words

~

~
Aloha
Bueno
Clear
Droop
Eased
Fresh
Grass
Hello
Intro
Joker
Kudos
Lemon
Mercy
Noose
Outer
Plied
Quill
Rivet
Scour
Tempt
Upper
Viral
Whelm
Xenon
Youth
Zoned


S*
2008.06.21

~
Balancing
Water,
Seeking
Level:
Blue
Green
White-capped
Black.
Deep
Creeping,
Pouring
Running,
Flowing
Knowing
Going
Towards.
Forewords
Forwards
For words.


S*
2008.04.24

~
Arrange By

Name
Date Modified
Date Created
Size
Kind
Label


S*
2008.02.27

~
Marry into money
Marry into parenthood
Marry into ambition
Marry into anger
Marry into gratitude
Marry into greed
Marry into remorse
Marry into regret


S*
Late-2003, early-2004

~
And while autumn dusks
Unaware of earthward thrusts
Red brown ruddy rusts

S*
20007.09.08 (from 2006.01)

~
Mum Nu,
Holly Lustrous:
I be fighting.


A be fightings
Our hot sun.
My, um, lull.


A be fightings
Um
Youths mull lo
Run.


My Run:
A be out fighting.
Hello slums.


Hello:
Be out fighting,
A run my slums.


A be fightings
Um,
Youths mull,
Run lo.


A be fightings
Oh null
Lousy mum rut


Lousy null fightings
Oh rut, be a mum.


Hello.
Run my slums:
A be out fighting.


S*
2007.05.11

~
I'm working on my own
Progress as best
I can map it

    Wh.i.le

Fumbl.i.ng
                  Thr.o.ugh

       S.i.multane.o.usly.

Fumbl.i.ng   Thr.o.ugh
       S.i.multane.o.usly.


S*
2007.05.11

~
I propose no measurement
In time at which point
We can think.
It is always time.


S*
2005

~
For Tayler

Snow
Mercury
Silver
Magnesium
Aluminum
Nickel
Tin
Steel
Iron
Tungsten
Lead
Licorice

S*
2006.10.03

~

Of the poor and the preaching
And the perfect and the lost,
The sounds of the street are only
Thicker than the soot on the signs
Covered by years of sighs and
The breath of a million passers-by
And the smiles of a sinking people.

While their feet shuffle by,
The eyes of poets and
Drunks and fathers make their way
Home to offer worry and
Hope that others just might have the
Patience to pray for them,
Since, they have somewhere else to be.

S*
2006.09.16

~
Date: Always

Things are easy
To understand although,
Simplification can
Overexagerate though,
It each makes sense
In it's own
Esoteric, metric, punc.tu.a.ted.
Way.

ess*star

P.S. Are there military transcripts or textbooks publishing the research being performed on the Brown man in Guantanamo by the United States of America? Hidden agendas they have. The panopticon gazes east each past it's own.

~
Sleeping naked, I dream in Spanish, surrounded and confronted by crazed and unknown roomates, sick landlords and a repairman who grins knowingly in my general direction when I pass him on the street. The outside world is blurred sometimes when the machines park too close -- other mornings a pure, busied light wanders onto my crown, ruffled and trampled against a soft warm pillow. I tiptoe across 1930's marble and wonder about the heel-toe-heel it's lived over the years. Quietly, I drift to sleep again -- it's somewhere edgeing nine and footsteps pace before work, over my head, but the sounds muffle by the time they tickle my lobes. Breathing under the ficus I know that Thursday will bring with it the ripeness and scents of a glowing weekend and five days ending well. Fresh fruit, water and tea, the leather receives me to relax, read and hear the sun trickling in through the double panes of a world outside and -- for a short while -- yet untouched.

S*
2005.02.17 21:20 p.m.

~
Since a meal or a drink will continue to be the hallmark of civil relations, each time we both approach the dying mammoth and mutually feed off of it, without killing each other, the civilization gets another little gold star.

S*
2004.12.24 04:54

~
French-Canadian middle-aged men who are addictive gamblers spend their lives seeking and trying to make up the lost approval of their elementary school math teachers. La croche évolution du draveur.

S*
2004.12.22

~
Here it is: I'm calling it now, before any pundits and idiots try to measure it by copying. Two-thousand-twelve, Schwartzenneger and Condi Rice (as VP) versus Hilary R. Clinton and Oprah (as VP). You heard it here first. Place your bets.

It's calling something like this that makes wearing titanium look good. Where're your space modules now, 1986? We made your intergalactic pod; it fits in our hand.

Thank you.

S*
2004.12.12 03:40

~
I have so much to tell you. Reverse culture shock was settling in hard in Vancouver, but I plugged back into a low-key, sketchy bar/hostel and slowly slid back into the idea of being home, regardless of the fact that I'd heard three people speaking Korean on Robson that very same day. Chugging was oddly reminicent of college too. Youth are great people. They're the new owners of the Acropolis as we slowly branch out into the world in anticipation of their soon-rising arrival. In turn, they too will watch a generation or a people distancing themselves in a stationary way.

See, I've learned that life is completely pivotal and everything always comes around the bend right in time to make absolute and total sense. Giving myself to the whim of the great magnet (to overuse one of my favourite movie lines) has magnificiently changed my life. I'm less bored, I'm happier, I'm breathing smart ideas and clever style with nothing but progress, progress, progress with mags on, burning rubber down the L.A. Expressway of our minds. This is the best time to be alive because we're the pinnacle of everything, until now. But the problem we've got going on now is that we're still in a decade that's concentrating on production technique than actual production results: computers are (apparently) getting 'bettter', but we still don't have a cure for cancer (or so the analogy goes as told by this technocrat). As such, our societal values are molding at a razor-high speed as we want more and more ways to render simpler the tasks we've done a million times. We require a remote for everything in our lives. We plug into televisions for news; why do people not trust their ears anymore? Because most lies are verbal? I don't know.

Plugging back in is tremendous. Some things surface in heavy doses, but you swallow those pills the best way you know and surprisingly, you always get through them. Occasionally there are snags -- the bottom of relationships might get wet and become torn as a result of neglect, for example. Food is amazing too: senses are all shapes of memories whose outlines are drawn in pencil in my mind. They weren't always that way because they were once rich and vivid and very active memories; sadly, some things get relegated to outline status in a sketchbook. Going out to the places I used to frequent is like being in a colouring book inside my head, filling in all the outlines of things I've always known. Life is like that too: we are born knowing everything about the magnificence of this Universe and so little of our intellect is swept of the grey film that naturally covers so many incredible outlines just waiting to be filled in -- the fog of life is like the fog of war. And the best part is that those will all be independent pieces of our lives -- sometimes we will colour two pictures or even three at the same time, but we'll manage more and more and even more as our life progresses. That's why some older people are bummers. It's because they've spent so much time colouring really bad scenery with cheap crayons. The result is that their minds couldn't be bothered to see anything more fantastic than the mediocrity they've always known. They've dulled to loving sharpness. To boot, they're older so they don't have to listen to anyone's opinion, so they never get better. Odd people.

But, as aging and progress go, the development of writing is very cool. The emergence of patoi or colloquialism or pigeon is also very cool; uses of the former in an unusual context are possibly the most magical transportation tools for ideas, symbols and connection available to this species. Having said this: we must each endeavour to spread some iota of knowledge at all times, as well as expose ourselves to several sources of knowledge constantly, be they human or of the Natural World. Also, we must propogate our role as new parents of this age and let our offspring share their answers. They're new and young now, before you know it, they're swinging high with both opposable thumbs pointed upward.

Also, read this book: "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" by Mark Haddon.

Best,

S*
2004.12.12 03:18

~
Maybe the journey is the best part of each destination, but the processes not always as nice. More and more, nomadism is a hard rhythm to digest.

Between capitals and destinations, through customs and food courts, airline check-ins and coffee line-ups, I watch untrimmed moustaches and oversize luggage board the skies to somewhere. Names get called, items get tagged, articles are searched in a pattern that repeats day after day after day. A globalized world has spawned mini-worlds on our cities' fringes: universes of the coming and going. Where a quirky mix of the over- and under-paid trail their lives in wheeled cubes while the aged ably man the question-marked front lines.

For once, this new world might not be a bad one after all.

