,
but it did not give.

strength? it was also buried.
but slowly,
I felt it rise, perhaps because
even the sun finds the energy each morning
and even the cranes flap their wings over the peaks
and even the salmon swim upstream spawning
and even the whispers manage to make themselves heard.

I found the ability because there was no hope otherwise.

I rationalised the losses,
tossed the provisions,
released what I thought was the linchpin
and gave way to what I believed would be the solution.

and in that gravity,
in that solemnity,
in that liberation,
in that delivery,

I found the truth really does
set us free.

children of the sun
birthed out of otherwise chemical fissures
gestated longer than we can guess
waiting for a latitudinal alignment

eyes on the equinox change
I savour freshness.
frightened birds lose their shackling terror
and sing, and maybe I too.

there is a moment, lingering around 5,
when only the dawn of evening’s nipping sore
totes in the light angles that let
purple leaves hymn rather than hiss.

gravity, that malicious fiend,
the one who would do more to force
behaviour than any other.

fruit falls,
stars too,
even the ones that glimmer
only in the mind’s eye.

bouncing out of the state
of wretched attraction to the
friction-laden floor
is tricky, to say the least.

tigger’s tail, wound
like a snail inside its future casket
might do the trick.

and?

shadows descend,
clouds too,
even the ones that once
contained the heavens.

rising from the coop
is more involved than a morning ritual
when the darkness focuses
on instilling its gloom.

a torch, beaming
like a lighthouse’s beckon
might reach here.

so?

as a child of the state,
he was supposed to be under
the ultimate of protection.

turning my back,
I did more than simply fetch his things.
I left, with more than a casual release of my focus,
the whims of the universe to mend their tears
and create their seams of new realities.

I suffered immensely.
the ripples of protectionism
stemming from years of isolation
left me with these feelings of
survival.

the hostility of the moment,
composed of the elegant countdown
of three. two. and one.
gave me enough pause
to realize the sanctity of what
preciousness we are given,
in our physical and emotional relationships.

I dislike gravity,
for it grounds those who want to fly.

but it also gives me solid footing.
I now know there is something
beneath the path I will tread.

especially on avenue
de la revolucíon.

the modern gold pieces,
the universally accepted
rectangular plastic symbols of consumption:
widely accepted.

hollow attachments to soulless gimmicks
and painted shit
is evident in the semi-dry convictions
of the merchants
to their obviously inflated prices.

reality? the real tijuana
is indeed this.

there is no culture of historical significances
unless one embraces that,
an appeal to thrifty, cheap entertainment,
a satisfaction of selling solitary enjoyable moments
of manufactured amusement
in cheap beer, even cheaper shots.

who knows what else lurks
in the barrios to be
consumed by excess dollars
just waiting to jump from the
pockets of gringos
or their foreign cousins.

walking into mexico
this reality of culture abounds.
the workers who prop up
the façade of wealth and prosperity of an entire economy
moved quickly, even if they had enjoyed
a few churros y coca cola in their lives.

even if their enslaved existence to the invented
service industry bewilders modern concepts of
freedom and equality.

when men thrice my age bag cheap tequila to subsist,
when women who probably could find better things to do
craft flour tortillas for already grossly enlarged waistlines,
when avocados find themselves in the worn hands of people lusting for success,
they are harvested,
like those millions of dreams.

walking into mexico,
all of those people find themselves
back into that reality.

we are some of the descendants of those glorious historical figures,
they might say.
we want what they wanted,
cry over the same spilled milk,
laugh over the same crass jokes,
sacrifice each other for the same prosperity.

thus, it all makes sense.
we no longer pull their hearts out,
but the extractions?
maybe they go deeper.
(originally written August 28 2008 at 1:00 pm)

to be beholden to the nocturnal doubt of mind
of being truly happy.

the simplicity
the ironing of ruffles,
the savouring of solitudes
the cherishing of my catalysts.

physical movement
emotional reconciliation
spiritual awakening
general self acceptance

to think. you know. you held on.
you had the bonds in your palms,
ready to be smashed and shaken
sparked into light lending life
in the outside world.

being drawn to dark spaces will
forever have a
different meaning.

years, in the time the universe
commits to scratching its back,
or perhaps winking, once.

months, in the time trees
take to yawn, sway branches
and refurnish their leaves.

weeks, in the time caterpillars
build caskets for their former selves
stockpiling sledgehammers for escape.

days, in the time hydrogen
melds with one of its dance partners
and quenches everything’s thirst.

minutes, in the time light
makes a binary alteration
from off to on.

seconds, the time I
evolved from a being to a person,
from existing to living.

2. I rarely drink my own coffee, which is fair trade, organic, usually shade-grown and blissfully delicious. I have three coffee makers. I am drinking some now from a Bialetti moka express. The steam coming off the coffee is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen this morning. It looks like waves of smoke, it’s so intense.

3. I got bored with my ethnicity and fought with the guilt of a settler identity at a young age. I pretended to really be Italian in my head, because I figured the Romans had conquered most of Great Britain. I gave that up when I got to Italy.

4. There is a Spanish dictionary next to a copy of “2001: A Space Odyssey” on my shelf. I’ve read through the Spanish dictionary plenty of times. I’ve never opened 2001, nor about 10 other books on that shelf. I’m sure they’re great.

5. I have a fascination with neon green that I have never had explained to me why it is so. I am consciously happiest when I have a neon green mug, bowl, coaster, blanket, clothing or some other item. I have, of course, all of these things in my apartment. And more. many, many more.

6. I know how to program C++ at a basic level, HTML and CSS at a high level, and use a lot of intense software commands at the terminal / command prompt level. Perhaps there is a future career that melds my desire to implement socialist public policies with computer programming and graphics design.

7. I have written over 800 poems in the last 11 or so years. I doubt more than one has ever been read outside of my immediate friends and family. At a very strange twist in a party I once hosted in my basement, friends of friends decided they wanted to read my poetry and I gave away 10 copies of a book I had self-published. It feels right to give away poetry, for I doubt I’ll ever be a waged poet. I find the writing process to be the best of clichés: releasing, therapeutic, self-indulgent, reflective, documentary and passionate.

8. I love music dearly. I have a keyboard and three flutes (simple Peruvian ocarina, Colorado Native American flute, and a cheap neon green hand-carved flute from a fair trade shop) and I never – never – play any of them. But I could.

9. There is a 1/4 bottle of wine sitting next to my stove with a lovely green cork. I imagine that wine is rancid. I should probably drink more wine more frequently.

10. The notion of friendship has been something I have struggled with for a long time, in both over-analysis and the commitments it takes to solidify good friends. I feel very blessed (is that a secular word?) to have the friends I do have, but I always crave more intense friendships. I feel so very fortunate to have notched my belt with the incredible conversations and moments of sheer excellence in humanity that the people I have already known have given me.

11. I, like most working people, worry about money. I seem to have enough of it, and I seem to be ‘following the rules’ pretty closely about saving for retirement. I still find travel to be my most excessive spending, and I’ve rapidly changed my expectations for travel from ‘exotic’ to simply ‘the unknown.’ I have discovered the west coast of North America to be a beautiful territory of Earth, and am jealous for all the years I never was able to explore here. That said, I really love Saskatchewan’s geography, perhaps too much. If it weren’t for travel and eating out, I’d be saving thousands more every year.

12. I’m not really much for competition. I invented ‘socialist basketball’ to go as follows: one team gets a point, and then another team gets a point. It’s pretty fair. I would like to launch a worldwide league of sports that aren’t about competition, and see what comes of the world. I would just (off the top of my head) assume a lot of war would end. I still do compete with myself for academic achievement, however, and occasionally feel jealous at others’ accomplishments in any aspect of life. I’m trying to mesh my anti-competitive nature with that.

13. If I was to have lived prior lives, here are the lives I figure I would have lived: carpenter, shoe maker, merchant, tailor, bookkeeper. I romanticize the employment prospects of the Enlightenment era. Note I did not write “philosopher” or “teacher.” Definitely not “farm labourer”.

