0211
The bars have let out. I'm watching a couple on the benches along the planters. A slight young girl sits, crying, on the bench with her boyfriend's arm around her. He looks immature, unsure – maybe even scared. I wish to admire the girl's beauty more closely, and zoom in just in time to catch a tear shimmering in the moonlight, sliding down her rosy cheek from a pale blue eye. A hand enters the screen to brush it away. Going wide, I discover it to be the boyfriend's. His lips brush her ear. A whisper. A smile breaks on the girl's perfect lips. A laugh, shared. I pull back further. The boy awkwardly pulls her atop him, and she obliges, straddling, her jeans pulled taught over her slender thighs. Embarrassed, I pan away.
King-knight to king-two.
Expected as much.
So, I didn't now you had a brother...
Used to. Musician - was halfway through recording his first album when he drowned in the lake.
Wow, sorry, must've been really tough.
Yeah, he was a good swimmer even, but the lake still took 'im. Was hardest on our dad. He sat on the couch for days just crying and reading his bible.
...Man, what could've been.
0437
I have the camera facing south toward the old courthouse. I'm looking beyond the geometrically challenged planters with their dead plants and fake 'holiday trees' which are really nothing more that multicoloured bulbs in a conical formation. My attention is caught by a hooker sauntering down the street, her walk sad with no-one watching. A high-heeled shoe slides on the frost-slicked sidewalk. I zoom in. As she reaches down to fix the strap on her shoe, her already too short skirt is hiked up further exposing more thigh. I imagine goose-bumps. With a flip of her chocolate hair, I catch a splash of red red lips before she disappears down the street.
Bishop takes bishop.
Smart!
Thanks, so you were saying ya don't party so much anymore...
Naw, I came to a lot of realisations while in Montréal one summer. I was pretty big into the booze and coke back then.
Blow eh?
Yes, that most glamorous of drugs. I thought about quitting when I found myself hunched over a toilet tank in a gay bar early one morning snorting a fat line up one nostril and bleeding out the other.
Geeze.
I decided to quit for sure when I woke up in bed the next day with Louis Riel.
Hm-
I don't think we did anything though.
0603
There’s movement inside the coffee shop. Sitting beneath a single light, a woman – the owner I think – is hunched over a table writing. If I manipulate the camera just so, I'm able to look through the glass and read over her shoulder. Closer. Closer. Numbers. She's putting numbers into columns. Pausing, she rests her chin in her hand and looks out the window, troubled it seems, and shakes her head slightly. Next, she takes a sip of coffee, before burying her face in her hands, her shoulders quaking. I pull back.
Knight takes bishop.
Ya got me in four moves.
I know.
So, ya ever think you'd be doing this job?
Yeah.
Really?
Yeah, I think a lot of things.
Aw, turn it up - I love this song! Man, Johnny Cash was a genius.
I love Johnny, but he was no genius.
Ya don't think?
No, I think the word genius is overused. Johnny was a con artist – a master in marketing – but he was no genius.
Uh-
Thing is, you are whatever you can convince people you are. You want to be smart? Con everyone into thinking you are. You want to be mysterious? Con. Want to be sexy? Con.
Suppose.
And it's even easier if you con yourself first.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Sunday, January 18, 2004
Twinge (Nostalgia)
I've discovered the place in the universe where anticipation is felt most acute - an empty train station.
Remember that night in Winnipeg with the pre-op transexual?
Yeah. Listen, you didn't tell anybody did you?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Right. She was really pretty, huh?
Yes, he was actually, quite.
I've discovered the most uninspiring place in the universe - it happens to be my office.
Remember that gas station in Burnaby - the cash drawer?
Yeah. No-one else knows about that, right?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Right. Man, we even split the loot on the back steps of that church.
I didn't even expect you to give me anything but you kept insisting-
Well, we're friends aren't we?
I've discovered the loneliest place in the universe - right here.
Remember that time with the underage girl in Halifax?
...Dude, I don't think that was with me.
...Oh, well she told me she was sixteen.
Do tell.
Well it all started when she brought out this huge cube of hash. Me and - hey, you're not going to tell anybody about this, right?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Disgorged by: Trite R, 11:07 AM | link | 0 comments
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Haiku for today.
I saw your blanket lying there
So empty-
It made me think of you
Disgorged by: Trite R, 10:27 PM | link | 0 comments
Haiku for today.