From each city, we find a location with its own rhythm and pace and space particularly defined by the surrounding consumables -- mountains, rain, big skies, everywhere neon, lapping waves, smiles, spices, smoke, sand or towering flowers. Herein these new worldly halls, the global community is assembled to understand itself: as we chair our very own committee of travelers, knowers, lovers, doers and dreamers. Our knowing is our tool...may we use it smartly.

S*
2004.12.06 14:53

~
(THIS IS A WORK LEFT UNPOLISHED. WELL, ONLY ONCE. READ AT YOUR OWN DETERIORATING RISK.)

It was an odd evening, an odd afternoon and most assuredly a peculiar morning. A sensor whose door wouldn't open and who saw me counted my non-presence -- which is now sitting in a database awaiting analysis. The keyboard keys to which feel very spongy. A keyboard sold to me by a homeless man also known to be peddling drugs. Straight-out asked me directly. Seemingly, I didn't have change cause I'm like that. But I went to Subway and bought some water -- not wanting to be soberingly obvious and ask for two tens at half past midnight on a Sunday at Smithe and Granville.

(McDonalds will read this and wonder why I didn't go to their restaurant (to buy water, not wanting to be soberingly obvious and ask for two tens at half past midnight on a Sunday at Smithe and Granville) which was across from Subway. But that's o.k. because that location's aesthetic and advertising overhaul will be one of the most significant marketing case studies of the century).

Yes, and while teenagers are now supermodels, the true homeless are more and more explicit in their cardbox messages. Today I also realized that gas stations should not float. (In all circumstances, nothing should blur a view of calm, reflective water or the sublime backdrop of Nature's tectonic results).

Choosing my next read is in the semi-finals now. Vonnegut vs. Hesse. And it's shaping up to be the fight of their careers. Vonnegut's record is at three wins with only one loss; Hesse stands at 1-0. Either way, I it only occured to me today that I never read non-fiction. I wonder sometimes about human levels of escapism because we do it so many different ways: games, information, work, drugs, music, non-fiction, religion, fiction, television... There are others, but these come to mind.

And the worrying part is that fiction has become possesed with non-fiction with no exorcism pencilled in. For example, I caught a cartoon show on TV in which the 30-minute theme was adultery. Isn't there enough to see in our own lives? Why are we stockpiling misery? Archeologists of the future will not laud, but laugh at what they exhume.

They'll read our books and watch the old reels of news, asking themselves "how could these savages have lived, unable to understand schizophrenics or poets?". They will marvel at how caffeine worked harder than ever to surpass alcohol as the socially-accepted drug du jour. In related news, they'll discover that that not so long ago, even water made a good run for the top. Mired, its success dwindled thanks to marketers and business-owners alike realizing that a beverage with a soundtrack and Italian nomenclature was far sexier that average bottled Chicago tap.

(On a personal note, I am happy to see the exponential strides that conscious hip hop has made since the dawn of my young acquaintanceship with it. Delivering intelligence and articulation to the global hive-collective is one of the hardest undertakings and true keys to the past that sociologists will ever have the pleasure of unearthing. Of course, pleasures of similar height will not have been reached until we breach the periphery of the five-hundred year radius.

As I've echoed so many times: it is an incredible time to be alive. But I'd like to know how to help out more. This generation is incomparably the most gifted and as pan-mobile as this civilization has ever seen. Those younger than us are becoming more and more capable while we early to mid-aged are waxing adept dealing both with the robust youth and the greying demographic above us. Because of this, I wonder if we will see our own aging differently or reflect on our youths and accept these more readily?

One thing is for still sure though: the majority of people in these two groups -- the strengthening youth and the weakening demographic above us -- don't know what bukkake is.

Maybe that's an extreme example, but maybe we've reached the level of extreme examples. Or maybe they don't need to know, but what they do is this: before literature was first recognized as the literature we know today, it was condemned for being the written rantings of lunatics and the imbalanced. As a result, these protoscribes were eliminated physically from their tribes or primitive societies. Yes, and how horrible it was! Don't worry though; this barbarism ended years ago. In fact, it stopped exactly only one day prior to modern civilization declaring literacy.

As for today in history, there will be an infinite number of things that will happen around us, of which we will have zero knowledge. Nor will we seek it out.

And if you think that's bad, look at your watch.

Then remember the last time you were told to not look directly at the sun.

S*
2004.11.29 01:02-03:48

~

He sat on the edge of their universe. And watched. Colours and moving jaws kept them told apart, their movements and motions being the most predictable part of the evening. Each of these worked their particular path from glance to tucked-away look, the timid flicker of sight cast over the prey on display. The girls were responsible as much as the boys and he knew it well. As a gas pedal on stretch of road where the horizon makes love to the passing dashes, their collective tone escalated and pitched then fell; total ambient noise the high water mark. The sounds needled gently through: from Dutch to French to English to American or Hebrew -- quipping friends, re-telling movies, sucking on the long necks of a future still untold. Taxis shuffled by while tuk-tuks meandered down the wide stretch, its interlocked geometry like a planet's soil; nearby, police and prostitutes waited for a catch, never too unsuccessful. People are everywhere he thought, with a constant presence and unending din, working without seeming and a like a tattooist's electric pen, penetrating without knowing. Feigned interest came diminished from a female point-of-view but the male's overeager presumptuous posture was the hallmark of their generation. A superstar walked by, with an eye colouring's effort paralleled only by the waitresses' unbiased duplicity. After a short while, he streaked the sky and shot past one last time: and his shadow was shorter and less-better dressed. Watching, listening, he knew then that they were a people that protected its transients, asked about its lonely and considered the tip of a pyramid the only place to stand, watching the architecture of their globe spill out before them.

S*
2004.11.07 - 04:07

~
Claire Brewster taught me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon and a sandy hand tossing a flame upwards then coming down like a black dog digging for nothing but the bones of people and parties gone past. She taught me that the stars are the gentle bass line to a musical played by all of us and that an alleyway is the best runway and a plastic glass of tossed ice cubes can stop the most fundamental movement. Claire Brewster taught me that a ship crossing the horizon is better than a distant night light dimming past the point of curiosity, maybe swallowed whole by oncoming storms of an undecided and tempestuous scene. Claire Brewster taught me something like that. She signed a magical sign across the sky like a visual broadband twisting its hair into a knot that knows nothing of times before, with their milky nights and ways. She taught me that a white space ahead of you is a something to crack a smile at and the center of the room is the only place to stand; that a story is a story and unsavory or not, it is a poem to be swallowed. She taught me not to fear my shadow or the beat inside that told me the time. Claire Brewster cradled flame when I still had no inclination or taste to attempt calculating the equation. She taught me that a story goes round and round and round until the sky swirls into a magnificent and feathered pen flowing gently southward to a star that never fades, never loses focus and knows that everything else is just child's play, trembling without the calibration of a rhythm that may or may not be achieved or conquered. But that will be years away and Claire Brewster is still teaching me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon.

S*
2004.01.30 03:02

~
There was a moment some time ago, when the populace sighed a collective sigh, and the globe knew that the time had come. Nine-eleven had just happened, courtesy of the crony regime, and we all knew that the world would now be a different place; teachers told us, sentiment warned us. In the end, it was a time to liberate the soul and set free the demons trapped by the wretched liberalism of the 70's and the conservative monopoly of the 80's. Not to mention the stifling anti-progression that marked the mid-to-late nineties. What an hour! It was a time to let go of the feelings the world didn't need of. We were prime to contribute to a constant universe that needed self-gratification and self-acknowledgement to render itself important. And I urge you to find a working system contrary to the one I've described; it's a diverse world and I refuse to bring down the level of dissemination. It may be that the masses will only comprehend when accompanied by the sound of everyone screaming or whispering for a better life.

S*
2004.10.18 06:00

~

"What about the edge of the universe?" he asked, I didn't know the answer but it was still a good one to tinker with, over tea. I'd been in a drought of mental sorts, literarily too I suppose, but watching the machines act and react, I had no choice but to follow the flow of the rivers I once knew. Sure there were sandier and dusty times behind -- and surely more ahead -- but I'd come to figure that it was all part of the grand creator's design, loaded into the master hardware and set to stir, ages once before.

