today and the other one

The professors were dancing and it was a party that I didn’t like: the usual story. An old flame walks into the bar and conversation stops, at least toward me. They know us both, I thought. Everyone else was making noise with each other and some were dancing. I complained to my friends not in the room through my phone, and we all typed for over an hour. Steve and Michael and Mel and me. I typed that my own confrontational psychology was at fault. I wondered why some of the people dancing in the room with me talk about art but are offended by the life processes which often create it. Steve typed, you are beginning to ask the big questions of life because you have a qwerty keyboard on your phone now and are a Mr. because of it. Me phone no smart. Take long type stuff. I typed that it was research into being one of those fucks with a mobile. That was definitely your duck with a noble face, Steve typed. Ha :) that is predictive text for “fuck with a mobile face”.

In the room full of dancing professors, I began to laugh. I typed to everyone who wasn't with me, is my friend my phone or is my phone my friend? I don’t know, Mel typed. I typed, it’s really only myself that I don’t like, so I put everyone else in a bag. I’m so bored. I look at people having fun around me. They barely know how to entertain themselves let alone others. Mel typed that academics are as I describe, but I knew I was lying and really just being mean to myself again. Other people happily moved in circles and were smiling. Jesus, Mel typed. Come home. I want to buy a bike.

I found a conversation after putting my drink on the bar. Alyson was a nice girl, but in a photograph I made later some people would confuse her with a television and become mad at me. I went to the washroom and when I got back the bartender had stolen my drink. You’ll have to buy another, he said and I waved my hand once in his face from down to up and left.

I’m back in Hamilton and it’s raining. Mel phoned while I showered and I missed it. She had typed as well. Her message was black on white. Cadillac cruising style bike. Good for me? Please advise as per VM I just left. I called her and she said that she had a bike ready for her. She was part of a business trading community. Businesses trading services and sometimes goods to each other using the internet and no money. A restaurant wanted photographs of their food, and Mel quoted high. She had not found anything to buy with her credits until this bike. I don’t know what it is though, she said. You’re the bike guy, so I want you to come see it.

Mel and Noel came in their big black truck, and with me in the back we drove down James North. We stopped on Canon and parked at Pho. Across the street was the bike shop. We entered and Mel fell in love with a Dutch bike. The bike store guy said that all of the machinery was contained, so she could wear anything and ride it around. Just go to work in your work clothes, he said. Or you could ride to meet friends and have a drink without special clothes. Mel liked that she could wear a dress and the shoes that she was wearing with a potential for heels. It’s so hot, she said slowly. I’m fingering it in the ass. It’s my bike and I want it. Noel said that we should go look at the other barter bike, because Mel still had credits and we should see if it would be worth selling. I said that we should see if Bike store guy would trade it in. I like Bike store guy, Mel said. He’ll take it. We left the store saying that we would be getting a new bike for the bike store guy.

When we got east, we stopped at a Tim Horton’s and bought the usual. They gave us three coffees instead of the two Mel and Noel wanted. Mel had already paid with her card, so I sold the extra double double to a guy in the line behind us. He gave Mel one dollar fifty, so she earned five cents for the deal. I said that I worked for Tim Horton’s for four years and lived on my tips. The trader was in a strip mall surrounded by offices. On the second floor, no one was inside and two of the barter bikes were against the wall. They were a matching pair of Cadillacs. I said we could just ride these bikes away out of here and why is there no security at the barter. A minute later a woman came from a room and said hi. Mel told her that she would take the barter bike for girls.

I lifted the barter bike into the bed of Noel’s truck after he placed blankets against the metal. We drove back to the bike store guy and came smiling with the barter bike. I told you we would come back, Mel said. Now how do I turn this bike into that bike? Bike store guy laughed and looked on the internet. My friend Matt came from downstairs with grease on his hands. We talked and I went down into the repair floor of the shop behind him. Get your hands dirty, he said and handed me a derailer.

Mel came down the stairs wearing a new tshirt. I’m shopping, she said, and I need bags. She went back upstairs and picked out a saddle bag for the new Dutch bike. Matt said he thought the internet trading idea was a good one. Bike store guy unlocked the bikes in front of his store so that Mel and Noel could try them out. I went next door to Mixed Media to see Dave. We talked and he gave me some money for a CD of mine which had sold. Sweet, I'm up to 26, I said and watched a kid on a new bike fly past the window. I thought that he had grabbed a bike from next door as Noel was out riding, so I chased him down the street. He stopped when I said that he dropped something. I asked about the bike and he said that the bike was his so I took a picture and went back to see the bike store guy. He said it's not mine and went back to the internet.