14. My favourite video game when I was really young was this DOS game called “Castle.” You had to type in commands to pick up things and use them in this castle. I don’t really think there was more of a story than that. I really miss it, as I think we re-wrote over the 5 1/4 floppy disk that had that game. I remember some vampire character in the game was really difficult and I never figured out how to beat it.

15. The only ultra-competitive thing I ever found myself wishing to be involved in was Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I used to wish I lived in the USA just to be eligible for that show, and I hoped I would get either Africa or South America as my continents for the final geography puzzle. I was a master at South America. Likely it implanted my current fascination with all things colonial Spanish. I hearted geography like no one’s business. I even read the monthly National Geographic magazines that arrived at my house.

16. My first career was going to be a magician. The worst part was my brain always only wanted to know the solution to a trick before I would give up on interest in it. Thus, the career faltered around my last public performance of magic tricks at the Wadena Public Library. I have a photo of it and I’m fucking cute as a button.

17.I found traveling alone in Sicily to be the best thing I had ever done for myself. I wrote excessively an entire book full of poems, and listened to music until my ipod discharged. I stared at the ocean every day, wandered streets with no particular end goal, and ate a lot of simple basic food like cheese pizza. I gained an immense appreciation for a life that celebrates the simple and livable and real, a relaxation ability I can still tap into, and a heartfelt appreciation for the serenity of slowing down and enjoying the moments as they tick by. I met a strange girl from southern Ontario who had just seen Tori Amos in Rome, a New Yorker longing to connect to his home town in Palermo, a Hostel owner who wrote Italian poetry, collected African musical instruments and who drove me to the home of the mafia, a wonderful Spaniard who taught Spanish and ran every day by the sea in Catania, and an island archipelago that gave me an intense moment of truthseeking and a new perspective on what my life’s purpose is. I will never, ever forget my time in Sicily. Oh, and I learned some basic Italian, too.

18. Wikipedia is pretty much my only trusted source of information. I like the open source component, the chance the article could be biased or wrong, and the notion that information collected from thousands of random people could somehow be our collective education system.

19.I’ve met Sarah Slean so many times I’ve actually forgotten how many it is. Something about the notion of meeting a celebrity, about going to shows I really enjoy, and about a connection with her writing made me do it. She now recognizes me and knows my name, which I hope is not a sign of becoming a stalker. Meeting Tori Amos was a much grander affair, probably akin, in some way, to how Muslims feel when they reach Mecca. I swear I said out loud I could have died after that. I know now I was only kidding, right? Thank goodness I only mumbled something about how I came from Saskatchewan and how she needed to always remember there are boys out there, not just girls, who need mentoring. It was likely one of the lesser philosophical rants she’s ever received in the meet-n-greet line.

20. I can’t watch, think about or fathom animals being injured. I feel a visceral stomach-quenching pain that has been there since childhood, likely since a spring moment when I was four or five where our kittens went out to play and one got hit by a falling pot on the deck, only to have the vet put it down a few days later. Her name was Lady Lovely Locks and yes I named her. It’s probably a good idea I went veg, not to be a pretentious and platitudinous white lefty but because it honestly allows me a cleaner conscience. If there is a scene in a movie where an animal might get hurt I can’t handle even the faked audio tracks where the dog yelps in pain. I’d prefer to scratch my skin until it bleeds, frankly.

21. I wonder if the great Russian writers ever imagined our world as it is today, with a homogeneous dominant political and economic ideology paralleled with radical social reformation and dogmatic religion. I wonder what their books would have read if, say, communism was really capitalism as it is today. I wonder these things mostly because I haven’t read the great Russian writers and I am pretty ignorant about what they might have said.

22. If there is one thing on my bucket list, and I mean *if* there is, it’s probably to be elected to political office. There. I’ve said it. I know many others think it might be a good idea, and sometimes I think it might be a good idea too. I just happen to know, from years of first hand experience, that the life, the job, and the stress are seldom seen as worth it. Thus, it’s an irrational desire that makes me appreciate very much the personal sacrifice it takes for people to get themselves elected.

23. Because I feel very disciplined and conformist to the law, I always find myself ranting about the breaking of conformity, especially when I have a drink with friends. I apologize if this continual repetitive rant is offensive. Just that we should stop walking on sidewalks and combing our hair, waiting for traffic lights to turn where there isn’t any car there, or board the bus even when we have no fare. And stop thinking rhymes are acceptable. They’re not.

24. I worry a lot about the little boys and girls out there who, upon realising what their sexuality is, don’t know how to deal with it. I really despise organised religion for imposing cultural and social rules that restrict people from simply being their nerdy, geeky, boring queer selves if that’s who they are. The film “Be Like Others” from Iran was one of the most terrifying films I’ve ever seen, if only because it was so evident that the boys in the film are so lost and feeling so helpless. I strive to pave some political paths for social acceptance of all peoples in every place I go from now on.

25. I would have loved to have even a tinge of aboriginal blood in my body, as I imagine that might have prevented the extensive self-loathing I’ve experienced in my adult years towards the way in which we North Americans ignore the peoples who simply lived here before us. I hope to someday write a PhD about melding First Nations’ peoples economic self liberation with progressive financial measures, such as pension systems, labour sponsored venture capital, or micro-credit financing. I hope writing such a PhD dissertation partially frees me of this burden of my settler identity.

when America decides
this will be their messiah,
out of the woodwork comes a rush of temptation
to declare too rebellious the policies and
radical the solutions that
would bring it to the 21st century.

when Canada balks at a solution,
one carried through the expensive and marble-lined halls
of many a national legislative assembly
in many a lesser developed nation,
only to justify the quest for power and
subjugation of the party.

when Zimbabwe’s out of control emancipation
leads to half rations for the rational
who remain within its borders, pleading for a
global response of cookies, milk, chocolates and
the simple bliss of a good life,
in hope.

when Iceland contemplates
that it shouldn’t matter for there to be a precedent
set because of its predicamental collapse
that greed caused the current wash of
“oh boy we’re in trouble, hire a dyke to fix it”
mentality

I fight with solidarity.

We reach today with exhaustion facing our minds
but with our spirits soaring,
for we accomplish all that we have desired,
for far too many generations.

we reach today arriving with a solid common-felt admiration
for what composed this journey,
the tribulations and triumphs,
the faltering and flourishing,
the gasping exhalation and the redeeming inhalation
of success.

and look around at these faces,
the unmoveable who can’t be bothered to bathe away the
pleasure to thrive from their smiles,
those who will not let the rain compose any macabre tellings
of dismay or torment,
those who will not let the cold steal the energy from under our arms
and in our chests,
those will not relent until the realization of all that we want
is finally achieved.

we reach today with fatigue,
with weariness,
languor, even.

but we arrive at a moment when
hope will reign out
for nothing else matters
than to live as if this experience of ours
is indeed worth it.

we can muddle it all up
and think the sky is falling,
because probably it is.
or.

hey! look.
my plant is still thriving, even though
I haven’t put in soil into the pot,
3 months later.

hey! look.
my writing keeps seeping out, even though
I thought only depression generates the strength
and will to commit words.

hey! look.
my hair keeps growing, my nose keeps running,
my feet keep walking, and my friends keep humming
along, doing their friendly friend things
that make me enjoy the madness that is.

happiness is here.
the warcraft 50 somethings
headphones and mouse and -
wait, was that? – yes, it looks like
a footrest for comfort.
in the study space.
where we’d be writing an important thesis
or dissertation, had
he not been enjoying the battle.

happiness is here.
someone’s lost grandma
is plugged into a windows pc,
connected to the genealogical descendant
of the dewey decimal system,
spewing her imagination onto a screen
where bright lighting allows her to
explore all that it means to be connected.

happiness is here.
they had a mac,
and books, and maybe even some headphones.
but they were chatting with each other,
totally canadian and aware that the chatter
shall not be too loud, as per what social mores
exist to prevent disturbing others.
one hour. two. maybe three. work? not done.
relationship work? check.

happiness is here.
asleep, next to the chinese community newspapers,
where it is warmer, quieter,
and frankly, smells nicer,
better than the corner bank cove
or the closed for the weekend business
that might have provided otherwise
shelter.

happiness is here.
the assortment of characters,
diverse as the books.
“the politics of taxation in canada”
or some assortment of hobby craft manuals.
the theses written,
languages learned,
ideas discovered,
truths revealed.

my identity card is my access key
to a wonderful world.