And in the perpetual meantime, I liked spending my minutes and hours with the cat -- purring, rolling, giving him fresh water. It was humane and warming and bore the hallmarks of nurturing both senses of sincerity and calm. It was the warm afternoons that I never ventured out: spoiled by the whipping tentacles of a nearby fan, I'd drop some pressed plastic and fill the airwaves with the sounds and sultry syllables sung softly swinging from mangrove to mangrove. Mangroves are beautiful, by the way, twisting in their randomness -- their path set ablaze, ages ago, in the grand template -- similar in chaos to a perfectly-knotted necktie, steadfast and uncompromosing in commitment to its particular master's early morning whim.

So we got to thinking about this universe's edge thing and while the thought stretched our imaginations, the cat purred sweetly against my calf. The moment held and for that suspended, serendipitous juncture, I thought, then knew, then finally came to understand that it had always been alright to stare at the sun. The understanding materialized in the same vein as do dreams hussling their stories across the back of our eyes, unable to be ignored (in the same way that streetfights or the smell of picnics never, truly, exit our concious and revert to pure invisibility).

It was just the right kind of afternoon and so I peeked upward, gave a wink, a nudge, a fleeting, flirting glance and, for the first time, held nothing back. In return, it unflichingly stared back with a fiery and holy sainthood. It was warm and felt good. Yes, and it was then that it dawned on me that this primordial oracle had been here since the beginning: before oxygen and carbon, before Tut or Alexander or Hammurabi or Christ -- a full-circle affair and it stood, looming, in our sights, the whole while. Gazing, peering, staring, waiting for us to return the favour.

There it was: the edge of the universe: the smiling of every child and the naming of every species and unknown. The universe was itself the very instantaneous collective of knowledge that we would all automatically and painlessly absorb after every blade of grass was mowed and each sidewalk bombed clean of its playtime chalk. It would be then -- and only then -- that the human contradiction would crystallize. Until that hour, we seemed condemned to sit in our own murky waters, staring at our toes, agitated, waiting to push up daisies.

S*
2004.10.15-16

~
2004.09.26 03:09 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Seoul, Republic of Korea

Blessed are the broken-hearted Californians, for their tears shine blue truth
Blessed are the Newfie hash importers, for their hearts are overgrown
Blessed are the Phish air-guitarists, for their fingers feel
Blessed are the Burlingtonian zen masters, for they know not the answers that are theirs
Blessed are the crossword completers, for their erasers know no activity
Blessed are the drinkers of wine, for their teeth remain stained
Blessed are the Saskatchewanian makeshift whores, for their globality is transparent.

S*

Fave current track(s): "YEM" - Phish
Current read(s) in progress: "Half A Life" - V. S. Naipaul

~
A linear mosaic of rectangular spaces, some green, others grey, each greying while stubby cement crosses on roof crests like stoic weathervanes ward off patchworks of yellow, Indian red, ochre and soft, sandy brown bricked walls; in the distance, a woman slowly empties a glazed earthenware pot of its unknown contents while a man in blue shorts and an unbottoned grey shirt hobbles down three flights, stops, lights a cigarette and shambling, disappears through an alley. Further still -- past wires and abandoned bricks and latticed rooftop gardens, a clothesline is cleaned before pink and blue bedsheets are hung with wooden pins and blue, green and dark yellow shirts -- labourers pour a concrete roof, smoothing and spreading silky grey sand and water with small rusty spades, dabbing their brows with soft blue rags as a sixth watches on. Gold and blood red dragonflies add dimension to the view of mountainsides, green with young conifers and lower with ginko trees akimbo naked pink slabs of exposed granite face, set below motionless cumulus heaps, swollen, white, and quietly creeping east by southeast.

S*
2004.07.30

~
Adrift in a sea of similarity with a blinking attention span and an incapacity to ever really clamber past the hallmarks of instinct up to the reaches of acquired experience and knowledge, attracted and distracted by the lures and lights of an unsimilar world, he flicks his tail on and on, relying on the school for guidance and the dumb mystery of the sights that mirror real destination.

S*
2005.07.29

~
2004.06.29 23:54 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea

I like to hear music. I can admit it. And I'm o.k. with it. Really. There's something private and personal about hearing music. It can make you feel empowered and special or intelligent and part of a larger community of hearers of music. I've even heard people admit that it makes them more creative or personable or outgoing. Me, I'm always up for a good hear either way. Sometimes, I'll even steal a quick hear right before bed or a meal -- to make it that much better.

Once in a while, it's great to find out there's something new out. I love rushing out for a new purchase so I can give it a spin -- purely for the comparative and analytical value, that is. It's great to come home, unrap the plastic or untie the wrap, bust it out and toss it in the little red machine. With my speakers alit, the rest is history. Or bliss, depending on what intake you prefer.

Now I've been told (falsely, I suspect) that hearing music can get in the way of what you should really be doing: like being productive, going to work, phoning your friends or feeding your pets. This may or may not be true, but sometimes you start kicking it and before you know it, you've watched The Wizard of Oz, and PeeWee Herman's Big Adventure on mute at least twice each. And it's really not your fault: it was the music.

Mind you, you should occasionally mix things up: reading a book or cleaning the apartment while under the influence of hearing music are options, but be warned, excess physical activity can get in the way of a potentially excellent musical buzz. And after all, priorities are priorities. Yes, there's really nothing quite as satisfying as finishing a hard day of hunting through your stash, ordering a pizza and spinning up the volume to soothe away the pain and while away the evening.

If you're still not convinced, remember that in the end, in this world full of bad, mad and sad people, it's comforting to know that we can all kick back, hit the stacks and listen to the eight-track, without the bother or bore of life's little nuances (like laundry and bills) getting in the way.

So like me, I hope you have the wonderful opportunity to experience the wonders of hearing music sometime in your very near future. After all, I always recommend a good twist.

From here to there,

S*

Fave current track(s): "Cherry Chapstick" - Yo La Tengo, "Since I Left You (title track)" - The Avalanches
Current read(s) in progress: "Mensa Genius Puzzle Book" - Mensa, "Mojo" magazine

~
2004.06.11 19:59 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea

Quietly, he leaves the door unlocked, steps down three flights and faces the sunshine -- its glare echoed between parallel rows of beige bricks and sterile geometry. To the end of the project, down two flights, fifty-one steps to the sidewalk, along right, round the corner, to the beginning. The starting line.

He stares up a slow incline like a slow burn, three high-schools perched, hillside, to his left, children staring, yelling, playing, being children. The rise is a steady one, he pants, his pace quickens but the muscles don't respond just yet. He's only begun but the sun already glares unobstructed down onto his bare shoulders and calves. Yes, he is running a light run, but by the end, one to mete out a quickly-paced heartbeat, leaving his brow amply damp.

He rounds the last school, turns left and calculates the slow decline past local fields smelling like the manure of more than one species. These low-slung terraces, cascading rhythmically, curving each one downward, each a prickly imitation of the one before, each a sheet of growing glass. They are largely rice fields, still wet, to become wetter still with July and August rains yet to fall. For now, they smell of life and someone's promise.

The road slides almost imperceptibly from smooth to rough concrete then shortly, to dirt. He passes a shack where a man and dog seem always tied, always present. They must watch over the fields or the entrance to the upcoming rest area -- half-secluded and rife with evergreens but the sun still finding patches of brown earth to keep alit while allowing the most part to stay cool and shaded -- a refuge for the walking, conversing elderly, strolling mothers with toddlers, students and lovers alike.

The road gets dustier as roots weave the path past more fields and public outhouses reeking of overuse. Yes, and as the road winds upward and forks at a mass of overgrown undergrowth looming menacingly straight ahead, he lefts; into the hooded crowns of the green and brown forest. This place is full of activity: housewives trickle like spilled milk finding ceramic grooves; old men sit patiently and watch from rock benches, knowing much that passes by. If stared at for long, he offers a polite bow, happily receiving smart grins in exchange.

The forest offers him a hill and -- albeit only a slight eastward tilt -- he tackles it quickly, arriving at a small outcropped rest area with stumps for stools and a view of the natural reservoir below he will very soon run along then, later, circle. Down a long flight of stairs -- some wooden, most earthen or logs -- he descends to a long-trodden path, fifteen or twenty feet above the water, it snaking adjacent to the still shore. The ground becomes supple as it muddies from the presence of moisture and absence of sunrays. Still, he must concentrate on the low-arching trunks and branches while readying himself for the next upward lilt: another staircase -- this one with wide steps, he leaps up gracefully only to find an unforgiving and constantly rising path at the top and several more sets of stairs, some up, some down. Within a few short minutes, this set of nature's curved ridges has been humbled and he is back down to water level.