Noel came back in the store after riding a black Dutch bike. I like the men’s bike, he said. I was sceptical of the Dutch, but now I’m sold. Look at the seat. It’s like a cloud. Hey, I hear you did some crimefighting there. Mel came into the store with the Dutch and said that she didn’t fit the bike, but that they could get one in her size by Monday. The bike store guy said that he would try to sell the Cadillac. Three fifty for the old new and a thousand for the new new. Mel was really happy and we went back to her place.

Noel offered me his bong and smoke which had come from a field. He threw chicken on the barbecue and cut up a pineapple for me. Everything burned as it should and was soaked in tequila. Noel insisted that I smell the food. Mel’s sister Rebecca came over and got dressed. She rehearsed her lines for the stand-up that she was going to perform that night. They were printed on paper like a movie script. Mel told me that it was funny the other night when she ran through her Q’s, including one who knew everybody and Robert De Niro. She called that Q on her phone and thought it was me. She told Q and not me to come over for a smoke. It took her ten minutes before she realized that she had called the wrong Q, but she was too embarrassed about using one Q for another to not bring him over. The part of the story that I already knew was when she called me. I came late and had to leave early. Q didn’t smoke pot, but had come early and stayed late. Mel was annoyed and wanted my Q to be above his Q in her phone so that she would not make that mistake again.

Rebecca was eating some of the cooked pineapple and spilled it on the counter. We laughed and she took some of the chicken. I can’t cook, she said. Do I have chicken in my lipstick? You don’t want me for a housewife. I don’t want a house wife, I said. I don’t like houses. She repeated the joke to her sister and I was ta-da but didn’t smile. It was almost nine. They called for a car and I had to go home. We said goodbye see you on the weekend, and I walked in the rain as they were driven to comedy.

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

this is not creative writing

i came to a slight realization on the bus this afternoon.

some biographical detail is required for this self-indulgence.

when i was really young, i used to write for pleasure. usually the writing occurred when sitting alone in the hallway outside of a classroom, after i had been kicked out by the teacher for disrupting my friends after having finished my work. in every subject except handwriting, i finished class assignments exceptionally fast and then became an exceptional nuisance to the teacher. one morning in the fourth grade, my notebook was taken from me after the teacher found it full of stories about monsters and daemons, knights and astronauts, and other mythologies about the past and the future. at first i thought that she was mad about the violence and gore which i frequently included, and perhaps even highlighted -- this was, after all, the era of the Reagan Star Wars laser defence shield and high-body-count television and action films. my parents were called in to the school for a meeting, and i found out that the teacher didn't like all of the swear words which i had used. my father told her that to keep me from acting up in class and getting kicked out into the hall, she should let me write down the words which kept me occupied. i remember his words from that afternoon very well: "any damn word he pleases".

and so from that day i kept writing for pleasure. for the transmutation of an afternoon into a semi-tangible vision. for the loss of ego into imagination. for the fruits of productive isolation. for the way that some of my words seemed to have been worthy enough to have been printed and read by others, who then generated more words in response. for the spaces and patterns made by the writing if you looked at the whole page and unfocused your eyes. for the way that after i produced and dot-matrix-printed a series of newspapers for myself, i felt like i was part of the media which captivated me from birth. for the simple control of the ink as it left my pen and tainted the paper. for the pleasure of both failure and success. for looking to the earth and the sky and reaching through time. for something to read.

