Wednesday, August 29, 2007

You don’t know nothing about redemption…you don’t know nothing about recovery.

Pressing your back against a cold brick wall, the snow crunching beneath your feet, trying to balance yourself on the balls of your feet. Long and silent flights home with deafening confrontation pounding in your mind. Empty hotel rooms filled with regret and guilt festering on every surface. Looking over an unfamiliar city and watching it turn hostile before your eyes. Forever having disgust attached to memory, forever avoiding eye contact with those you love. Having apologies ring in your ears that never meet your lips. What can I say?

Sometime your body take you places you didn’t plan on going.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

WTF George, you invented this could you let this happen?

Just saw George Ramero’s “Land of the Dead”, I supposed it’s a bit past due considering I’m an expert and all. I have, however, read a lot of my colleagues in the fields' work regarding this film and there was a lot of commentary on how the zombies are learning to use tools or working together. I’ve argued this position for a while that there is inherent ability even after death to progress as a being, but my biggest concern was the apparent oversight of my compatriots at the evolution of the genre.

There’s one scene where a zombie is staring into water and then decides to walk along the bottom across the river to get to the city/buffet of human goodness. Zombies are conditioned, that’s the whole humour in them, they walk around pumping gas or doing needlework because that’s what they did in life. They are an undead expression of the futility of our lives and how we’re bred to consume. But no one is conditioned to walk along the bottom of the river. The zombie realized that it was dead , that it didn’t need oxygen. He had a level of self awareness at its dry and decaying lungs and was able to acertain that it wasn't to his detrement. He was aware of his limitation. He thought about it, then just started walking.

I supposed it would be different if the zombie used to be an Olympic swimmer and it sort of just swam out of habit, but I think this is an unsettling departure from the purest form of zombiedom.

Friday, August 24, 2007

The course of human history

I found a baby bird in the rain the other day. It was cowering against the wall trembling trying to hide from the downpour. I picked it up and its bent and broken wing fluttered in my hands. I was kind of torn on what to do…was I supposed to just leave it? or bring it home with me and nurse it back to health only to have it be abandoned by its mother.

I had the power of death over life. I was a giant, I was a monster, and its very future depended upon the grace that I could bestow or withhold. I thought that I could adopt it and teach it about fine wines and have it sip from the palm of my hand. Or I could teach it what it means to be in love and stroke its fragile feathers while I listen to it breathe. I wanted to spread maps in front of it and plan trips and be romantic and show all that human life had to offer.

I thought of the songs that I could teach it, how to accompany me as I play piano. We could laugh at our errors and exchange glances at those perfect moments. A long and purposeful gaze washed across its face as hope rose in its tiny heart. I thought about all the knowledge that I could possibly impart and what the most important lesson about humans could be….then I quickly crushed it in my fist.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

You gotta love this...ah the classics

Three days before Jesus' execution, someone from the 20th century went back in time in a fit of guilt-ridden religious ecstasy. They brought with them an M-14 semi-automatic rifle and proceeded to teach Peter how to use it. At first Peter was confused, but the time traveler was able to convince him of what was to happen. When Jesus was brought before the High Priest Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, Peter stopped the guards from beating Jesus by firing into the air. Everyone stepped back as Peter undid the Lord's manacles. "What the fuck art thou doing Petros?" asked the Lord. "They're going to torture you until you look like ground beef, Rabbi," answered Peter. "What?" "And then crucify you!" Peter interrupted. "Fucketh that!" said Jesus. As Peter tried to lead the Messiah away, guards came to stop them. "What now Petros?" asked a nervous Son of Man. "Watch" and Peter blew away the Temple guards. Thus, mankind was never saved and our would-be Saviour became the symbol for the National Rifle Association.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

yeah it was that good

Got to play host to a group of people from around the country this weekend. I’m pretty tired and my legs are sore but I feel pretty good about it. I let my friends marvel at the wonders of Toronto and the random trivia that was made up largely on the spot. So I may have lost some credibility among them and will probably have to give up on my dream of being a tour guide.

I told them not to believe that Algonquin propaganda about how Toronto really got its name or how the residents of Toronto towed the 2nd oldest brick house in the city down Yonge Street in a parade after burning down the 1st one. I went on and on, much like I do on this blog, about how Eggelton Ryerson and Alexander the Great founded Ryerson in the year 333 BC; the first polytechnic university in the new world.

Perhaps the greatest is the feeling of sharing the sun with a friend as it creeps around the corner of a sky scraper, the wind carrying a million whispers as it curls behind your ears, the romance afforded by a large and anonymous city. Oh Toronto, your suspicious bouncers and unionize street people delight me. I was happy to caress a strange woman on the dance floor, to squint dizzyingly into a strobe light, to howl at the moon while tripping over street car tracks. I love your non judgemental cab drivers and gracefully indifferent doormen. Like we’re all pulling together, a wonderful exercise in tolerance and creativity that provides the succulent backdrop for lust or adventure.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Blood Red and Forever Blue

I feel pretty heavy. Like I just “POW! hmmm watcha say’d” all over everyone.