Then, the path grows sunnier as a cramped inlet appears. Quickly he darts out, off the path, down a shallow hard beach, topples a dip, gathers speed and leaps, two-legged, over a stilled hollow of green flow, confused if the colour is thanks to the reservoir flowing up or the fields draining down. Landing, his shoes fall with a knowing damp thump into yesterday's same marks.

Yes, and by this time, the sun has touched him enough to feel his triceps darken while sweat gathers in his shoes, his socks. He is working, panting, rushing through earthen walkways, through nature’s veins and capillaries, panting, working. After the stream bank, he quickly steps out of his footprints, gains momentum and leaps up the waiting log stairs: the first one higher than expected, nearly tripping him, but in the end, only requiring a fast spatial recalculation. Rejoining the path, it rises slightly and reaches a minor climax amidst a mass of tangled, exposed tree roots, some fat, some old, others bare and stepped on. Leaping, circling, they fall behind him, he treads on, now forty or fifty feet above the reservoir, still to its right, but closing fast on its end.

Another rest area exposed to the sun: this one small, round and perched on the tip of a mass of land that serves both as the water's raised end and a leeward slope speckled green, brown, with minute yellow wildflowers and fat, white clovers. He surmounts seven, eight steps, the logs set horizontally askew up the hilly earth, then precariously down two dozen of broken concrete, natural rock and root. He is now at water level, but at the base of three long flights of grey, wide slabs, the grassy hillside randomly dancing to his right, the remaining obstacle between him and the top of the reservoir's retaining wall. One, two, he silently counts, then pounces two by two, quickly meeting the top, sunshine glaring on, breast heaving, shoving his feet forward, he inhales, deeply, stealing as much new oxygen as he can.

Here, pedestrians mingle to and fro, sneaking glances at the long perspiration stains streaking his blue t-shirt and the glistening ones along his forehead. He walks slowly now, resting though still in motion, patiently regaining energy for the longer stint ahead: this one straight, road-side, public, with cars, busses, motorcycles and a sidewalk littered with more elderly, more mothers, others. He stretches, he starts, he covers a short fifteen hundred metres, alternating light and hard dashes, lamp poles serving as his milestones, his indicators.

In a final sprint, he veers off the two-lane road, tired, worn, but invigorated. Momentarily, he catches glimpses of glances from the middle-aged walkers resting by the public washrooms, sitting in the shaded recesses of the interlocked courtyard, the quad, this clearing with its lofty branches, meandering children and blowing, fallen blossoms. He has nearly come full-circle now; one solitary mountain separating him from home.

A quick stretch – one standing, the other sitting – elates his blood flow as he readies for the near-final leg of the outing. There remains one obstacle between where he sits and where the mountain will meet him, vertically: a small red metal bridge with grey cables and wide, brown ties at its feet. It has seen many passengers over this trickling stream -- it carrying the murk of the hills, the leaves gone dead, and young, white egrets tiptoeing through the shallow recesses of an overgrown shore. Energized, he crosses this path, inhales, and meets the base of the hilled stairs that will take him to the mountain’s tip.

The first step set askew from the second and each from the last, he hobbles up one, two, three, four long flights of logs, rocks and earth, up to another perspective, the view decorated with dead branches and drooping, leaved arms. This is the passage to the top: a testing one, another slow burn with a forest peckish from the small presence of light but breezy and heavy with humus. He is panting, glistening, worn.

A final heave. The top. To the gaze of the seated elderly.

He quickly boards the next path and descends the mountain’s front face. Here, the breeze blows sweetly with a fragrance of flowers, of pollen and the scent of clean, rushing water somewhere underground. His pace quickens as he flies over roots, down easy earthen escarpments, past children, mothers and the middle-aged. The bottom comes soon, bringing with it rest, breath, and a fitting solace earned, due.

S*

Fave current album(s): "Blazing Arrow" - Blackalicious, "Buck Up Princess" - Josh Martinez
Fave current track(s): "First In Flight" - Blackalicious feat. Gil Scott-Heron
Ottawan recommendations: (an oldie but a goodie) Watch Dusty spin on Wednesdays at 56. Drink Grasshopper. Be high.
Personal recommendations: Have someone say to you: “I’m falling in love with you. Really.”
Current read(s) in progress: "Siddhartha" - Herman Hesse, "The Crying Of Lot 49" - Thomas Pynchon, "Austerlitz" - W. G. Sebald, "Pound" magazine, "Wax Poetics" magazine

~

thought you should know that i too am thinking about you.
scott

----- Original Message -----
From: Jenelle Anderson
Date: Wed, 26 May 2004 17:01:18 -0700 (PDT)
To: Scott Graham
Subject: miss you

just thought you should know that i'm thinking about you.
jenelle

~
I wrote it on a napkin – I said I wanted to be part of a secret society. I said it like 6 fucking months ago. “Like the Stonecutters” yeah, like the fucking Masons and Skulls. We’ll be executing a will in 80, no 60, years, and you’ll say, “Do you still have the watch?” and we’ll all be like “Fuck yeah,” I still have it and raise our arms up and say “What the fuck, hell yeah!” We’re in. I wrote it on a napkin and slipped it in a new book I lent to a friend who turned out not to be. She still has my book.

S*
2004.05.28

~
2004.05.02 12:21 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Seoul, Republic of Korea

Sunday morning reflections of the night gone by...

Swirling times. The endless pursuit of something vague, ethereal, incomplete, but ours to hold when the songsmith says it's time. Night air carressed the party-goers and the stars kissed their every cheek. Twenty-seven crucifixes in the distance, the post-coital sky danced a delicate array of red and pale shadows hidden behind walls of lovers kissing unshaven faces, torsos, thighs and necks. A comforting stroke. Roasting bounty, sipping, inhaling the goodness of the darkness, we laughed and dropped chopsticks onto glass jars filled with the memories of all good times come to have gone. And our bellies hurt not from the long hours of excess, but the unstoppable standing, unretractable magic contractions of our collective abdomen. Lick the syrup from the world. Tap into the goodness that puts you over the edge. Give it a hug and hold it's hand down a sandy beach, rolling green mountain-side while ocean waves roll towards you like destinations unknown.

From here to there,

S*

Fave current album(s): "The Grey Album" - DJ Danger Mouse
Current read(s) in progress: "A Scientific Romance" - Ronald Wright, words

~
[To a special friend on her 25th]

There's a time in our lives when a distant social clock starts ticking and althought we realize that we may not be as timeless or invincible as we thought, we nonetheless have the gust to sail many an ocean yet. Twenty-five is one of those points: we're not old, per se, but the sum of our experiences has made us strong, determined, spherical individuals. And we come to the actualisation that it's quite nice to be well-rounded, well-grounded and occasionally astounded by the world and the poeple with which and whom we've inadvertantly surrounded ourselves.

Life reflects nicely that way and it takes the quietude of monumental milestones to allow us perspective enough to step back, relax and smile at the stretch of curves and corduroy road behind us, knowing that the next jaunt could be full of lilts or clear and smooth as an unmuddied lake. As long as we keep in mind that we are the raindrops and not the ripples, warm waters actually become a pretty good place to be.

Twenty-five is a time to reflect, to laugh, to grin and to give thanks for the footprints we've left, smiling, open-eyed at the virgin beach ahead. Take it by the reigns, stare into the sunshine and know, Jenelle, that you have good friends, a beautiful family, a vault of treasure in your heart and that people love you in the purest sense.

I wish you all the best at the junction of life's quarter-marker. Stay well, because like that old adage aptly reminds: all's well that ends well.

With hugs and love, yours,

Scott
2004.05.10

~
Doc,

I just got back from three weeks of black headspace complete with black vibes and no watermelon, so I don't feel that this reply will do either of us justice at this time. Rest assured that I have read and re-read your note and the raw sentiment has not ceased to ooze therefrom. I feel the same way in my own personal version. Having said that, know that by the time I reach Canadian soil, or see you again -- whichever comes first -- I will be ready for the trip of all trips, perhaps one to end them or one to begin it all.