words were fun because of their appearance and sound as well as their meaning. in this sense, the joy received by writing is precisely the joy of writing experiencing itself. pleasure in this context is a derivative of subjectivity. by the age of ten or eleven, i had come to appreciate the difference between the writing which gave me pleasure and that which was deemed "good" by virtue of adherence to function or evaluative protocol. while it may sound obvious, i really liked the pleasure, the pleasure as a pleasure. the functions or evaluation of my words provided no real feedback to me. so what if i received a perfect grade for something which i had written, when i knew that the writing had given me little harbour and as such was an essentially misrepresentative process? -- as an aside, the school projects from my youth which i have come to cherish most highly do not come from my representations of truth, but rather from fictions which i was able to pass off as truths: an en-francais book report and improvised oral presentation of a translation of James and the Giant Peach involved an elaborate inter-species taxi, cake delivery, and dating service; a history paper written in high school involved an invented civilization from the Eurasian steppes which was feared throughout the western part of the roman empire for their mounted female fire archers and which had been conquered through the religious practises of an equally non-existent but territorially-aggressive group of midget barbarians; an eighth-grade science report for an invented species of reptile involved several photomicrographs of tissue samples taken from my father's "cancer collection" along with an audio recording of its mating call which i had created using a two-litre pop bottle half-filled with used motor oil; a grade thirteen kinesiology paper which examined a fake west asian sport whose history and rules were inspired by the menu of a vegetarian all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. often, i would invent extended and cross-indexed bibliographies, and on one occasion i even forged the Dewey decimal cards which kept stock of the inventory at my high school library to prove the existence of several of the non-existent books referenced in a ten-page term paper to a teacher. all of this work received top marks from ostensibly qualified instructors at ostensibly well-regarded schools.

and i kept writing. on the back of a transfer, waiting for a bus. on a napkin, waiting for a friend to return from a restaurant bathroom. in the margins of a newspaper, waiting for my mother to return from a store. on the sides of packing boxes, waiting between lines of customers at work. on the sides of buildings, waiting for my city of Hamilton to return to life. the joy seemed to be that i could fill the time otherwise spent waiting for things to happen by elaborating the happenings of my own invention.

then university happened, and i lost my attention to the joys which free writing provided to me. for some reason my writing began to tailor itself to function more than to the self-reflexive/self-excessive process of writing. i began to write only when given either an academic or a financial opportunity. remuneration, that's what writing had become. more to the point, it seems as though i now only write when i feel that i have a purpose to do so. to relay information. to invite. to make a cultural sell. the joy of purposeless writing from my youth has departed from me. until i realized that i play with words all of the time. i can, in fact, not help but play with words whenever i am given the slightest opportunity.

sitting on the bus today, waiting for my laptop to boot while the snow-covered fields of industry rolled past my window, i came to understand the illusory fiction of purpose. society provides to us a definition of purpose as a geography inhabited by adults who must guide children and the irresponsible away from the random vectors of their instincts. purpose requires a judge, an evaluative agent which can dispense truth and due consequence within the bounds of reason created by the system of evaluation itself. "purpose" is the forced conscription of innocence and creative association into the armed guilt against pleasure which many in society define as reasonable and responsible function. "purpose" is a means of looking beyond oneself to view subjectivity solely within the circumscription of ecstasis: what can you do for others with your words and how will they use them? "purpose" burns off the body, rejecting corporeality as an impurity which detempers the truth of representation. it is a means of working for others for the purpose of instrumentality: I am my words, my words are the truth; you can trust me and here is what you need to know. to be subsumed to function is to engage in a self-inflicted form of wage slavery.

writing is a geography of play. woe to thee, land whose king is no longer a child.

FWCI no more...

Normally I don't put too many personal details on this site, but today I found out from Paul Schaffer that my old high school has closed. It was a great school, and I credit several of the faculty there for setting me in a decent direction in those rather turbulent times of my youth.

Apparently this is not new information, but the fact that I learned nothing of this event until now reflects the fact that everybody I know from Thunder Bay has long since left that town. There is always a sense of sadness in a small town as it ages...

feeling my way around itaewon

our first full day off after the esl camp in korea, and we had celebrated the previous night by, of course, drinking excessively. i was wearing contacts, and the exceptionally dry atmosphere left them decently attached to my eyeballs, despite my regular use of drops -- regular up to the point where i stopped caring / noticing the problem. regardless, fun was had and by the end of the night my eyes ended up in their proper sockets, so to speak.

i woke up the next day completely blind and in an exceptional amount of pain. i couldn't keep my eyes either closed or shut. after three hours of trying to sleep it off into the afternoon, i decided to venture out to the clinic and see (now that there is a certain distance of then and now, it's easy to use such a terrible pun) what was what. since i was completely blind, i had to make the trek by feel. somehow i managed to cross the street, touching brick, stone, and other inhabitants of this dismal American borough of Seoul. when i got the other side, some US military police stopped me and asked why i was so drunk at such an early part of the day ("you must be a fucking Canadian" one said!). i explained my situation and they pointed out that the clinic on my side of the street was closed for renovations, so i had to make my way up the street a half kilometre to another one. fun times.