Black birds in a winter sky
Bring me happiness
When you're not around
Disgorged by: Trite R, 11:24 AM | link | 0 comments
Friday, January 16, 2004
Monitors
It wouldn't make any sense. It wouldn't make any sense to just tell it, that is. Like - just explain it. I could say that I was in this dark little room. I think I was thinking about things. There was a little cot. I was on it. Word on the ceiling - WATCH. A little TV comes on in the middle of the wall with snowy reception. A monitor. A monitor? [Hazard of the job. I wake up at this point in a sort of panic, but curious about what's onscreen, I go back to sleep.] Lying on the cot. There's someone outside the door - I can tell. I'm dreaming though, so I'm not worried. Another monitor comes on from elsewhere in the room. I jump up to look at a screen, and a few more jump to life behind me. The room is becoming brighter. [I wake up again at this point, and, again, make myself go back to sleep.] I'm trying to make out what's on the screen, but I can't quite tell. More monitors are clicking on, as others are in different states of clearing reception. There's movement on the screen. People. Strange familiarity. About half the monitors are on - they seem to completely fill the walls. Then I come to the realization that it's me on the monitors. Me and people I know. Friends, family, and such. Most of the monitors are on now and the room is horribly bright. Looking over at the cot, I find it to be a washed out pale colour. There's deep lines etched into the ceiling and I notice more graffiti. [Should have read more of it!] I think about how hard it would be to sleep with all this light. I'm racing around looking at all these screens, and I'm realizing that they're showing scenes from my life. I'm trying to look at them all - maybe I'm looking for something in particular? I look over just in time to catch the last monitor clicking on. The light becomes too intense and there's some kind of horrible noise that has been building unnoticed. [I wake up, fast. I scrawl this on bedside notebook:
I've managed to keep down the poison
Things always turn out this way
I lay on the ground in the darkness
Sick, with my head buried in my arms
Further attempts at reconnecting to this dream fail, and, instead, I fall into a dead dreamless coma for a couple hours.]
Remember that night in Winnipeg with the pre-op transexual?
Yeah. Listen, you didn't tell anybody did you?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Right. She was really pretty, huh?
Yes, he was actually, quite.
I've discovered the most uninspiring place in the universe - it happens to be my office.
Remember that gas station in Burnaby - the cash drawer?
Yeah. No-one else knows about that, right?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Right. Man, we even split the loot on the back steps of that church.
I didn't even expect you to give me anything but you kept insisting-
Well, we're friends aren't we?
I've discovered the loneliest place in the universe - right here.
Remember that time with the underage girl in Halifax?
...Dude, I don't think that was with me.
...Oh, well she told me she was sixteen.
Do tell.
Well it all started when she brought out this huge cube of hash. Me and - hey, you're not going to tell anybody about this, right?
No, of course not, we're friends.
Disgorged by: Trite R, 11:07 AM | link | 0 comments
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Haiku for today.
I saw your blanket lying there
So empty-
It made me think of you
Disgorged by: Trite R, 10:27 PM | link | 0 comments
Haiku for today.
Black birds in a winter sky
Bring me happiness
When you're not around
Disgorged by: Trite R, 11:24 AM | link | 0 comments
Friday, January 16, 2004
Monitors
It wouldn't make any sense. It wouldn't make any sense to just tell it, that is. Like - just explain it. I could say that I was in this dark little room. I think I was thinking about things. There was a little cot. I was on it. Word on the ceiling - WATCH. A little TV comes on in the middle of the wall with snowy reception. A monitor. A monitor? [Hazard of the job. I wake up at this point in a sort of panic, but curious about what's onscreen, I go back to sleep.] Lying on the cot. There's someone outside the door - I can tell. I'm dreaming though, so I'm not worried. Another monitor comes on from elsewhere in the room. I jump up to look at a screen, and a few more jump to life behind me. The room is becoming brighter. [I wake up again at this point, and, again, make myself go back to sleep.] I'm trying to make out what's on the screen, but I can't quite tell. More monitors are clicking on, as others are in different states of clearing reception. There's movement on the screen. People. Strange familiarity. About half the monitors are on - they seem to completely fill the walls. Then I come to the realization that it's me on the monitors. Me and people I know. Friends, family, and such. Most of the monitors are on now and the room is horribly bright. Looking over at the cot, I find it to be a washed out pale colour. There's deep lines etched into the ceiling and I notice more graffiti. [Should have read more of it!] I think about how hard it would be to sleep with all this light. I'm racing around looking at all these screens, and I'm realizing that they're showing scenes from my life. I'm trying to look at them all - maybe I'm looking for something in particular? I look over just in time to catch the last monitor clicking on. The light becomes too intense and there's some kind of horrible noise that has been building unnoticed. [I wake up, fast. I scrawl this on bedside notebook:
I've managed to keep down the poison
Things always turn out this way
I lay on the ground in the darkness
Sick, with my head buried in my arms
Further attempts at reconnecting to this dream fail, and, instead, I fall into a dead dreamless coma for a couple hours.]