How do feel about a professional leave of absence? A photo/reporting trek from across the globe, surpassing deadlines, sent to crazed and freak and coffee-addled editors from destinations where the postage takes more room than the address. Maybe even something to sell to PBS ... surfing Puerto Limon, sleeping under Tasmanian stars, to Krakovian beer halls, riding camel-back across Eritrea -- letting them wet their hoofs in the Red Sea, from the sands between Medina and Mecca to the hash caves of Turkmenistan, basking our toes in the Caspian (singing odes to the Phish's Prince therefrom ...), up through San Sebastian to Bordeaux, boomeranged to Seoul's soju tents and round-about via Nepalese monasteries, on our way to rest a while in the blonde-haired, long and loving fingertips of Denmark or at a punk show in St. Petersburg, only to be received as world-weary wanderlustful shepherds by a media-hungry and starry-eyed apostolate on both coasts.

I'm up for it. You should be too. If not, what's there for us? Careers of inopportunity? Conversion, marriage and chat forums about re-discovered virginity? C'mon, man, the bell's broken. Ring the alarm.

Your Attorney at Law,

FJS*
from the flat earth's edge
2004.03.23

~
Miss L.,

You know, I often confuse a lot of ideas between these two ears of mine. I often get angry at myself too; sometimes it helps jumble then gel these thoughts into something concrete or at least bridge new links that weren't obvious before. Of course, elation and paranoia and sleeplessness and orgasms and inner dialogues spoken solo help too. I'm a mash of too many things and I fear that might be the downfall of this immature post-suburbanite. I think I'm just a generation too early for this mind. I really hope to get reincarnated into someone like me, but in a more socially-advanced time. Whatever that means.

I find myself shying away from declaring my independence, for fear that it would serve to release things that I've worked so hard to subconciously store. Because, occasionally, these demons surface and scare me. I fear for the future; mine and for that of my partner, my children, my wake. It's odd living like this: I have done so much and think about all of it in its totality and singularity but come to no conclusion about how it should or could apply to me. It's like there's all these memories and actualities roaming free in a world of events roaming around my body and throughout my core but that never seem to anchor themselves to anything pragmatic and concrete. Is there no model or textbook or mould for me? And, at the risk of sounding trite, am I alone in this spaceless quicksand?

Barring everything above, I woke up this morning with the feeling that a long, dark cloud had passed over me and with it, taken the remnants of dirt and despair and desolately distant time with it. Spring has sprung and I need to breathe with these newfound lungs. As always, I will report, with news, from the front.

Forge, foresee, forgive, give. Live. Je t'aime.

S*
2004.02.19

~

Walking in at exactly two, I could tell by the smell of my shoes that I'd pissed in one too many downhill alleys on the way home. The smell of my feet said that I'd been standing too long and it was time to get horizontal. Two-oh-one and some ideas are down but I'm still getting warmer with this scarf enstrangling me. So many colours. I just can't bring myself to take it off. But like the song says, "I wish I was in Tokyo" -- the difference is that you'd have to be a millionaire, a lunatic or on someone else's tab to have a good time. Most days, we're all three, so let the good times start. Write that on my grave or when they scatter my ashes. Make sure to bring steel drums and that everyone's looking fashionable. If not, the whole thing'll fall apart. Consider it my "one big thing." Most days I wish I could appreciate the mysticism of lyrics; instead I dream of the syllables to say what's on the brain, but all the comes is stuccoed walls, dirty windows and peeled ceilings. Hypnotized into interim thoughts, I get lost in hills, sunshine, red oaks punctuated by philosophy. When you stop life for a minute -- and it only takes once to start the addiction -- you wonder how odd it is to watch yourself behave the way you do, as an animal, unchained, unbridled, taken by every gust, heat wave and fresh tide. Just replace the bulb and it'll be happy again. Things'll improve. Don't worry about them. Trust. Me.

S*
2003.11.20 - 2:24 a.m. KST (EST - 14 hrs)

~
2003.10.16 00:59 KST (EST + 13 hrs)

Broken Social Scene's latest offering is beautiful. It raises my hair on every listen. The intro track, capture the flag, is perfect and like a hero's welcome with French doors and bay windows alight with wonder and warmth, you enter the album. The initial shockwaves and afterthrusts of kc accidental reminisce of pillows of clouds of heat covering surfaces as raindrops would a lake.

Moving throughout, pacific theme is, well ... simply luscious as it aptly tumbles into anthems... (which I'll get to in a moment). Amid the airy, sad jam that is shampoo suicide, we fall into the rocking, telltale, cat-rubbing-its-face-with-its-paws solace: lover's spit. Reminiscent of Brian Eno, whispering, salt-shakers rattling the backgrounds like minutes speeding away from the loves we once clenched, tight-fisted only to find them evaporated. Breaking the waves and holding the tide is I'm still your fag with its harmonious refuge from where -- across tree tops in a felled plantation -- the sky and clouds scud around us in a perfect off-blue sky.

As for the astutely placed seventh track, anthems..., I should offer preamble.

Seeking solace in the long moments that are my own, this morning, shrunken but eager, I shambled back to my concrete four walls, crawled into my sleeping bag, set my alarm for an hour-long nap before work, put on the album and experienced the wonderful waking dreams we secretly wish for when we blow out our birthday candles. Remember those times when your body rests, but your mind races, thinking the whole time that you're not really sleeping -- that you're only extending the closed-eyedness?

Well, that.

Without warning, amidst the seventh (as yesterday and since the first listen), like clockwork, my body shocked, shot up, lunging to write, hypnotically, the following -- which I've titled after the sixth track:

looks just like the sun

blades and crown tops dance
to breeze blown gusts
sunday afternoons
cross-legged on checkers
wicker carry-all
and stopping to laugh
with food still freshly chewed
"hold on a minute, I'm not done" you say
but it's a moment
smiling
and you get carried away

like grasshoppers mating
on rough-hewn coke
over twin steel rails
plunged and plowing through rural
three o'clock wind
as distant chimes whisper
your future

With thanks to this Toronto collective for music and inspiration that may, from here to there, be of some use or comfort to all. For now, I will mine these new sounds for the good that they bring, sharing it with everyone I meet.

S*
2002.10.17

~

blades and crown tops dance
to breeze blown gusts
sunday afternoons
cross-legged on checkers
wicker carry-all
and stopping to laugh
with food still freshly chewed
"hold on a minute, I'm not done" you say
but it's a moment
smiling
and you get carried away

like grasshoppers mating
on rough-hewn coke
over twin steel rails
plunged and plowing through rural
three o'clock wind
as distant chimes whisper
your future

S*
2003.10.16

~

What constitutes the brain? Why are we such poorly-trained animals? Has our own anthropology not taught us anything? There exists a discrepancy - an inconsistent one at best - between the body and the brain, between the active and the stored, between the conscious and the subconscious. Human beings are actively destroying themselves; and each other. Continually, we deny the reality of our truths: we commit to poor diet, we lack rest and at best, we take in substances so far removed from any semblance of chemical or natural purity. We still don’t lift with our knees. We comment without acting. We allow poverty and homelessness. Our discrepancies engulf us.

Consider footwear. Since Homo erectus’ first hobbling, people adapted to the environment in which they live: they have learned to walk on the land that feeds them and, as such, have become agile. Since some time though, footwear has disassociated the human foot with all things natural. Hard-pressed would be the researcher seeking a North American European descendant who does not wince when barefoot on a lumpy rural road or even on a sunny, August beach.

For an untold and largely undiscussed reason, we accept the purposeful, overt and devious phenomenon of fine print. Well aware that an average product package is labeled with no less than two dozen unpronounceable ingredients, we make an incredible leap of faith and trust. Like perpetually walking with our heads down, the human race trusts that, statistically, one might navigate an entire lifetime before ever encountering the sideways effects of foreign substances in the body, whether directly or indirectly. (Incongruously, when it all boils down, “cancer” has only two syllables). As such, the usefulness of fine print is not only negligible, but is archaic in relevance: either consumers know all or know nothing. Why the informational limbo?

Oddly enough, in our perpetual disengagement from our surrounding environment and the elements therein, the larger part of the Earth’s population sees fit to isolate itself in individually-sanctioned hermetically-sealed, weighty bubbles. With a mere quad of points touching the ground’s surface, we careen along multilane roads, at unsavory speeds, poorly compounded by inversely proportional attention spans and awareness to the detail of our wheeled and pedaled actions.