feeling one's way up the main street in Itaewon is in fact the only way to travel this strip, even if you are graced with vision. every small street vendor that you pass grabs you and brings you closer to their somewhat stunted paychecks. i now know what calvin klein socks feel like. how each item in a line of gucci purses supplely enters your palm only to slip into the next design, arresting you for a second of desire amassed and rejected. the fact that almost everything you see is a bootleg, a facsimile made by hands other than armani's. all of the luggage and tourist items are displayed in order to trip up any passer-by who doesn't give even a second to evaluate their worth, which under my fingers seemed for the most part quite adequate. there is a certain presence of tactile response, a knowledge of where you came from and where you are going, atom by atom from birth unto death. above anything else i learned that the body only knows time within relative immanence. everything is given time by bodily experience, and from this sense of "everything" taken altogether comes the gesture toward transcendence. meaning is precisely this interception of sense into consciousness while trying to avoid the scars of time: an impossible procedure. the blind-for-a-day are given meaning in a pure sense, without referent. no, it says, immortality does not come that cheap; welcome back to present day reality. at this instant the body returns upon itself, and either you allow the non-corporeal to maintain its distance like a prayer, or you let it fold in upon both itself and you.

with this manifest realization, i was able to pick up what was, when i was finally able to see it two days later, a pretty sweet shirt by feeling the design on the front. aesthetics are an interesting consideration when you lose a sense. by what criteria should we really judge things? referentiality is our only recourse. so what then of aesthetics and universality? what then is beautiful beyond that which simply brings relief to the suffering of a particular individual? it was precisely at this moment of purchase that i decided true happiness would only come about if i created something back at my hotel. with such limited options as i had available to myself, i knew that such a creation would be me and a camera, solitary in solidarity. hopefully the resultant video doesn't linger too long as anything of importance, as in my mind it was merely a distraction and one which served it's fitful purpose. if i learned anything from this birthing, it is that isolation -- true isolation -- breeds incontinence. truth be told, i like this space of incontinence. it is one of freedom despite harsh criticism from both within and without; minima moralia.



i made it to the clinic only to find out that many of Itaewon's public services -- in the sense that i have come to understand the meaning of public -- close for random three-hour sessions, sporadically throughout the day. presently i was out of luck, so i decided to try and get back home and knock myself out with soju after fucking around with my attempts at an important visual. on the way, i'm not sure how, i managed to get to the atm in the subway (thank you random australian man who read to me my atm info. up to that point, i was thinking that i might get fucked over by someone stealing cash or my pin). a quick mission of happiness, and some food for my sojourn at the love motel.

being vegetarian and blind in korea is a double misunderstanding. multiply by ten when you add a certain lack of ability with the korean language. obviously i was not allowed to touch the food which interested me. as a consequence, i had to trust my limited korean vocabulary for this pursuit of culinary justice. at one kitchen, i tasted crab and got sick immediately. this led to the exchange of some verbal abuse on the part of those serving me my food. weird. it seemed pretty straight-forward to me. annio golgi, annio mul golgi: no meat, no seafood. then i try to explain no dairy and no eggs. all good, despite my hang'-'glish barbarisms. good, except for the fact that many korean kitchens do not assume things like crab, pork, chicken, etc, to be meat in the traditional sense, and sometimes after explaining that you will not eat a single animal product you still get random animal legs sticking out of your meal in a "decorative" fashion.

nightmare.

the only thing i knew with confidence that i could consume was bi bim bap, a multi-disciplinary salad with rice that sometimes comes with an egg or meat on top but is traditionally vegan. cooking your own food in korea is my recommendation though, unless you really really like bi bim bap, as in three times a day like-alicious.

on this day i had to resort to pictographs in order to get my meal requirements across. this process led me into seven different kitchens, after six different arguments. when fighting blind, the fury of presence is removed from you, as is the hatred which comes from knowing your opposition. it is at once the most heartless and unsatisfying thing you can do. provocation requires a willingness to stare into the eyes of an opponent and convince them of the absolute assurity of your position by strength of metabolism alone. when you go blind, your body language changes, becomes unpredictable. in the end i starved a fair amount, as there was no way for me to express my desires to korean chefs without staring them in the face. blind, fidgety, and half-drunk, i was looked upon as a miser and a cheat, and was given little respect from any food vendor that i found.