Where we look out at the wasted electricity
that brings us temporary, fleeting, dwindling joys
in technicolour bright.
in the pages that line the streets, surely fuel for a fire
that could be ignited with collective intelligence
instead of a street creation of recycled mush under the
footprints we carelessly leave behind.
in our food, so fantastically over-served that the
burning-with-hope hippies invented freeganism to recoup
some sense of recognition of waste not, want not.

I was thinking of taking that green bag,
camouflaged under the excessive fashions and their wrinkles
at the bottom of my closet,
filling it with the fragmented fortitude I had built for me in
years of rhetorical education,
dashing out to the nearest transit centre
and abandoning this experiment or whatyoumacallit,
you know, the free world.

Instead,
I shall regale in quiet,
hope in spite of the darkened shadows on my theoretical tinge,
and savour the moments of sanctity preserved remarkably for me.

Callings come and go,
as would have I.
and for now, comfort rests in these phlegmatic eyes.

Hands down, Erykah Badu ruled this year. But Sarah Slean, even after putting out a marginal album that to me does not showcase her abilities, still managed two tracks in my top 10, for completely separate emotional connections.

1. Erykah Badu – Soldier
While she didn’t perform it live in Vancouver when I saw her from the front row (and grabbed her hand and had her take my photo, unsuccessfully, from my cell) Soldier is my hands-down fave tune of 2008. I must have listened to it more than 100 times. If I tracked that kind of data, I would know. Soldier is her political beast coming alive, and if anyone knows me, they know that political beasts are my friends.

2. Sarah Slean – Shadowland
Her confessional tune is also philosophical. Didn’t see it performed either of the nights I saw her in Vancouver, but Shadowland, with its message of the reason for our existence, is a lifetime fave. already.

3. Sigur Rós – Ara Batur
Gratingly slow and climbing, Ara Batur could be about anything. But when those violins pick up and the song starts whooping your ass after 6 minutes of meandering and slowness, it’s breathtaking. I imagine this would be the song played the day after the world ends, and a new society comes out this one.

4. Daft Punk – Harder Better Faster Stronger / Around the World (live)
The “single” taken from the Alive 2007 album, this remix is a zillion times better than what Kanye West could pull off. An incredible, rapid, wonderful take on DP’s older work.

5. Junkie XL – 1967 Poem
This builds in a way I haven’t heard executed very well in dance before. Perhaps comparable emotional tracks are Bjork’s “Pluto” and Armand Van Helden’s “I can smell u”. Found it in December and it is wonderful.. on repeat…

6. M.I.A. – Hussel
I listened to the MIA album a lot this year. I found it somewhat poppy and accessible and thus played it for people while driving. Hussel was the song that I liked the most… especially the African rap in the middle.

7. Beirut – Cliquot
Beirut is silly and this was the silliest song. I really dig the well done accordion and the “what melody” parts. I thought it was more than one performer!

8. Sarah Slean – Looking for Someone
A favourite since I first heard it in August 2007 (potentially August 13, 2007, to be exact), this track is apparently winning over a lot of sarah converts. with good reason. It’s a perfectly acceptable pop song with complete accessibility.

9. Darren Hayes – Step into the Light
While this album version isn’t necessarily the version I prefer, the release of this song as a semi-single meant to me Darren hadn’t completely forgot how important delivering the goods is. His double album has a lot of duds, yet Step into the Light is probably the best track of his solo career. Guilty pleasure / gym track.

10. Vampire Weekend – One (Blake’s Got a New Face)
I started 2008 with an attempt at listening to lots of new artists. Vampire Weekend made it into constant rotation, and this track, if nothing else, makes it here because I liked the freshness of their tunes. Even if they stopped getting played at my house by June.

Bonus:
11. Bjork featuring Anthony – Dull Flame of Desire
This song challenges me and my tolerance for difference. Anthony’s voice is incredible, and while I first listened to this on repeat in 2007, in 2008 it took on special meaning to push me to emotional grounding in a way that I will only ever know. It’s a really incredible tune.

and: in those experiences, it is best to do good, for doing good makes the experiences more enjoyable. Although they don’t have to be.  for in those experiences, even a bad moment is that: an experience, something that we live to do.

It’s a simple philosophy, and potentially, it will evolve. It already has changed somewhat in the last six full years.  But in these years, I have mused a lot. (585 entries on this blog, to be exact. which, of course, is a palindrome.)  And instead of restating what has already been said, I provide a list for those who may care. Because often, those equals me.

1. conscious – December 3, 2002
2. still conscious – December 5, 2003
3. consciousness – November 22, 2004
4. unconscious – November 30, 2005
5. conscientization – November 22, 2006
6. 5 years of consciousness – December 2, 2007
7. consciously – December 2, 2008

There are many more works here based on these themes. Hell, there is an entire book named after it!

Still. the madness continues. live life, friends, and be merry. for that is why we are here.

Welcome to the world, Altruism: my life’s purpose.

By the way. the book is coming. Here it is, in electronic format, in its entirety.

It’s my book, so it’ll always be my book. but what you do with it, to get it out there, is for you to decide.  Please, above all, enjoy.  Most of this has never been read by anyone else but me.

Altruism – Book File 1, Altruism – Book File 2.

the craftiness of the mind
spun stories and coagulated the crises
I believed would come my way.

was I really so foolish
to believe I deserved
such pain?

with all the hot irons
scalding the internal skin and tissue of my
compatriots floating here,

with all the morning yawns
wretched with guilt and hopelessness
and a desire to sleep peacefully,

with all the torment
we seem to have imported from a parallel universe
of hatred and fear,

here I am, awakening with homemade breakfast,
the solitude of dark drawn shades
and right finally being victorious over injustice.

Living consciously is in the realisation
that simple choices bring
the ease of happiness.

the plastic handcuffs of my anxious mind
are easily melted upon
the fires of confrontation.

they needn’t be so tightly bound around the thoughts
that hold back this spirited creation
of my imagination.

for we choose the air we intake.

we can douse ourselves in fog
and hope to catch a glimpse of sunlight,
sometime.

we can waver where poor levels of oxygen
sit worriedly waiting the asphyxiation
of their brothers and sisters.

we can tread in the pollutant ridden streams
and gasp for someone to pull us away from behind
out of this mess.

or we can sit up,
smile at the marvel of the inhaling process,
and breathe.

so it should come as a huge surprise that, lo and behold, democracy actually will speak if this coalition gets going.  The reason I say it will speak is that a coalition government will form out of the actual will of the people.  The Tories have never formed a majority under their current incarnation.  They received 38% of the voting vote, far less than even the 41% who didn’t bother voting.  Far, far less than a majority.  Their seat count, in a vastly inferior electoral system that we have – first-past-the-post- didn’t deliver a majority.

no, the majority was delivered, like the vote, to the Liberal, NDP and Bloc parties.  It only is logical that they receive government, and british parliamentary tradition should not dictate everything.  This is Canada, not Britain: our ancient system of a Governor General has a use here to actually install the government the people actually elected.

This is a culmination for so many.  I cannot even begin to fathom what this must mean to my grandfather, if he understands it.  It is the first time in Canada that NDP members will sit at the federal cabinet table.  I cannot begin to imagine the hardship of the 30s that allowed this movement to begin, and here it has begun to take government, a scant 70 some years later.

Economic hardship dictates that we must work together.  It is the communitarian way, above and beyond any political leanings.  My neighbours who beg from me my change every time I go shopping for groceries are in this same country just as my neighbours who drive by in two seater gas guzzlers.  We must all work together, for the economy is nothing more than human created.  we can change it to suit our liking.