Similarly, much of the human race has seen fit to relegate itself to the private and largely-detached marvels of suburbia. Far from the warmth of true community, Nature and the innate self, modern castles line the boulevards - each one more aesthetically pleasing that the last. Curiously, littering is somehow still permitted outside the moat.

On the subject of surreal detachments, has the modern era of supreme mediatisation truly convinced us that the hillside nine-lettered Hollywood is Olympus anew? The utter uselessness of sports, modern newscasts and commercial advertisements, to name a few, has metamorphosised television into a neo-Acropolis, spouting oblique values, and twisting cultural myth askew. In the firing of synapses between the body and the brain, A no longer relates to B, but now, somehow re-routes reactions Q and Y to (re-) produce actions F and K.

What poorly-trained animals we are. How many more millennia need to pass before we can understand pets, poets and schizophrenics? Eliminate confusion? Master mind over matter? How many more generations of strangers will remain unnerved when smiled at or told there’s something in their teeth? We are so lax as a species, so reluctant to seek - or even etch - out a common good. We abide by dress codes, willfully believing that a direct correlation of relevance actually exists between the human aesthetic and the instinctive. Seeking to know the fate of our commonalities, our eyes and ears are drawn to watch accidents, death, a scuffle or an argument. We fear systems like Nature and strive to amputate and pave it, while methodically calculating our social agendas with the TV Guide in mind.

On the subject of curiosities, I am curious as to - not so much why, but - how the brain retains the minutiae of each musical note in a song - but only when replayed. What mechanism or filter selects information to be kept, ready at hand, while other knowledge gets tucked away? Recall the last time you said “…I used to be so good at that…” Or how often you notice yourself saying a sentence, triggering a comment, or catching a visual that has been stored in the archives of the mind for five, ten, fifteen years… Pondering the subject, you may ask yourself, “how big is the subconscious vault anyway?”

We can perennially embellish our coats and cages in the zoo but nothing truly changes but the seasons - and we can’t even count on that anymore. In the end, the human race is left with an apparent cranial superstructure of mental office. We benefit from an extremely stable and well-rigged underlying circuitry over-laden with mercurial, unpredictable, nonsensical, destructive sets of loosely-fitted synapses. These are the discrepancies between the subconscious and the conscious. Until when will we endure this gap? If the cockroaches and dolphins deserve better, don’t we? Under analysis, technology’s advances are so thinly-veiled but, as extensions of our weak, conscious selves, we believe them to be the great evolution of democracy and public will. Outward projection has evolved to become the new, labyrinthine human soul. The latter, combined with our obvious lack of priorities for social ambition, would make Darwin very, very ashamed of us.

S*
2003.07.22

~

A salute to all as I leave the SFUO:

As the month of May puts on its face of tulips and raindrops, and wipes it’s eyes for another long summer, I look back upon a year of projects dreamed, friendships born and souvenirs etched. Looking forward twelve months prior, I wondered about which lessons I’d learn and which tests I’d have to pass, which partnerships would be productive and which late-night brainstorming session would – in fact – materialize. In the end, I can only hope that something was picked up along the way: and whether memories or morals, one wonders about how much is enough to be absorbed in such a lifetime snapshot.

From pondering proposals to navigating negotiations, the gamut of skills have been spanned, and along the way – without missing a beat – idols, idiots and icons appeared to share the path: each a telltale lighthouse of their own, whispering which should best be avoided and which cautiously neared. And as situational blindness migrates into a reality where you intermittently only need glasses, I realize that there’s still (and always will be) more to learn. In retrospect, I am thankful to say that I have developed a much lesser sense of myopia.

If it were not for my maverick, steadfast, wave-breaking Executive – if for nothing else – I would have remained a pebble in the University of Ottawa sea, haplessly gripping onto nothingness for a thick-stretched dozen. Like an unstoppable tsunami of ideas and will, these four were my political brothers, forming a strong-armed chain that not only got students out of ditches, but will remain a working model for member associations and SFUO executive teams for years ahead.

I recall a time when cornered by a student politician peer on the subject of the SFUO’s non-commitment to large-bodied advocacy groups, it seemed immediately clear that our mission in 2002-03 was not to dabble in the popular or the high-brow successes enjoyed by others, but to fix the house’s foundation before we applied another coat of high-gloss enamel. As I turn my head 180 degrees, I can safely say that that sole latter fact has been the guiding light behind our endeavours, and the gust in our determination to keep the end as far away as possible. Surviving. Striving.

The end has been a long time coming and the time spent, toiling between these four walls, will not be quickly forgotten. The friendships forged and the bruises accumulated along the way will only serve to make me and the SFUO team better leaders in the days, years and lifetime to come. For both, I am equally grateful as my appetite is now whetted.

In closing, I wish each and every one of you the courage to take on your projects, your dreams and your dares. In the end, always bear in mind that when the streetlights seem dim, look back and smile at how you never, ever, let school get in the way of your education.

From here to there, it’s been a whirling dervish of a time.

S*
2003.04.30

Scott Graham
SFUO VP, Academic 2002-03
scott.graham@email.com

~

Of the poor and the preaching
And the perfect and the lost,
The sounds of the street are only
Thicker than the soot on the signs
Covered by years of sighs and
The breath of a million passers-by
And the smiles of a sinking people.

While their feet shuffle by,
The eyes of poets and
Drunks and fathers make their way
Home to offer worry and
Hope that others just might have the
Patience to pray for them,
Since they have somewhere else to be.

S*
2003.04.19

~

A light becomes such an obvious point of clarity after you've seen it once ... then twice ... and again and again. There even comes a point when the appearance darkness and obscurity seems out of place and startles you. The problem is that once that light takes you somewhere you haven't yet been, it blinds you to where you came from, alienating it -- and you from it -- almost inexorably.

S*
2002.12.11

~

I slept well, collapsing after too many Manhattans and other such arrogancies, having left the Brit Pop while the Ramones and the Smiths sounded better and better washed down with dilusion. I tumbled past whores and streetcorners stationed with drifting men in unfitting clothes -- their glares like envy or hatred or love.

Shuffling.

Along.

Home.

The wind last night was high; the treetops twitched and fettered under the weight of natures' gust. It was cold, but soft, not bitter, not biting, not defiant, just forcefully breezing it's way from city to city to town, across tracks and fields, barn-tops and the homes of the sleeping.

S*
2002.12.08

~

(transcribed from a napkin)

I can't figure out if "resolve" is the right word, but whatever it is, I have it. In the face of being told I'm too committed, too dedicated, too sure, I say "no." Assuredness is not concrete -- it is an emotional middle-ground. I know what I want: happiness. That's it. If my material promises scare you sometimes, please, don't let them... If I talk about family, dogs and white-picket fences, these are only temporary; you should (please) recognize the value of stability of mind. Whether happiness, or academe, or material wealth I seek, know that I have ambition and resolve -- resolve and the capacity to spin. The latter is -- combined with ever-increasing life experiences -- will keep me happy and satisfied for the next 70 years. I am unstoppable because I can always see the positive in anything. This is my most precious -- perhaps not most endearing -- quality that will assure my survival amidst generations of sheep, of followers, of those who have not found happiness, but only a poor likeness thereof. To the contrary, I have found you and, patiently, fate will surely not deny two hearts' mutual resolve. Surely...

S*
2002.11.20 - 2:47 a.m.

~
Good Music By Good People: Radiohead

So, it's Wednesday and I definitely know why the middle of the week is the not the pinnacle of the Roman calendar. At least I think I'm pretty sure. 7 days and what to do?

Maybe enjoy the soft lull that is Radiohead's decadent offering "Kid A," a delicious, wonderfully erratic thing from the people that made you reaffirm that things might, just in fact, go "bump" in the night.

Orchestrated screaming and undiluted beats keep these tracks on the unending "things to do and emulate" list you keep in your back pocket. You know it's true. This album rides away, taking us somewhere that few mainstream (?) bands can. Half suicidal and half diluted, the liner notes read like a hand sketch done by Paddy Clarke (of "Ha ha ha" fame) himself. It's like Roddy Doyle meets Thom York, insomuch as a verbiose detailing of things that were, things that are and things we can only look forward to. There's a crest only a few albums can ride so gently and this is one. It opens so archaic and violent, disrupting the ear drums, getting higher, higher, higher then tipping like a drunk who's lost the reassuring grip of a brass rail -- these tracks penetrate and soothe simultaneously. "Everything in its right place", alright.