at this point, i was so blinded by pain and fuzzy-wrecked-eyedness that i was getting myself around my touch and touch alone -- with occasional barely-peeled eyes telling me of unfocussed shapes and hazy occurences. i now know what most buildings in Itaewon feel like, and some of the people as well. this could have quite easily led me down dark paths, and every bar in my vicinity catered to such a lack of willpower against vice.

i dragged myself home, and was accosted by several prostitutes who i think were balkan. they sounded cute and obviously knew how to endear themselves, but their practised voices were very raspy and tired. i could hear the wheeze of the mattress with every sentence they uttered; articulations seemed determinately cut short by their boredom and the cold wind which passed over their lips. they offered to me everything they didn't really have: presence and a certain emotional tangeability, bought cheaply each half-hour. luckily for them i don't believe in ghosts which i can't see, and so there was no animosity as i left them alone on the street with nothing exchanged between us.

one thing i really liked about my hotel room was the sheer containment it provided. there was no way to excuse the fact that a body needed space. life and breath were taken for granted here in the love motel. this was a region of unforgiven corpses and daily transcience, and my foreign-ness was no exception. time becomes irresolute in such places. the day passed a lot more quickly than i imagined it would upon first waking, in pain and somewhat desperate.

another four hours of listening to music and trying to sleep off my pain. i tried to avoid having my eyes burn when they were either closed OR open. it was a continual and transcendent buzz which elevated my body beyond itself to a relative absolution with the walls, the floor, other people outside my little vacuum. the annihilation of it all was a sweet relief from the immediacy of sensation -- the dry heat from the floor heaters -- pipes under the whole floor which keep the room nice and toasty and also dry the air the fuck out -- made me try another walk into the street. since it was now after supper, the prostitutes were out in full force. no nudity in the public here, unlike North America. the little strip right in front of our love motel is an expanded barracks for GIs picking up hookers and taking them to places like the motel where we have been staying. naked girls left in small dirty rooms after they are used. i thought at first that these little daily mantras of money-then-sex / sex-and-then-money were obscene, a realization of the "love you long time" scene in Full Metal Jacket. i tried everything in my power to save myself from it all. it was crass and i was moralizing, but i took pride in being a judge over these people and their situation. it was liberating, and i wanted the imposition of freedom's distant horizons.

i was starting to see to the horizon, but in fuzzy, half-formed shapes. a young korean girl in a hospital mask came up to me and asked me for a date. she walked in a daze up the street. quick quick quick, then slowly falling to a pause. for a few seconds, my eyes cleared enough that i could make out her face, which was quite beautiful and sad. her english was pretty good, at least the words which weren't drowned out by the blood i saw on the inside of her mask. i asked her why she needed a date from some random guy on the street when she could be winning guys all over the place back at high school or whatever. the only thing which i could see in entire clarity that day -- perhaps the thing which stands out most clearly from the whole trip -- was how her eyes lit up as she pulled her entire mask off her face and told me that she wasn't allowed in school anymore. i could see that she had been beaten up, and was indeed still bleeding from her lip and nose.i wanted to find three hundred thousand won and give it to her just to stay inside for one night. immediately i fell despondent, as this was a malignant thought, one breeding disease. she laughed a little and said, you aren't a GI, you are with a happier face. i realized that my desire to help this girl was precisely her problem. everyone helped her with money, as time was very expensive for her. she was never going to be this young again. she wanted some time back to herself, and that would not come from a foreignor's won. i almost dropped to her feet when she smiled again through the blood around her mouth, then replaced her hospital mask before leaving up the street.

later in my hotel: a camera, a blind photographer, and no subject. i think it was the careless and yet absolute manner in which she placed the mask around her wounds, as though it were not a cover but an interface. i was frozen. precisely because i didn't know her. i could never know her yet could think of nothing else but her immediacy -- she could have founded a temple with that grace. and here i was unable to create even a simple monument of a gesture.



i decided to try some sightless drinking in public to see if i could at least find some conversation. one of the bars next to our love motel was supposedly "Canadian", so i went inside. they did have some presque-canadian whiskey and beer on tap, but i didn't recognize any of it. export only, it seems. regardless of the friendly labels on the beer, my tarsand spirits as well as two British girls who came into the bar soon after i did convinced me to go in the whiskey direction. worst. shit. ever. i only had two drinks, and since the girls weren't exactly masters of conversation except "so are all Canadian boys as funny as you?" and "We are sharing a hostel, want to bring down our rent a bit?" there was nothing but refusal on my mind. i was holding the hand of one of the girls who insisted that it be held, and so i thought: that's right girls. i'm in so much pain that i want to gouge out my retinas with a spoon and fling them down the street, and yet i'd love to go back to your boozy hostel for so much sex and crying. nice try, but that won't get my mind off things. and so it was a terse goodbye as i decided to get the hell out of there.