Just as we can change this government, finally.  I warn any hard core leftists, including myself, to be tolerant of these first two years.  This is the *first time the NDP is in government in Canada.*  If we want a repeat of the Ontario NDP under Rae, then let’s caw loudly and complain about every policy we can’t possibly implement in the first two years.  If we want to build a potential for an NDP government with a larger caucus, a sizeable plurality, or (hell, I’ll settle) a PR system that practically guarantees coalitions like this in the future – then we put our support behind this deal which gets us:

- A government commiting to hard targets on environmental action and climate change
- A government where practically every member accepts, approves of and voted for same sex marriage
- A government where an agenda for First Nations and aboriginal peoples is part of the behind-the-scenes bargain
- A government where regular people actually might, for the first time, sit at the cabinet table and reflect the will of the working class.

I am, for one, very excited.

I want the dewey decimal system to have an
analog malfunction
competing to catalog my work.

I want to be the breath that magicians exhale
right before they cast the spells
that cure our pains.

I want to be the camel’s hump reserves for those needing
poetic nourishment,
or facing writer’s block.

I want to be the busiest of worker bees,
replenishing and pollenating all those food sources
that exist for hungry people.

I want to be the firefly glow
in the darkest of sealed caverns,
waiting for an etymologist to see in my aura.

I want to be super, human.
I want to be better than what I am,
because I know I can do more.

• a wine rack, for bottles that I plan to buy.
• a fetus cookie cutter, for the cookies I could make, and you could eat.
• A Fidel Castro Action Figure, because you know my desk at work would probably launch a revolution.
• a netbook pc, so that I could come over and surf the internet at your house without seeming too intrusive. preferably one where you’ve already installed Mac OS X on it for me.
• a collection of peace treaties, so that I could travel the world on your airmiles and make sure that everyone everywhere who was in some sort of government-imposed and UN-sanctioned conflict could ultimately live happy, go and get some french fries, and go home to their families and be rejoiceful.

those sorts of things.

the 41% plurality, aka the clear winner, was the electorate who decided to fuck off, stay home, and not vote.

The people who wouldn’t be bothered to eat, destroy, mark in every box or write, “none of the above,” – they have decided the fate of the country.  They wear the crown of glory and take the honour of winning.

What! you say. How could it be that the people who didn’t bother to even vote won?  Well, they have now dictated many things.

They have dictated:

- A Harper minority.  Had they shown up in Newfoundland and Labrador, potentially Harper might have won a majority.  Had they shown up in Quebec, potentially Harper might have won a majority. Had they shown up in Vancouver Centre, Vancouver South, Wascana, Edmonton East, Burnaby-Douglas or even Western Arctic, Harper might have won a majority.

- A Bloc plurality and sustained relevance.  The Bloc were written off, with 12% decrease in support and no real appetite for a platform based on sovereignty.  In other words, the Bloc might have bled to the left, right and centre its support to all the other parties.  Instead, the 41% who stayed at home gave the Bloc an increased appearance in every riding, all the way down to Gatineau where the NDP might have made a second inroad by running an old Liberal.

- An NDP reduced appearance.  Had the 41% shown up, Saskatoon-Rosetown-Biggar might have gone NDP, and perhaps even Vancouver Island North, Gatineau and St. Johns.  Of course, they didn’t vote, so none of these things happened.  The NDP’s clear re-alignment and targeted ridings did not materialise, because those 41% did not want it so.

- A secured Dion defeat and Liberal party leader replacement.  Had those 41% voted, Dion might not be on his way out as he clearly is.  Burnaby-Douglas might have materialised for the Libs, just like St. Pauls in Toronto or even Desenethe-Misinippi-Churchill River in Saskatchewan.  Who knows! The tide might have turned back in Edmonton Centre.

Why would I say those 41% would have actually mattered?  Because it’s fairly standard logic that the 41% would shake down as the vote was heading anyway in that riding, and that, in the favour of some of the losers and some of the winners, chances are the seats might have aligned this way or that, based on why these 41% were apathetic.  It wasn’t to be, and we’ll never know.

We do know, however, that the 41% who didn’t vote tend to be poorer, less educated and potentially busier (i.e. working two jobs with few rights) than those who did bother.  You rarely see the fabulously rich forgetting which side their bread is buttered on.  And those people tend to vote on the left side of the spectrum.

Sadly, it was not to be.  I am certain that the majority of Canadians would have preferred to not bother voting at all, as 41% didn’t.  The other 10-15% or so did out of some sort of national “duty” that pulled them that way, but secretly – or not! – they thought it was a waste of time.  I certainly did.  I cast a ballot in a riding that did not allow my NDP ballot to matter.  This first-past-the-post system is really fucked, and this election outcome continues to amplify it.  Of course, the Liberals and the Conservatives refuse to touch it, for every once and a while it delivers what they want, and need, to have their cake and eat it too: an eventual majority.

Something tells me the 41% plurality of this election have spoken just a little too loudly, however.  They want their cake.  They potentially need it.  We need to find the way to actually deliver it. That is why they won this election: their issue, the fact that it was about nothing, and thus was a waste of their money, is so resoundingly clear.

1. greed equates to the failure of the stock market now. greedy people – the same ones as the AIG brokers who dined in luxurious surroundings after the US government had bailed them out, only to a tune of $700 billion of future spending (multiply that bailout by the interest it’ll take to pay it off, and that $700 billion is easily, easily over a trillion US dollars.
2. consumerism is what they are counting on to buck the trend, but who feels like consuming when the dollar loses four cents in two days? FOUR CENTS is over 5% people! in two days!
3. our economy is so intimately connected with the United States that no matter what anybody says I am certain we are sinking quickly as the US economy sinks. There is no other rationale – global capitalism decided to move money as quickly as emails, and thus money has spread everywhere. But with that spread of ficticious computer cash comes a spreading of the problem of this collapse. people are pulling their stocks out of losing positions, and that means the americans who own Canadian corporations (let’s face it – there really are few “Canadian” corporations anymore) are pulling their money from us too.
4. I don’t give a shit if the IMF says we have the best banks. This is the same Monetary Fund that believes structural readjustment policies should mean the privatization of water services in the poorest of the poor regions of Bolivia, for example (Cochachamba) – so whatever the IMF says I take with a grain of salt. Their opinions are about money, not really about human responsibility. And – their opinions have failed.
5. We are failing to learn from the past. We have had multiple gigantic corrections, and we seem to think that this all just goes away and gets better becuase the market, with all of its flaws, is the best system. Funny, I don’t really think a system that takes my measly savings in somewhat “ethical” investments and trashes them, leaving me with 25% less capital to levy against purchasing a home, or getting more education, or even simply “spending” is a system that could be the best.

To my mind, there has never been a better time to use all of this evidence to make substantial changes. and two of the world’s G8 countries are heading into federal elections within weeks! What a chance.

So – will Canadians and Americans finally take a chance on doing things DIFFERENTLY, or will they accept the fear factor and vote for the same old policies – the “30 day studies” and the “cutting taxes” syndromes – that cause these major problems for us all in the first place?

(and lest anyone think it’s only stockbrokers who are having problems here, it’s every Canadian, every American – they have put our pensions on the stockmarket, and by doing so, we are all now less well off. thanks, fuckers.)

what lame excuse do you have every day
to not write the great novel
fold your clothes
make toast
breathe?

we can’t all be salman rushdie,
nor martha stewart,
nor the corner cafe cook,
but we can be still somewhat original.

raised in an era desiring so much,
with a dedication to the accumulation of material
and a falsified hope of setting the pace,
perhaps our outlook should dim, a tad.

mine? I know, I know, the meandering words grow tired.
still, the volumes need to be filled,
methinks, if only because it something I can do,
setting aside for a moment I can fold and flip well too.

fame + celebrity + doing good + achievement
I doubt it’s in the minds of those I pass everyday.
the homeless man in the wheelchair at robson,
the tim hortons employees, recently arrived,
the bus driver grumbling over the brake pedal,
the junkies waking up from their squalor,
the students failing to notice the exams don’t really matter,
the commuters content on getting to work five minutes faster.