I think the question is what are other bands doing in their spare time that isn't making them happy and serviable to the listening constituency? The answer lies somewhere in Radiohead's backyard lot of broken parts, re-sewn teddy bears and poems discarded by its skid row whores. It's an extravagant intersection, really, where the right has obviously met the left and not only discussed the nature of all things lowly and planetary, but what colour should be worn during lunch on a Sunday afternoon. I don't have the answers to these conversations: "Kid A" does.

Give me bass, give me the tinkering of a cavalcade of far-off trumpets, give me the soft-spoken thoughts of a beautiful pianist and we could then only begin to create what this album has achieved. Ouch.

Sit up, stand stiff, and fill you ears and soul with the juice of a chemistry experiment gone right. Now settle down, it's time for the National Anthem.

Czech it.

S*
2002.09.25

~

There's 96 degrees
And you don't know
If it's separation or
Smarts or two hearts
That just plain won't collide.
The weather, the distance,
The age, the range, the
Time of our lives.
All I know are mockinbirds
Too afraid to fly and
Crickets chirping in the
Night.
I guess somehow, there
May not be a chance for
The survival of the tangerines
And the butterflies and all
Our concrete walls on this
Heavy, lonely, planet.

S*
2002.08.11

~

Irony

I walked up a hill, rain lightly falling
around me.
(Harder when I passed under the tree
tips).
There along
A sidewalk,
Tip-toeing about,
A raven:
Plucking
Pecking
Piecing
Away at a squirming worm.
Playing with it,
Toying and tossing
As it twitched and twisted and
Bled.
But a cat appeared
And with one swoop, the raven died,
As a worm squirmed,
As the rain and blood drops mixed,
The food chain was heard,
Silently,
Chuckling to itself,
As I walked up a hill, rain lightly falling
around me.

S*
2002.05.14

~
Good Music By Good People: The Chemical Brothers

O.k., here's the skinny: the Chemical Brothers rock. Not only are they innovative and timeless, but their music just plain old makes you wanna get down on the dancefloor.

Take "Surrender," their 1999 album ... like, damn! It starts off slowly and you're kinda like "hmmm, I don't know about these guys..." but by the time the 3rd track slides into the 4th, you find yourself somewhere between wanting to wet your pants and/or running around Tabaret Lawn, naked, at night, re-directing the sprinklers.

Not only is "Orange Wedge" a slick venture into good scratching fun -- reminiscent of Daft Punk's "Rollin & Scratchin'" (Homework, Track 8) -- but the beat just keeps it laced with sweet, sweet consciousness ... "mmm, goes down smooth" you say? You bet your tuition it does.

Next, they fool you into thinking, "gee, that 4th track sure did have a happy endin', pa ... I think I wanna take a bath." Stabilized after that one, you are then faced with "Let Forever Be." C'mon, how poetic is that? Enough about that, you're into PacMan styles now: if you've made it this far, it is, most assuredly, too late to turn back.

Now, "The Sunshine Underground" is a superior trek into the unknown parts of your head -- the part that keeps you listening, like during that 45 second lapse in between R.E.M. dreams and your alarm clock. Kids: this is the moment to live for.

The rest is monumental, but too much so for a VP like me so it remains that these remains are, as they say in Ontario, "yours to discover."

Czech it.

S*
2002.08.01

~
ode to two fruits

a pair of pears you are,
a peerless pair
in peril of my appetite,
pared bare like pearly aphrodites
portrayed in platitudes impermanent,
you lie prepared for perfect ravishment;
persimmons plump and purple plums, despair!
without compare's the pale pearlescent pear.

Anna Brown
2002.02.14

~

Synonymless

Well, it's not three a.m., and the bar's long gone, but I'm back,alive and swaying nicely, like a happy flower, in a hurricane, my petals and colours dropping one by one. When I close my eyes it all comes back. Being drunk is simple, it's too easy. Anything that easy must be either bad for me or come at too high a price. But prices come in many shapes and forms, all with open-faced palms. Physical exhaustion, looking like shit, stumbling, fumbling through hallways, past ugly faces and blind stares. I saw a newspaper this morning where a title read: "Colourful and Crass." How appropriate -- that's how I feel today. My insides want to scream and laugh and roll down a green, green hill. When I was a boy, in elementary school, there was a field -- behind some buildings, past a fence -- an overgrown field that smelled like earth and laughter and sunshine. We would hide in the tall, tall grass, long after the bell rang and tell each other lies and truths and so many stories in between, wearing tight jeans and corduroy pants, spending time to run my fingers through the grooves along the back on my thighs. The next day is always the best. Jesus. The more the hours tick away, the more the mind plays tricks. My head is filled with flips and toys and little funny stories running wild, loose and free, but mine, mine to keep, mine to smile outwardly, from the heart and the eyes and every part inside.

S*
2002.02.01
Notes of a Dirty Young Man

~

(parce que je t'aime ma chere....)

I Love Snow

I love snow...
It helps me for
Get the sad forest
Accidentally left
Over housing develop
Ments and the
Painted statues
Of Mary.
On this land once owned
By the Church, where
Roots still feed
On huminerals
Seeping out
Of the nearby cemetery.
Here, snow transforms
The edge
Between objects
And
Manufactured nature
Into
Something organic
Where black pines
And bare, grey maples
Seem etched onto pale
Sky.
A mist there was too:
Blurring details and
Contracted
Space
Making me present,
Making my presence
In this landscape,
Both intimate
And separate.

A.L.
2002.01.17

~

Wet -- my city is wet today. Water trickles upward onto the back of my pants; my socks are wet, my shoes are wet and my feet go “squish.� I imagine thought, somewhere across a hedgerow, along a fjord or somewhere across the Mississippi --where eyes may once been wet -- that better days and drier times are to come. For now, the best part of my day was when she called me “love.�

S*
2002.01.11

~

I left
Facing westward
Waiting
Like a cat at the door
     When
     You’re not yet home.
     You may be stuck
     Or stalled
     Or sitting
     On a street
     Corner
     Struck down
With your heart
Left beating in
The intersection.

S*
2001.12.10

~

Where have all your words gone,
Charles?
I used to
     Lie
     Awake,
     Keeping your light
     Shining
     Bright,
By the bedside, sitting here
But being there
With you
All at once:
     At the track
     Or the typer,
     With the bottle
     And the women,
          Drilling in,
          Dripping on
          Drinking up
     The essence
     Of whispers and whiskers
     Brushing against
     Their
     Fragile
     Skin…
I was there too,
Watching,
Waiting for you to say something rude like
     Shit or
     Piss or
     Fuck.
Spent,
The boy would re-surface,
One hand on the red,
Then onto the machine
Taking in the longwaves:
     Classical, yes;
     Jazz, maybe;
     But what about the blues, Buk?
Then it came, didn’t it?
The words would flow and rush and topple and twist to flow and spill the black onto white,
     First of Mother,
     But blame Father.
     Then onto childhood:
          Reading,
          Learning,
          Yearning to
          Borrow from others what was not given to you.
          Fighting
               Feelings
          Suffering.
And you spent your life doing the same,
Betting on the Muse.
          She would almost always be
          A different one,
          But one to pull you through
          Nevertheless.
You were a strong man,
And I loved
     Your beautiful times.
I only wish you could still be
     Here
To take me
     With you,
Through your mundane days
Which were like spectacular eternities
And music for the rest of us.

S*
2001.11.19

~

I wonder what is between us
That keeps us
Apart?
This thing,
The spin,
The scratch,
That time where it all goes
“Pop”:
Like a Kerouacian fairytale.

Driving down a corduroy road,
Weeds standing shoulder-high:
Machu Picchu,
Here we come.

The time,
The space,
The stars
   --Nothing but meteorites
     In a similar sky
     Between
     Spaces and
     Measures and
     Fields and
     Rocks
     Between
     The two;
But what of it,
And
What to do now?
One wonders about
The closed-eyed thoughts….
Indeed.

The rockets that fly
Between thoughts
And the images
Of
The
Mind,
Blasting away into infinity,
From the pavement
To the crystal
Ethereal
Truth.

What a life
I live.

S*
2001.11.18, 3 a.m.