there's this thing about south korea where public drunkenness is not only completely accepted, but it's thoroughly encouraged if you are a guy. touching every wall and door to find my way back to my room allowed me to bump into five old men who were so thoroughly intoxicated that I had to them get back to their feet and moving in the proper direction. blind leading the blind. one guy even gave me what i later saw was 5,000 won to help him up the stairs to his place. thankfully he asked nothing else. another 45 minutes of walking on my fingers and i was home. it was 9 pm. i drank the last bottle of soju i had in my room in under three minutes and missed a good deal of the remainder of the pain behind my eyeballs.



i tend to like contacts to function as portals to the living world, not as coins allowing passage through the underworld.

Check out those Aviators!

Not to get too personal with this post (I'm trying to keep this website a little left of the ordinary journal experience) but my pops made the news. CBC interviewed him for twenty minutes about laboratory testing in the country, and this is the edited version of what he had to say lasting maybe fifteen seconds.

Check it out here (video is in the right corner of the webpage).

Please note that his name is actually Bryan Hewlett. And no, he is not a doctor.

why don't those christians who are crazy learn to read???

I got myself into a little argument the other day. I was sitting outside talking with a friend, and within the confines of our conversation, I said "there's another of those goddamn Hummers" as one passed in front of us. This otherwise intelligent looking young dude comes over to me and asked why I took the "Lord's" name in vain. I responded that I was pissed off that people could pollute the earth with little or no consequence to themselves. That set him off.

"Isn't blasphemy pollution?" he asked.

I agreed that it was, but first of all, I don't believe that there is a god or gods in existence. Second, I asked him why he thought a word had the same power of blasphemy as, say, incest, theft, or murder. Or burning churches or something.

"It's one of the commandments, and we must follow god's law."

I asked if he believed that a god could speak through translation. After all, the "word of God" has come to us from many seperate translations of ancient texts that were lost, recopied, transliterated, mistranslated, or modified to suit the contemporary needs of the translator. Is it not then man's laws that we are talking about? Isn't it vain and overly proud to speak as though one knows "God's" intentions. After all, since this god of the christian tradition is supposed to be beyond human understanding -- hence the need for faith above reason -- then how can a single individual attempt to speak in its stead?

"The word of God is holy," and so he sat down beside us.

Ok, but what is the word of God? I asked. I thought that the word of God is creation, as evidenced by old testament scripture in Genesis. Consequently, to blaspheme is to do damage to creation, as in what the science tells us about the excessive oil consumption demonstrated by the Hummer.

So taking the earth's health in vain is to take the Lord's name in vain, under my reading of Christian doctrine. But hey, I'm no Christian.

"It's pretty clear to me. You can't swear, or it's a sin," he said.

So I asked if it was a greater sin to actually wreck the earth, rather than to utter a few frequencies that under a certain linguistic tradition can mean a reference to god (that my statement actually referred to the christian or any other god is itself questionable, but I don't want to get into semiotics here...). Would a being who had the power to create and destroy all of creation really be worried about a few words???

Scientific evidence tells me that our actions are more important in terms of damaging creation. While I certainly could have used any combination of words to parlay my disgust towards wasteful and ecologically damaging decisions that humans make, I still feel justified in damning the Hummer to a god's fury. After all, we do seem to be messing with the earth's biosphere pretty substantially, and in fact seem to be attempting to usurp the power of god or gods in that respect.

So this pious little Christian said he would pray for my soul, and walked away. In passing I asked if he could pick up a few pop cans that he passed and deposit them in the recycle bin at the end of the street. He ignored me.

Good works, Christian saviour. What would Jesus have done in a similar situation? Jesus would have picked up the fucking cans.