I don’t know what is on their minds.
still, something tells me,
they don’t lie awake at night,
hoping to write like salman rushdie can.

this housing crisis has pulled the entirety of the global capitalist market down with it.

surprised? no. the whole point of regulation of the market is to ensure widespread problems like this don’t occur. instead, they let it all fail, and then tried to use the government as leverage to make it all succeed again – only to fail at that, too, for government relies on the people, and the people are scared as hell of using $700 billion of future generations’ money (compounded for interest, that could easily double, like a terrible mortgage gone bad) made them back off.

the effect on canada will be swift, methinks.  already, my savings – my pitifully small, ethically-attempted-at-investing funds, are crumbling.  and so now I’m relying on the same architects of failure to prop it all up and make it all whole again.

of course, this means everyone’s savings are now crumbling. the pension plan, now thoroughly dedicated to the market instead of safe government bonds, is going to crumble 5, 7, maybe 10% today as well. great planning.

the funny thing of all is the adherence to the grand notion of the perfection of the market. as if this failure, you know: the one resulting in huge losses for people, job closures, bank failures, credit crunches, etc… it’s all “perfect.”

sad, sad, sad.

but funny, funny, funny, the way we do not learn from history and let it repeat itself.

carry on, capitalists.  your time has come. and now gone.

Thoughts, out of the starting gates, on the election. More angles to be covered, eventually.

Partisanship is so 20th century for many people, I feel.  While everyone basically knows who they are voting for, I’m purplexed as to why.

Are the evangelicals content with a Conservative government’s placating statements about sharing their values?  Thankfully, we have not gone down the distracting path of endless legislative stunts to win over their hearts – although allowing the backbencher bill on the rights of the fetus in a murder case to gather as much steam as it did was probably successful at rallying some of the troops.

Are the business folks gleefully looking to the Tories or Liberals for guidance?  Well, I think they should be satisfied.  Even as the economy is starting to tank for ordinary people, corporate profits have never been higher.  CEO salaries – extremely generous, on top of their benefits – compete in my head with the grandest of illusions – how do they get away with those, knowing it is our pension funds that pay for them?  Knowing it is our consumer dollars that pay for them?  They’re probably tickled pink that in an election where the people with the real power – the voters – are worried about the economy, no one is talking actual regulation of business to create jobs, green industry or (OMG!) nationalize industries like the Americans like doing these days in times of severe necessity.  It’s not just Venezuela any more, folks!

The Liberals are going to be running the best show they can to pull in as many of their incumbent seats, but they aren’t kidding themselves or anyone else: they are going down.  There is no steam behind Stephane Dion, and as much as he may want to paint himself as a green leader, he has a history as minister in one of the most polluting countries per capita’s administration (aka Minister of Chretien and Martin governments) to defend that *real* environmentalists should be looking upon him with shame.  Plus, his leadership is really a facade; when will the next incredibly boring leadership race take place, where we can just get with electing Ignatieff or Rae or the smiley faced guy with glasses?  And hey! Liberals! It’s the 21st century calling.  you’re supposed to have had a credible female leader by now. Just pointing out your hypocrisy on women’s issues. k. thanks.

The NDP’s picture is potentially shaky, no thanks to the vote splitting habits of those fighting to do as little evil with their votes.  Hanging on to the 30 seats will be a challenge, especially in Northern Vancouver Island and potentially in southern Ontario where the CAW’s “vote strategic” campaign may leak support to the Liberals.  Gains?  Not to be made in Saskatchewan, that’s for sure, so anyone from not there should stop dreaming.  I come from a redneck province drowning in the glee of oil profits, where social justice seems to have been tossed out along with any sense of practical policies on obesity, racism or excessive car use.  I like Jack’s message, I really do, and I believe that he’s in it for the long haul to greater success for the party. I just hate the fact that the electoral system strangles the NDP’s chances at achieving, at bare minimum, official opposition for once.  I think Canadians would like that.

The Bloc receives some of my sympathy, as some would know, because for a vast majority of actual votes in the H o C they usually side with the NDP.  Their strength in Quebec is all I can hope for to stop the trickling conservative, consumerist culture I worry about from taking hold of la belle province.

The Greens are driving me nuts, which is probably their job, really.  They don’t stand for anything. There. I’ve said it.  Here, I’ll be devil’s advocate to myself: people say that about the NDP in other provinces.  Well, the answer to that is, they might be right.  The problem is, the Greens are predominantly white, predominantly wealthy, and predominantly controlled by self-righteous yuppies who fail to notice three failings: 1) endorsing the Liberals means they endorse capitalism in its fullest; 2) accepting an Independent MP without allowing the voters of the riding to test whether they would re-elect him under the Green Banner is bullshit, and proves they truly don’t care about democracy, no matter its failings; 3) They have no true policies on redistributive wealth, instead allowing the market and consumerism to regulate purchases, as if what we consume should be the extent of how the taxation system works.  I don’t buy it, and I’ve told Elizabeth May as much, and she couldn’t have cared less. They don’t care about poor people, for they have not designed their carbon tax around people: they have designed it around a failed image of shifting revenues – one of the limited powers of government, as opposed to expenditures – as a solution to our problems.

This has been an interesting soap box, and I’m sure I’ll have more insights later on.   Peace, and good night.

are we seriously to believe that internet activism – the theft of files, the hacking of computers, the exposure of great mistakes of the status quo politicians – is really to make up for the general lack of rebels in our streets?

where are the people thoroughly disgusted with capitalism’s excesses and their creation of a modern left society without the shackles of that old world?

where are the kids’ building solar heated homes for the homeless, streaking down the roads demanding an end to the automobile, repelling down office buildings demanding for the enslaved to leave work and be free?

it certainly feels like we’re back into an era of complacency.  potentially, defeating the world bank and the IMF has been left to the third world.  we haven’t really been protesting their excesses much after we decided the security threat of doing so was too great.

we haven’t really been de-activing the corporations through shareholder activism, have we?  sure seems like wal-mart is taking on a new approach to labour relations these days, doesn’t it?  sure seems like greenwash is being washed away from the corporate spin machine, doesn’t it?

where have all the rebels gone?  did they cash in their rebellious youth for a wage and a mortage and a dog?

or is my world view just a little too narrow – they are there, restoring power to the powerless, restoring water to the victims of privatized greed, building the fortresses that will function to hold thousands… in some far off, distant land… building new economic structures, revitalizing what it means to have “credit unions,” putting co-operative enterprise back into co-operatives… are they out there, somewhere?

I’m just wondering.  I have been searching inside myself, and I haven’t found them.  so they must be somewhere, somewhere, right?

How did civil society become reduced to a notion of the “freedom” to participate in a marketplace with extremely limited choice?  Since when did the marketplace of politics become so severely restricted? What happened to a bazaar of goods, where not only are different products hocked in the darker regions of the sale, there are also different approaches, different styles, different sales techniques?

I am not a fan of consumer choice being our only political weapon for change.  For one, it seems to result in a very simplistic dumbing down of politics. Either we take the national brand version of politics: the voting for the status quo, with tiny fringe improvements on the edges of a product that has been repackaged in such a way as to appear as markably different, when in fact the box size has been reduced and the ink colours merely updated; or the alternative, the local store brand, with limited creative license applied to the product and a cheaper, lessened quality feel in the hand.  I am tired of this analogy, I am tired of this limited option, and I am tired of feeling disempowered by the political process that thrives on political alienation of the masses.

So how to bring about change?  When all we want is change, have we really ever considered what we want to change it all to become?

I want, at the root, the following basic scenario:

• happy people doing things that they enjoy.
  • A decrease in struggling. struggling to conform, to economically make ends meet, to fit in, to decide, to gather what we need to get the first two items. This requires a wholehearted approach to the success of society based on the acceptance (not tolerance) of all.  I am not certain what is the best way to go about this, but community education seems like the only reasonable approach.  Perhaps provocative marketing of acceptance is what is needed to jar people into compliance, where their own struggles are seen in context of others’.
  • An increase in economic equality. for far too long, it is generally accepted that there are only two paradigms- the success of the individual to the detriment of the society, or the decline of the individual to the rising up of the society.  Economic equality does not inherently mean that the individual must suffer.  However, societal improvements in economic equality require that we must re-envision what it means to be successful economically on an individual/family-based/community-based unit level.  Are there primative, animal-based lessons to learn from?  Or, rather, is it that fields of poppies instinctively tell us that the ecosystem believes conformity and unification are the only ways for the multiple individual units to thrive?  This is a delicate balance.  Greed, certainly, maintains the inbalance.
  • An increase in thought.  2000 years of Plato’s words and still we have a problem with the mass understanding of what it means to consider how to make improvements in each others’ lives.  This satisfies me to no end, and yet I am relieved that we have come at least this far.