~

no
they
are
not
that
clever
really

S*
20011112

~

I remember your breeze
It was the sound of your voice
     There it is again
Tickling the tips of my toes
Like an open window
In fall, behind closed blinds
Making them dance and duck
     And dash so delightfully so,
As the sun peeks in and out
Saying “I am here,”
“Come to me.”

S*
2001.11.08

~

Some-
     Day,
(To my surprise)
The walls
Might
Fall;
And
Some-
     Night,
(Without notice)
The curtains
May
Drop.
And while last breaths
Are
He-si-ta-ting-ly
Drawn
Like
   Horizons
      Along the
         White
            Stark
               Pages
                  Of a child’s
                     Sketch book,
I will be going
Going,
Gone:
Empty,
As the centre
Of an aging,
Rippling,
Waterdrop.

Until then
Let’s
Share words,
And
Share glances,
And
Feel the warmth
Of the
World
‘Neath our fingers’
Tips
While
Truths lay
He-si-ta-ting-ly
On the tips
Of our tongues
Like raindrops perched on our brow, in the most passionate of storms.

S*
2001.10.29

~

Muzzle-licks,
Muzlicks,
Muslix.
Of such
Tenacious syllables
That
   Dewuzzleme,
   Refuzzleme,
   Bepuzzleme.
Muslix is a great one:
It
Grumbles and
Tumbles and
Fumbles,
   Somewhere,
Between the gums
And the tongue,
   Occasionally
Staying
Long enough
To
Get
Between
Your
Teeth.

Tenacious indeed.

S*
2001.10.30

~

I ran into a girl
   Swedish, I think
Who
Offered me
A
Fortune.
Unlucky for me was the
Crisp.s.lick envelope.

After she left, I
Rolled around,
In bed,
Tickled,
   Only
By the crumbs
Of her gift.

S*
2001.10.25

~

Out my windows are hills
Far
Across,
Under
Bushy clouds
   And dismal skies.
Although I am here,
With you:
Leaves
Underfeet,
Mud
Undershoes,
Earth
Underus,
Watching,
Panting,
Waiting,
Peering
Off into a great, wide distance
As our breath
Spills out
Before us.

S*
2001.10.26

~

He asked
Where I was from?
I said
Right here, but
I was alone.
“You seem to
Fit in quite
Well.”
“Thanks,” I replied,
Highlighting that
“Malleability was a
Dominant
Characteristic of the
Piscean.”
He smiled, said
“You’re funny,”
Shook my hand and
Bid me farewell.

Casey.
South Cali.
Typesetting
His Canadian, French
     Canadian
Women.
“You know”
They can dance.
“You know”
They can love.
I play jazz.
“I am the last of my breed.”
“They’ve automated me.”
But
I am happy
With my Pennsylvanian drum.

“Come visit,”
He offered,
It’ll be nice to
Know someone in
The neighborhood:
“You’re always well,
Come.”

S*
2001.10.26

~

The hours
Are never long or late enough
To spend the time
Typing away, hitting these keys
Sipping this wine
Listening to the new
Music.

The solace of shut
Eyelids soothes, comforts,
Takes me away.
To the places I love
I dream of
I want to go
And the faces I
Long
To see

S*
2001.10.21

~

It’s nearly ten p.m.
The week has only begun and the
Rain won’t stop
I’m convinced that the sky
Doesn’t love me tonight.
But no matter what
The skies, I know that
They will be sunnier another day
Snow will fall and leaves will drop
Red and yellow and orange
To the ground.

S*
2001.09.23

~

I remember the times we all got together. Football field, dirt bikes and jagged-toothed, ragged boys, running, sweating, panting in the sunshine of a Sunday afternoon. We would rest a while, then go to the store for ice creams or drinks or whatever we could afford or steal. Times weren’t tough; but living life on any edge at that age seemed like a great idea. I guess we may have been too young for perspective but we didn’t care: we were horsemen, cavaliers, knights of a place we called home. It was our neighborhood, we owned it, and we roamed it. Vandalism, disturbing the peace -- these were all the things we knew about but didn’t care to label ourselves with. We just did whatever whiled away the hours between schools, sleep, our parents, cutting the grass, doing the dishes, homework and Sunday mass. We were young, on the edge of something unidentifiable, strange, known only by us. We roamed, we owned, the playgrounds of our youth, of our soul. Green, green grass of home, indeed. The days and nights of playing, running and sweating, shaped our youths, shaped our lives that were unfolding before we even knew it. The edge, the end, the unknown of my days and Thursdays and autumns before we all grew up and went away.

S*
2001.09.21

~

The first day of fall is usually a nice occasion the picnic baskets and the plaid blankets, laying in the sunshine with the soft wind sweeping over sweatered torsos. I had never been to the west coast but I was told that the people were nice and the sun never went down on the Pacific. How’s that for life on the edge of the universe?

S*
2001.09.21

~

Burnt out and quiet
Never smiles or anything
Who knew? Um, maybe, I guess.
I wondered about her, I
Was afraid she might do it.
Like stepping off a Seattle
Bridge for the first time.
Probably being the last.
Who new? Who cared? Um,
Maybe, I guess.

S*
2001.09.21

~

It was that kind of morning. The kind neither sunglasses nor raincoats can quell. There was something peculiar about a grey sky, menacing, buy not entirely daunting, just there. Sword-like. Damoclean. I liked the way droplets fell on trees, onto leaves, down stems onto trunks, percolating, meshing. People weren't like rain. People's eyes always stared at the ground on days like this; I guess the leaf-imprinted, paper-mache, salami-like sidewalk was substitute enough for the grey skies. Or was it my eyes they sought to avoid? My grin? My truth?

S*
2001.07.10

~

I am foreign to the pen
     and the brush
Scares me so.
But the velvetine, swift-sweeping
     touch of the modern
Type reminds me
Or flowing hillsides like flowing
Prose. Like, like, like
A barefoot boy with beautiful cheeks and thick eyebrows, covering only his
     wonderful,
Bright,
Windows to the
Soul.

S*
2001.07.05

~

Some say the day after is always the worst. Some say. The rising sun, whether you witnessed it or not, often becomes a tribute to all things promissory and predictable. I'll never do this again. Swear. Sweet Jesus my head hurts. As I remember the last twenty-four hours, I remember most things done, less of the things said, but especially everything thought. Fun times with friends, neighbours, beautiful people and warm individuals sharing a laugh, a song, a good time. It was any excuse to celebrate, any would do. But the crowd came from all over and the underlying, fundamental similarities or humanity shone thorough once again. Through people's eyes, moves, handshaking, shoulder hugging, hip swaying displays of patriotism and happiness. A people oft worked too hard, only to let loose for the occassional foray into madness, temporary alcoholism, temporary insanity. Into the time of truth, of beauty, where no deals are set; where north meets south. White and black were not: why would we have bothered? The grey areas are where the fun is. Grey is where life's tug-of-war is. Yesterday, I saw the stars crashing down. I saw your hearts, beating loud as thunder. I saw. We loved. You left. I remember. Until next year. My memory may become muddy, but the wispiest, fluffy, fun particles always make their way to sift and sit at the top of the happy times and the memories of my life.

S*
2001.07.02

~
Part 1

Well it came down like spears
-- You know the kind you stick
    through olives at parties?
Well the rain fell like that.
And I was reminded of the
Day the lightning and the tree both
Fell.
And the water washed down the length of my
Naked
Torso.

Part 2

But weren't you there
Too?
Saying “Come in, come in,
You'll get
Wet.”
Though I heard your concern,
-- Tingling onto concrete,
The storm touched me deeper.


S*
2001.06.16

~

My heart warms at your invitation,
My cheeks get rosy
And I think that the world is, for a
Fleeting,
Breaking,
In
     Can-descent (de-cent?)
Butterflew moment,
A beautiful place
Two
Be
Breathing.

S*
2001.06.14

~

My skin is like a
Raspberry, in
August.
Sitting, heating, sweltering.
Darker and
Blarker and
Black.

S*
2001.06.12

~

I wrote a story. It began with
Your name. Softly, gently I
Spoke in your ear. I scribbled
Colours and shapes and
Thoughts of us. You said I
Love you and I smiled
Because it felt good to be lied
To. But that moment has passed
And now I'm writing a story.
Which ends with your name.

S*
2000.10.17

~

Burning up like a raging inferno,
Black amber versus the sky.

S*
1998.08.20