Gotta love superstitions, like how they stop people from actually thinking about things. That's great. Goddamn great, in fact.

off/end the street

she writes in blank spaces

the walk was surreptitious and silent
and I remembered how it was made:
we had always swept past each other
going to work, or in play resting
intangible and ever volatile
we met looking sideways

once in walking we passed a year
our bigness dwarfed the whole street
i realized then that the way you move
gives title to moments of pleasure
i took your hand and pressed it to my days
marking the calendar on my wall in bald faces

on this Monday we were going to your place
it was a tea that had filled a week, promised
and poured with my cup handed
when i smiled you stopped, then
burning drops went over my hand caressing

i sentenced you to life for that transgression

m.a.p.s.

white = water inbibed, North America

pink = soft drinks consumed, as a percentage with water,
North America

purple = sugar in pop turned into fat, as a percentage of pop




America, in going after the heart of terrorism, you are so 2005




plumes and breaks, widgets at the cellular level




we pack tightly, you and i




a father unfurles his wisdom only slowly, and that makes him angry




vulnerability is part of Empire




if it weren't me, it would be wallpaper

and now for some pictures of penises...

winter is

finally a decent snowfall.

i haven't really felt at home during this time of year ever since i left thunder bay to come to southern ontario. i was smaller than i am now, but i remember drifts that were higher than my head after two days of snow.

i miss the toboggan runs, cascades of ice and childhood spilling far onto Lake Superior.

me, an actor? that's a larf

thankfully, this is the only picture of my "performance" in waterdown theatre's production of arthur schnitzler's Flirtations

http://www.villagetheatrewaterdown.ca/flirtations/flirtationscastandcrew.htm

Robin

last night i dreamt of my father:
his face so close it chimed like a bell

i wanted to reach out, but remembering the rules i looked
the other way, into the subtle folds of his sadness,
where grace held triumphantly its shameful cup
and the days were equally marked by too much work

through him i learned that time seeds like moonlight
casting shadow upon shadow-all, wrapped in one intensity
it is the glue of bandaids holding us together
and keeping us all locked tight

in my dream i saw a black cat try to cross a highway:
this was my father's childhood
a mouth entered and every second breathing
a language, caressed by the tongues of silence

my father's leg, paralysed by diabetes
that old stick-in-the-mud who said yes
too often like a baby, i wanted more "no"
he looks at me, passing my inheritance
while clutching it fiercely, like a beggar
i wanted so desperately for him to walk
so i could take him out into the park
and we could fly kites written

what poetry is this, where grammar is so inarticulate?

i woke up and circled my feet like wings beating.
the day was sunny,
so bright that twenty-six years open
in front of me like a moth

Feb 27 2004 - Dec 4 1977

wow, an old world record!

i found out today that i still have a record for long jump from back in 1990. guess that's my fifteen minutes right there, huh?

so here's the story from the winner's circle: it was my second jump, so i gave it a good %110. coach was behind me, and my fans... man, Derek Shantz, i'll never forget the smiles and the high five you gave before they even measured it. dude, i'm gonna take you to disneyworld one day!

look here

After the Rain (for Robin)

There is a scientist within me that wants to categorize my father. Make of him a quantity or dichotomy, enumerate him:

1. as Scientist
2. as Photography / Storyteller
3. as British
4. as Authority
5. as Bryan William to us and Robin to his true friends
6. as Provider
7. Dad

I usually get bored with long lists.

~

What is a beginning? It cannot be created, at least not by the potential creator. Like a life is a beginning: it must be given to you. Things are more easily be ended, though. I was not given a beginning, so I begin with the end.

I do not think that I will be able to cope with my father’s death. I have not coped well with the deaths of others.

When my dog died, I watched television for thirteen straight hours.
When my friend Brie died, at first I laughed and watched a plane fly overhead; I haven’t stopped crying since.
When my Nannie died, I broke down in the cafeteria at school (there’s no jury like your peers).

Every day I prepare myself for my father’s death. But I do think there will be a day when I stop crying.

~

A certain peace comes after a rainfall, a rising with the mist.

~

There was a time in my father’s life when a painful degree of hopelessness followed desperation. I can very clearly remember how he used to come home after work, summarily acknowledge the rest of us, and then go right up to bed. I spent very little time with my father at this point in our lives.

His boss at work had decided to make his own personal life a public affair, and consequently created himself tyrannus ab administratione over my father. In this structure, my father could hardly operate. His job required a continual adaptation of technique in order to get the results he desired. Histology was his muse, it was his passion and means of melodic expression against the dissonant chordal structures handed to him by his teachers of decades past. You could sometimes see it in his eyes: a flurry of melody following the thump! smack! of wood on skin. Those damned teachers of the old British school. Nobody escaped that system without a caning. Sure, scars are formed – ugly details which can be seen upon closer observation – but the very act of covering those marks can be characterising and religious in nature. Old people do not lie when they say that such hardships build character.