I know, these are pie-in-the-sky, loopy lefty arguments.  I don’t really know what to document next.  When drilled for an answer to what is the ultimate next step, I don’t have one.  In power, I don’t know what my first approaches would be.  Certainly, there is a problem here, where we can isolate the problems but not draft the solutions, or at least, manageable, workable solutions.

I want manageable, workable solutions.  These are sellable to the people who travel with me home, to work, to school, to their food.  These are sellable to the people who have doubts about the whole change process.  So what are those solutions?

I am searching every day.

white botches, massively
without consternation, the illuminating
can not highlight without drafting shadows
or drain out the murkiness of night.

the extremes are not.
existence is only in the between,
in the moments amid doubt and certainty
in the experiences betwixt good and evil.

politics falls here,
and so are foundation shaking revelations
that move buildings to collapse
but falter at changing behaviour.

the insecurity that such
ineffable conclusion develops
is only one ramification.
living to continue is another.

it wasn’t meant to be a sense of
conformity,
and certainly, who really yearns to
differentiate oneself from the flock?

but the seas of pouring stallions
reverberating over the waves,
under the viciously lonely eyes
of a monger,
brought the flood that likely enters
those who choose a celibate devotion
to the high and mighty.

but the potential place in history,
as the keeper.
the one who forged through the barriers
that mystique and mistake place
he who would caulk our records
with the new entries dreamed about
by the lost souls of the middle years.

it wasn’t meant to solve these life lessons,
and objectively,
little real thought ever went into what processes
would ever find their way into implementation.

but the shelves lined themselves just as
the edging trim paper encircled the walls,
and the reflections in thoughts
became the manner for existence.

the growing idealist collected
unicorns.

it didn’t matter what some said
of the impossibility.
it was the smidgen. the dying,
desolate,
dreary,
and droll attempt at defining
the small chance.

it could be,
dormant, under the brush,
in the farthest reaches,
unrealized to those who carried on other business,
concealed not only to our eyes but also to our minds,
the mere feasibility astounded.

the growing idealist collects
unicorns, of sorts.

this world needs the whole herd
to rove this kingdom
of glorious possibilities.

It decorates that otherwise
definition-lacking formation,
the curvature that edges
only make more pronounced.

it’s growth,
an emotional stability
that removal tends to
shake.

it’s a standoff,
the protests that never were
attended,
but secretly find such affirmation
and camaraderie.

it’s a dictionary of redefinition,
the logic of gender moulded
into cells that accumulate
visibly redder than the blood
I know exists just millimeters below.

I could remove it,
yes,
and not change
but physically.

I am more than a wearer.
I am more than a leftist adherer.
I am more than a conformer.
I am more than a masculine expression.

Confidence,
it’s under here.

sewing in our blood,
the way we weave to and fro
and inordinately calm the masses
with what we grow.

they sit on the sidelines,
sipping their life’s lemonade,
the product and delivery of us.
we, the farm workers.

they savour little,
the profits of our labour
lining their pockets:
a suitable exploitation.

it’s a strange relationship,
where the sun might as well beat down
on either collective set of brows
but we enjoy the weather most.

it’s not out of fear for toiling,
it’s not out of doubt for laziness,
it’s the asphyxiation of thinking
what disaster comes when we rest.

no, they’re not all homo-hatin’ rednecks,
even though most of their time is spent in hate,
even though most of their language is filled with vile,
even though they deny what their extremists create.

no, we won’t have peace on earth this evening,
and we can’t unelect the fools this time,
but the politics of hatred have been exposed,
just as I have demonstrated I can slightly rhyme.

—-

oh yes, that last one is weak. and, perhaps, nothing major can really be said other than today demonstrates right will finally be victorious over injustice, friendship over hostility, love over hatred, peace over war.  those words, ten years later, never have felt more true than when the evils of our society are rooted out and exposed, and shamed, shamed, shamed.

some looked downwards,
not even focused on the intricate coordination
of pebbles and stones in the esoteric system
no one could have planned.

some marched forwards,
inching along in the only direction where
progress made advances and receding was
foreign to our vocabulary.

some fall backwards,
terrified of what dangers may might could be
somewhere around every next single corner
rather frightened et al.

some just existed,
longing for a moment of zen when
the directions of our society would point
to success, regardless of our orientation.

I am those some.

what tornado has torn through
your rights?
what trampling of dignity have
you endured?
what disgrace has this society burdened
your future?

there might have been a time when
there were no gods on land to look up to,
where the skies filled expectations
of what we wanted in this short blip on an
oval of a big rock spinning erratically around
a star.

there might have been a time when
we didn’t lay into one another with verbal abuse,
where the colours simply reflected those in nature
of the diversity of our own kingdom.

and yes, we’re doing perhaps better than
hosing each other down to wash off the
indelible ink of human birth.

but we shouldn’t be happy with our
culture of fear.
we are cooking in a cauldron that has
been blackened with age,
stained with the past concoctions
mistakenly thrown together in the hurried attempt
at survival.

we drink what we brew,
and the bitterness is nothing more
than the first taste.
be warned, I tell myself, of
what dangers may come,
when ignorance breeds jeopardy.

(Watch the clip on the RMR website. Season 5 Episode 18)

While the video footage was only partially of Wadena, it was a hilarious short about how benign and simple life is at home. and with all of the gossip that only six little restaurants full of old farmers and retirees can generate, the town will be astir with discussion this morning – guaranteed – that they were featured on “NATIONAL TV”.

I am not certain you could classify the Wadena campground as having showers, however.  That’s Rick’s satirical mistake.  It does have a creek that flows through it, which might count for a prairie bath.

Whadup Wadena is my new favourite catchphrase.

the ground swells with
corporate sponsored seedlings
to find life amongst the
granite and concrete.

the definitions are so
dangerous.
people!

who would have thought
that we would seek reference
outside of lifting skirts
to know ourselves.

the fathers who face the odds
of a societal construction of
masculine provision
each time they enslave themselves,
the modern ball and chain
politely presented as a 2 piece
and a stunningly original tie.

the same homeless, or poor,
or either, man,
who fails to ride this bus
marches alongside.
what a metaphor, this
physical manifestation
of class struggle.

the one portrayed as non-existent
in a world of structures.
oh, the sheer hypocrisy.

the same world building slums
into solitudes
for the affluent,
those capable of using tinted glass
and granite countertops
to blind themselves from
the street vermin below.

the mothers to be, who
spend more time each week
preparing an external visage
that impossibly measures
to a psychopathic orientation
of what natural beauty and
attraction should be.

we divide, a population fearful of math,
we separate and hierarchically build
structures to tier those
otherwise loving entities
away from us.

people!
oh, the post-modernists must
resent our ever complicating fortitudinal resistance
to oneness.
they must drink copiously
in the dankest of social reclusiveness.

to rid themselves of their
fearing minds of consciousness
that it really is all going to plan,
as anarchistically and stunningly original as
that may be.

the question remains.
now, more than ever,
are we building dynamite,
are we lining those support beams,
and are we planning with our wilful ignorance,
an incredible destruction?
and if not,
should we?

or simply, is it enough to
persist in this era
where time is structure
that builds new bridges
for us to cross?

look out our windows
there are
now billions
of us.

we need to get real about what
that really means, and how that
honestly modifies our outcomes.

and what is real?
real is the diameter of this tiny planet
in a sea of miniature stars
swimming ferociously to catch up with the current
of the ocean of swiftly stirring constellations
in one solitary galaxy
seething to rise up and be noticed
in the vast absolutely not emptiness
of this universe.

no more fights,
no more weapons drawn then.
we have limited time, finite scope, sparse resources.
we can babble all we want, but it does no use.
we’ll be swallowed up into this forgettable element stew
soon enough.