It’s not the best, maybe it’s better to turn the other check and then remember.

But I can’t get the damn taste of that warm and salty milk out of my mouth.

Born with calloused feet and dexterous hands. A predisposition contained in my blood that nations and religions are built on.

What’s in an idea? What’s it worth to you?

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Razom Nas Bahato

I think I’m due for some epic battle. Like some Mothra vs. Godzilla shit. Like Octavius vs. Marc Anthony sort of shit.

My ancestors didn’t cross the Gobi desert and the steppes of East Asia drinking nothing but yaks milk for this shit. My distant great grand father wasn’t burnt at the stake for standing with Luther as he nailed the 97 thesis to the doors of the Wittenberg cathedral for this bullshit to happen. As a child my father held soviet artillery shells in his hand and disassembled them with an axe in the woods; my grandmother crawled through waist deep snow through a mine field cradling her sleeping daughter all the way to Austria.

I didn’t stand up to a four star general in Ukraine to argue a constitution that was a mere few hours old with his gun men behind him so that my own friends could betray me and take credit for my work.

I guess relativity is a bitch, but I come from a long line of revolutionaries and it’s in my blood. I’m compelled to battle for those who are under privileged, oppressed and disenfranchised. I could have changed history, but what a poor fucking start.

Check this out

And here for the English version

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Also everyone should check this out

Do know what it feels like loving someone who’s in a rush to throw you away?

Ok I’m convinced; a prairie sky is pretty beautiful. When I first heard about it I didn’t believe it. We in Toronto were all like “pfft…prairie sky, as if. Where are its big towers? Exactly, there in Toronto…vote for that loser!”

I was under it, it was everywhere, behind me, to the sides, it comes right up beside you and there’s no division between it and you, the ground and sky. I guess theoretically the air around your ankles is included so that and you are at times on top of it. The air around you glows, pink beams stream through purple clouds and warm your skin despite the goose bumps the very vision grants you.

Whole herds of cows stood to stare at it. We pass them like in a movie or a music video where camera angles simulate the blinking eye. Fields of blond haired children against menacingly low clouds and icebergs of sodium sulphate. It was picturesque, it was heavenly and surreal. I rolled down the window just to feel it; I liked it roaring in my ears. It was windy, but you couldn’t tell because there are no trees. Like it had a personality and it liked tricking you.

The only thing that was missing was the beautifully smooth voice of Enrique. God I missed you.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

I’m kind of surprised at myself, I’m nostalgic, I’m stoic, I had it all.

There I stood on the pitchers mound in Sedley Saskatchewan, my team all staring at me. We were down 4-0 in the first inning, and it all came back to me. The sun setting behind my team mates, my nostrils dried out from the dusty and un-kept diamond. Me grinding the ball into my thigh, looking lazily at the back catcher trying to disguise my nerves and feign composure. I’ve been here a million times before, I was always the best on a shitty team and would be expected to endure the humiliation of throwing pitch after pitch knowing that it wont matter in the end.

The red’s and oranges had my number. They cranked one after the other out of the park. My team had heard that I pitched for over ten years and obviously had unrealistic expectations.

On a brighter note I was able to drum for a bit for the first time in ages. My legs actually wobbled as I stepped down from the kit. A million unique and fun drum lines ran through my head simultaneously with regret for not playing them. People clapped, and I stared at them dumbly, unable to hear them over my ringing ears and the sound of my own hear slapping loudly against my ribs. I nervously eyed people trying to read them, to see their reaction. It was hard to tell, astigmatism and campfires are a poor mix.

Then I spent the rest of the night with celebratory fisting and breaking beer bottles over my head.

Friday, August 03, 2007

It was my friends’ birthday…last…night…can…barely…think

I can’t say much beyond bluh bub bluh bluh. Its mega hot and I stink like booze. Don’t remember much, just standing outside a strip club and comparing my lung capacity against my girls. I smoke faster, in thick dirty drags, she has petite little puffs. I’ve been on a jagerbomb tip ever since Halifax, and that must explain the stains on my shirt, they’re always sloppy.

I also rubbed birthday cake all over my body, and my shirt was sticking to me all night. I smelt sweet and had plenty of soft bodies brushing up against me and commenting on it, trying to get money. I have their make up all over me and ATM receipts in my pockets when I woke up.

Man I’m dreading the Facebook photos.

P.S. Hoping on a plane to go back to Sask. Can't wait, apparently the town we're going to is extreamly tiny, like 150 ppl. "I'm white by chance but country by God's graces." And I plan to keep it that way.

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