It was at this point that I discovered and more truly understood my father’s patterns.

~

Comfort can be found in routine, but so too can loneliness. You begin to wonder about other lives; you begin to fantasize about other people. Imagination can be freed, but so can destructive energies.

An iron trap can be seen to cover the face, perhaps even the entire body. This maiden is first a protection against the loneliness of routine, held in place to deflect the sharp blows that are perpetually falling. To one outside the maiden, it is an obvious entrapment: you can watch the slow drain of blood by the inward-pointing spikes. They aren’t as big or obvious as depicted in medieval textbooks. These points are dangerous for their imperceptibility.

It took my father three years to escape from his loneliness.

~

I remember reading in one of my old comic books about an archaeologist who had discovered an ancient mask in a dusty tomb. It was a very beautiful mask, entrancing both for the intricacy of its construction and the elemental simplicity of its decoration. It became of such value to him that he had to hide it from the police in that country so that he could keep it for himself.

When he brought the mask home to his wife, she screamed and would not let it into the house. His love for this mask forced him to leave her and lock himself in his office at the university so he could be alone to study the mask. He spent years alone with the mask, never letting anybody in.

Then one day he left his office, walked out into the hall, and collapsed in a corner. He began to laugh. He laughed so hard that all of the other archaeologists and professors came out into the hall to find out what was happening. They found the archaeologist in the corner, laughing, the mask beside him at his feet. He would not talk; he just stared at them and laughed. They wanted to learn why he did this, so they began to study the mask.

When I was a kid my father never liked me reading comic books. He thought it was a waste of time and money. At the age of thirteen, I sold one of my comic books for nearly six-hundred dollars. Now I can read anything I want.

~

Stories lie. No matter what is said by old people and other authorities, stories are not real. It’s all bullshit. There is no greater storyteller than a thief. Storytellers are themselves thieves. By his retelling of the story, he steals; he takes away truth, opinion. You can’t argue with a storyteller. They will either ask you to keep quiet while they talk or create another lie and tuck you back into bed. Stories are dead artefacts, cultural scars, masks buried in fine sand. Never in my life will I ever believe a story.

~

My father and I would, on occasion, discuss whatever ‘new thing’ had emerged in any of our common interests. Advances in digital media; the problems with conservative government. A re-released and remastered Miles Davis album: my father always insisted that Miles Davis ceased to be Miles Davis after the release of Bitches Brew in 1969. No matter how well I argued in favour of the album – how a great deal of music since then used it as a reference and inspiration – my father would insist that the Golden Age Of Jazz ended with that album’s release. He just would not understand that rhythms as well as notes could be improvised.

~

I was always building things with my father. We worked on lawn chairs, we raised a wooden fort over the three compost piles in the backyard, we would build little electric motors. There exist pictures of us rebuilding the entire side of our house. I’m trying to be like father: holding the hammer like him, wearing boots and safety goggles. I might look a bit like him, but the glasses don’t fit properly. I do still like to build things though.

~

I can remember my favourite times with my father. We would be watching television or listening to music, my face resting on his stomach. There was a certain warmth that I felt then, one that I’ve always tried returning to. I will never forget his smell; there is no smell in the world like that of your father when he hugs you. During my life he has always had a large stomach, but I’ve never been ashamed of my father. I liked the way it felt under me when he breathed. I rose up and down in a constant and pleasing rhythm. Long before any real concrete ideas of masculinity had entered into my life, I was never embarrassed to feel this way. My artificially-protective shell was not yet formed.

I soon learned that real men have no desires or feelings, only the desire to feel.

~

There is nothing easier than an ending. You know what to do with an ending. No contradictions, no argument. Just a period or a fade-to-black. THE END. You laugh or cry, or you leave the theatre.

~

The first thing that I remember about my father is his voice. He always had a very soothing voice, and it remains the same now that he has entered into old age. Even when he yelled it was a pleasant voice. Oddly, yelling is a part of his more loveable patterns. Every day when he comes home from work he announces his entrance with a melodious “hel-lo”, rarely varying the pitch or timing as the weeks pass.

My father can’t dance, but he sure can sing when he wants to.