I don’t want to wage wars,
those strange crusades for protection of our turf,
any longer.
because I like the miracles we already have
the challenge to drift out of dreams into the beginning of day.
the nuclear sun that heats this hot blooded skin.
the calming effect of a simple ocean breeze.
the cheer that emanates from children playing.
the muscles around my lips that refuse to relax when a dog approaches.
the gravitational pull that makes the growth of trees a reality.
the billions of little grains of wheat that form into billions of loaves of bread.
the nurture of love that solves the mysteries of our origins.
the experiences that give me consciousness and emotional existence.

I guess the bigger picture really is
lost,
then,
unless we all string along with
aspirations of anything but the celebration
of this life.

some things out of our control
really are,
like the life we could make.

so sit, then, and rest on our laurels.
no use making change,
or changing the way we make it,
if superiority is our stoppage.

be weary, then, of any sort of hostility,
no point raising our voice,
or voicing our points ad nauseam,
if sway is not in our cards.

I don’t buy it,
just as I don’t buy a lot of what
is thrown into our hands, our individualistic,
greedy, unrestricted imbibing hands
that want physical attainments and
lack the ability to assert emotional yields,
and I seem to be doing fine.

some things ascend out of
our comprehension of what is viable,
but that shouldn’t halt the masses
from wanting something else.

but what motivation?
why the shuddering shoulders?
I know my internal measurement
says I can relay
better than the nay-sayers.

line the fences, then,
with the superfans and
cheerleaders we gather
along the way.
their cheers and enthusiasm
have a root emotion.

their tears are soaked with
salty love and desire
for my success.

confused? hell yes.
there is no other way to be
when on the track and
constantly looking over
those shuddering shoulders
for some distant disapproval,
as if that should stop me.

it’s as if this lingering
insecurity was weights
on these ankles.
I can’t be shackled anymore.

thankfully,
those exuberant angels.
the ones running with me,
are the key’s keepers.

they love me.

we passed, underneath, unbeknownst to them,
those who do not worry about the disgust others perpetuate
when a large man drinks two sodas in one sitting.
those who do not toss at night about the ramifications of
particular vote buying corrupt strategies.

I imagine the agenda was much more simple than that,
focused on the intricacies of crow life,
something I guess they’ve been gathering about
for the eons of their existence.

I wonder when they stop flying and think
why they are here?
I wonder if they re-contemplate
the move from the central Asia?
I wonder if they knew a pending car crash
would occur under their collective perch?

or was it merely that, a murder,
where the gathering of like souls
brings merriment?

with the morning squeeze
of orange juice and eye lids
opening the pours
and letting the rays in
and letting the liquid out
they’d admire what they’ve accomplished.

they’d lay there,
waiting on their help
and wishing nothing but congratulations
for their accomplishments
of the minions that have managed to
make it all work for their favour.

but priorities are lost in between the yawns
of executive wake up calls.

it’d be absolute bliss,
only because when nothing really matters
what matters is the unrecognisable reality of what exists.

I exist.
and not alone.

the unknown subsist because
we have to,
for they would like us to fail.

the undisclosed manage because
they know otherwise,
their numbers would peak and plummet, too.

the nameless persist because
they like revelling, too, in the bliss,
the elation of what it is like to prevent their success.

it’d be a benediction,
that morning,
when we all awake and squeeze
oxygen into our chest caverns,
illuminate our pupils and admire our achievements,
for this world exists,
these people exist,
and this intransigent remains
ready for action.

tell me, young one,
why this impermeable water
fluid like its natural aquifers,
at least in summer,
would want to bare
assimilating this new
salty content?

tell me, great elder,
why these winds are not fragrant
with the hope of the future
coming tide of ideas,
billowing out past the prairie horizon
that I know you’ve explored more than I?

I will tell you.
I have that privilege that desires to be appreciated.
I will tell of the greatness
that I have envisioned for you,
and of my knowledge,
accumulated through the colonial institutions
I’ve helped impose
through solitary silent endorsement
and willful participation.

that I will do.
what I won’t, sadly,
is stand back and suffer in these shadows,
the mystical removed from my hope
and the dire needs present in my memory.

I know, what a further imposition.
it’s what intruders do, impose.
but only because
I don’t know how else to help.

solutions seeking
can feel so desperate.

let’s begin.

smoke on the water
collects above sullen waterfowl,
wings flapping, feathers
coagulated with oil slick
and timber pulp mill run off,
a process of rekindling
between natures that
is long since recognised as
false-ridden.

this dirt gathers in new ways.
the doors of leased vehicles
accumulate with filthy guilt
for those single suitors looking to
impress consumer-conscious women,
lost in their battle
for independence and adherence
to hegemonic shopping addition.

surely there are more than those
who threw down
their sickles and hammers
centuries ago and
raise their postures
above complacent kneeling
at this capitalist temple
of the market driven lifestyle.

surely there are more in this era
who reject that middle-aged men
are adding value to our street corners
by their eight year old
rekindled fort building skills.

surely there are more than us
who forfeit our rights to daily peace
in the acquiescence of taxation returns
to the benefits of these legal entities
with more sway than our
collective manifestations of distrust.

surely there are more than they
who would call for 1968-era solutions
( the full-circle development
where the rights of the romantic
era of freedom
are accepted with dignity as implementations
of the right paths to utopia. )

let’s begin,
for this era falls on my shoulders
with water-logging burden,
sweeping me into a tide of well-wishing
ideologically-free idealists
seeking the marching papers that,
followed correctly,
take us somewhere.

let’s begin.

but the cauldron kept on percolating
and wishing for more ingredients.
satisfaction in the realm of this warlock’s brew
always seems to make happiness take a step aside.

snow was falling,
innocent and all. it may have been rain,
it’s hard to tell.
the fire burning here, alight with new timbers,
coals scorched blue with heat,
evaporating any notion of penetrating precipitation.

no matter,
for a soundtrack was in the carriage,
an aural cocoon that supposed the man
could benefit from a little metamorphosis,
what, with a visible cauldron
steeped in history engorging those around him.

it didn’t work. neither did the elixirs,
black, trapped like black, the opposite of what
reflections of that morning light might have been
in his eyes had he opened them
to the world around, where
walls stood firm, water ran freely and
love was waiting.

it became apparent, and perhaps not too soon,
that this cauldron would not be a appreciable
experiment forever.
oh yes, perhaps once in a while,
a little flare up wouldn’t hurt too much.
there would always be an eye or two lying near
for the additional punch.

but we should be warned.
the warlocks in all of us desire little more
than revenge,
and while sweet, they say,
it’s really a matter of taste buds.
I’d rather prefer to savour something delicate,
like the fruitful good ideas
the morning light might have lent
the ones waiting to be borrowed permanently
in an opportune time to be outside.

I am him, that
stylishly flamboyant man
frosted tips, simple 1/2 frames
a scarf to ward off the
fashion police.
but I’m also grimacing.

I am her, that
common downtown whore,
silver sneakers match the
silver wrapper of her chocolate bar,
huddling for hours in doorways.
but I’m also lost.

I am him, that
desperately urban young male,
white as surrender flags
hugging the solemn character
of conformity on the outside,
listening to Gwen Stefani
secretly on the skytrain.
but I’m also asking for acceptance.

I am me, that
slowly and surely found man,
an observation pen in hand,
longing to follow religious leaders
in a quest for morality
hell bent on discovering simple ways
to grow my altruism,
humbled by others in this quest for experiences.
but I’m also escaping.

what was carbon, was it
born with a desire to pollute?
did it know that it was harmful to us?
did it inherit guilt in this stage?
did it seek out sequestration in this world?
or did it say – I aspire to be diamonds.

what was oxygen, was it
birthed with a rejevenuating hue?
was it aware it would be sought after in bars?
did it yearn to be filling our lungs?
did it know how essential it’d become?
or did it say – I aspire to be water.

what was mercury, was it
thrown from that galactic womb in rejection?
was it aware it would poison acquifers?
was it spurned for its liquidity at room temperature?
did it contemplate evaporation?
or did it say – I aspire to be glimmering.

the breezes, subtlely,
have been mincing words.
the languages are so bastardised now,
what, with the yelps and screeches
of insanity that generates only after
we have lost our ways and connections.

but there is a notion there,
waiting to be listened to.
the building blocks tell us
the essentials are still, and always will be,
truth.

savour, little one,
the breezes tell me,
for the world is as complicated only
as you make it.
What we see are merely
elements.
build, build, build.

I like conformity,
what, when the universe
determines baby seagulls
all should scatter
when threatening human presence
triumphs on their secure space
of grubs and pigeon droppings.

I like uniformity,
what, when the candies pumped out
by the ingenuity of those food corps
politely meet my taste buds with the
well-tested and well-worn familiarity
of a million times before.

I like homogeneity,
what, when friends transcend their
cultural constrictions and class oppressions
and just act as friends,
the ones who are there for you no matter
your dire straights or your unsubdued needs
to feel comforted.

I like consistency,
what, when the weather neither peaks nor falls
in temperature, and the sun determines
a bubble bath in clouds is needed to soothe
otherwise scorched shoulders from its rays.

but I don’t like the trend of
buying into the consumer consciousness
that neglects human need
and accentuates individual success.

I don’t like the current of
upstream swimming for some, what with
the flows of this society ever pulling backwards
on the shirt-strings of those struggling to succeed.

I don’t like the inclination of
winner-takes-all collective mantras of wealth,
when those with generous factor endowments
find entitlement in this land with enough to share.

these dislikes and likes
haven’t always been indwelling in this blood.
the red stuff lacks the knowledge of much more
than oxygen as nutrition.

but every time homelessness and poverty
decide today is not the day for global rejoice
of our economy
I guess I reject orthodoxy a little bit more.

why bother having a system,
why build the roads and vehicles to success,
why process the fuels and the satellite dish-delivered stations
the lunchbox holders and the coffee cup containers
the garbage bag handles
and collections of ashtrays next to children’s seats,
why design an entire network of cars
to get from poverty to wealth
without asking the passengers about their needs?

this economy,
apparently drafted out of the knowledge of generations,
fails somewhere,
here.

why build the docks where shipbuilders proliferate,
where the ignorant of fishermen may try their luck at marine life,
where the hammers and nails are imported and the
colossal structures unite the deep of the water and the depths of the sky
where sails and engines and turbines and all those little
microeconomic tweaks that get things going efficiently are constructed,
where cargo cranes diminish our notions of
what can be moved from those eastern seas to the west,
and of what consumer needs we actually have,
without noticing the crafts left stranded by the tide?

this economy,
apparently the summation of historical evidence to the contrary,
disappoints me,
sadly.

vertical maneuvers,
horizontal declines
and still, this is a rock
failing to budge.

rabbits nibble at the grass that
roots around my base.
birds peck at the sun baked, salted
pest carcasses that line my edges.
humans kick rabidly at my sides,
hoping for some sort of impact.

but I know better than to
encompass myself with easily disturbed
surroundings.

it takes eons – which in the scheme
of a 14 billion year expansion project
is fairly minimal -
to find cementation to such values.
but I had a lot of time,
reflecting so many hours
while the rest lay lingering between
R.E.M. and day and the moments scattered there.

and here, even with all the cranes of Dubai
even with the forklifts of every discount warehouse
and the pile drivers of every private road contractor
stacked up against me,
do I fail to budge, even the slightest.

conviction is that deep in these veins,
a close bond found in the physical world only
perhaps between the quarks and electrons.

no cliff would dare allow me to fall over.

instead, $5 for Molly.

it buys little nutrition.
it pays little rent.
it purchases little clothing.

but the morning dose of
guilt.

the wondering of when,
when will I crumble from
sympathy?

when are my consumer
purchases going to have
less importance than minimising
another’s grief?

$5 for Molly
buys that.

“Have a good day,”
I leave, to float in the air
just above a practically
useless drop of paper,
that bluish one hued
with a rich Prime Minister
or some fool.

“You have a good one too,”
simply rises up.
a minimal response.
a minimal effort.
but maximum impact.

I was here, offering my safety blanket,
the care that it would take
to bring her back.
I was here, offering my only gift, the real one,
the one of quantity of life.

I actually held within me
measurable amounts of life.

Just that, one tiny glitch
in the plans to save.
just that, one tiny difference
in the plans to be gracious.
just that, one tiny distinction
in the plans of altruism.

they wouldn’t take my
safety blanket,
they wouldn’t take my
assistance.

oh yes, it would function exactly the same.
and oh yes, it would bring new quantity of life.
everything would be normal,
restored, blessed.

but they’ve ranked our gifts on a unilateral scale,
and mine now doesn’t make
the justified mark.

how dare, how dare,
to take the only gift I may give.

my, how the mighty, how they
build the institutional barriers
to their own children’s survival.

look, here, in the dust between
the feet and their encasing shoes.
patterns of the bliss that
only life likes to arrange,
the jigsaws lacking real edges
and the rawness of their formation.

look here, in the gum and wrappers
the unknown phlegm gobs piling up
in the least of intricate arrangements
the drab and dreary, the mighty mistaken
lack of colour coordination,
the disfiguring dirt crumbles on the pavement.

it’s with this view,
street level and looking upwards,
do I see what every single placement
of one of these long appendages on the ground
really means.

what could be forgotten or thought of
as nothing more than a movement
is actually an impacting moment -
not just where I’m going
but a place where things occur,
like the accumulation of bits of
heaven under our soles.

and every day, and every step,
intensifies the gathering.

right now, realities that
set focus on the here.
the near future.
but the casual forces
breed much cynicism.

who would dare dwelling in
the kinetic pull of
society that dares make
political accomplishments
out of consumerism?

what could I hardly do
to affect people more concerned
with celebrity children’s drug testing
than opposition assassinations?

still, there is here a flame,
a candle of limitless hope.
one that has guided me this far…

traveling to fill the void for the lonely vegetarian
waiters littering the pathetic
chain restaurants
stuck offering grilled burger
in airports.

smiling for the hippies
who wear new leather
moccasins as they devour
the latest text messages from
their distant lovers.

labouring for hours to
earn my ends meet for the
women flaunting north american
middle class elitism in
their sheep skin UGG boots.

snoring for the bus drivers
who in between combing their
germanic red hair
goatees, they take tickets
from children and load
seniors’ luggage into the coaches’ underbelly.

bumping into the delicately
polite immigrants who
justify tiers of labour
and unjustifiably low wage levels.

obeying the smartly dressed
suits who want nothing
of me other than my lack of presence in their
errant-filled path.
I work for them.

a scant six months ago
or seven
I had no idea life would start to twist
in ways of formation unbeknownst to that man,
who lingered in the airport hallways
for countless painfully lonely moments
hoping to find a little salvation.

a scant six months ago
maybe seven
a boy was crying internally for a grief-stricken life,
waiting for some sort of unknown metamorphosis to take over
turn this encompassing shell into an enclave of hope.
to take this fragility of life and find meaning,
however temporarily.

a scant six months ago
or seven
staring out at those who
would travel copilot with me to London
did little to stem my eyes’ cravings
for nourishment of a face that would stare
back lovingly into these eyes.

a scant seven months ago,
there was little, but hope.

probably why alive is my corpse.
probably why nourished is my brain.
probably why healthy is my spirit.
probably why life shows me
daily a new opportunity to appreciate its angelic experiences.
those that lift even the neediest of larvae
into the monarchs of the insect world.

I thought the forest density
would be consumed in this fog.
I thought the trails’ costumes of leaves
would be swept up by the wind.

I liked to move quickly, then,
as I sought out what I thought
needed doing.
I liked to feel breeze
more appropriately on my face
than whizzing ahead of me
from the pace of others.

all of a sudden,
where to became where I was from
when I arrived where
I am now.
the land of splendour,
where no longer this stomach ache
permeates my mind
where no longer frantic doubts
crush opportunities to
excel.

all of a sudden,
I was happy.