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Friday, January 16, 2004
Monitors
It wouldn't make any sense. It wouldn't make any sense to just tell it, that is. Like - just explain it. I could say that I was in this dark little room. I think I was thinking about things. There was a little cot. I was on it. Word on the ceiling - WATCH. A little TV comes on in the middle of the wall with snowy reception. A monitor. A monitor? [Hazard of the job. I wake up at this point in a sort of panic, but curious about what's onscreen, I go back to sleep.] Lying on the cot. There's someone outside the door - I can tell. I'm dreaming though, so I'm not worried. Another monitor comes on from elsewhere in the room. I jump up to look at a screen, and a few more jump to life behind me. The room is becoming brighter. [I wake up again at this point, and, again, make myself go back to sleep.] I'm trying to make out what's on the screen, but I can't quite tell. More monitors are clicking on, as others are in different states of clearing reception. There's movement on the screen. People. Strange familiarity. About half the monitors are on - they seem to completely fill the walls. Then I come to the realization that it's me on the monitors. Me and people I know. Friends, family, and such. Most of the monitors are on now and the room is horribly bright. Looking over at the cot, I find it to be a washed out pale colour. There's deep lines etched into the ceiling and I notice more graffiti. [Should have read more of it!] I think about how hard it would be to sleep with all this light. I'm racing around looking at all these screens, and I'm realizing that they're showing scenes from my life. I'm trying to look at them all - maybe I'm looking for something in particular? I look over just in time to catch the last monitor clicking on. The light becomes too intense and there's some kind of horrible noise that has been building unnoticed. [I wake up, fast. I scrawl this on bedside notebook:
I've managed to keep down the poison
Things always turn out this way
I lay on the ground in the darkness
Sick, with my head buried in my arms
Further attempts at reconnecting to this dream fail, and, instead, I fall into a dead dreamless coma for a couple hours.]
I've managed to keep down the poison
Things always turn out this way
I lay on the ground in the darkness
Sick, with my head buried in my arms
Further attempts at reconnecting to this dream fail, and, instead, I fall into a dead dreamless coma for a couple hours.]
Friday, January 9, 2004
Doctor/Patient
Dr Whitman reclines, sinking comfortably into his leather chair behind his massive mahogany desk. Resting on one elbow, he plays with his pen, clicking it in his free hand. He’s watching his patient, and waiting for her to settle into the leather chaise longue across the room. Satisfied that she’s achieved comfort, he stands and approaches.
“It’s nice to see you again, Ms Sinclair.” He sits himself down on a little stool along side the couch. “You seem rather melancholic today – is there something you wish to discuss with me?”
Ms Sinclair doesn’t even stir when the doctor approaches, but lays still, relaxed, with one arm draped over her eyes. After considering his question for a moment, she responds, lazily. “Indeed, Doctor, but I’m going to suggest we do away with all the distractions first.”
Bemused, Dr Whitman smiles. “Pardon me?”
“It’s easy doctor, I’ll just ask that you first clear your mind – focus...”
The doctor flips open his notebook, puts his pen to paper, ready to take notes. “Now, just one minute, Ms Sinclair; what is it you're you talking about?
Sinclair: Focus...
Whitman: My word! You can be silly sometimes.
Sinclair: But isn’t this better? No more fluff?
Whitman: If you say, Ms Sinclair, if you say. Now, what is it you wish to tell me?
Sinclair: You are not actually here, Doctor.
Whitman: Please, Ms Sinclair, not this tired issue again.
Sinclair: The same but different. I’ve been doing some thinking. There’s a twist.
Whitman: Oh? How so?
Sinclair: I am not actually here either.
Whitman: Ah...
Sinclair: Oh, tell me you’ve never considered the possibility.
Whitman: Well, sure I have, but then I came to the conclusion that the possibility is absurd.
Sinclair: And what makes you so smart?
Whitman: You.
Sinclair: Ah! He jests! The man has a sense of humour!
Whitman: Ms Sinclair, please...
Sinclair: Just consider it. We’re not here, we’re-
Whitman: Ms-
Sinclair: No! I will not stop talking. What if we’re not here, doctor? You say you’ve considered it – everyone has. What if it’s true?
Whitman: Something like Chuang Tzu and his butterfly dream.
Sinclair: Right - sort of. Chuang Tzu could not tell if he was dreaming he was the butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming she was he. What I’m proposing is that they were dreaming of each other.
Whitman: Hmm, interesting.
Sinclair: Right? It could be true that neither existed. Or maybe they both did but were someone – something – else...
Whitman: Go on, Ms Sinclair, you have my ear.
Sinclair: What if we’re not who we think we are? What if we’re not real, or are real and are someone else? We could be two egos haggling over the price of a nickel-plated Kalashnikov in a weapons bazaar in the bordertown of El-Azhr. We’re both clutching the weapon across the table, feeling its cold metal in our hands, and spitting harsh words at one another. And we imagine, together, that we’re actually a doctor and patient. Even if for a spit-second our thoughts and imaginings coincide, our other selves are brought into a different reality – a different universe. Tell me, doctor, have you ever held a gun in your hands?
Whitman: Yes, I hunt quail.
Sinclair: So you can tell me how a gun smells, how your hands smell after you’ve held one?
Whitman: Like, like metal – metallic, and something else. Sort of...oily.
Sinclair: Right. And you’re smelling it now.
Whitman: I am, yes.
Sinclair: We might even be two lovers on a beach, lying side by side in the sand, our hands stretched out toward one another, my fingertips gently brush yours. We’re not even talking; only thinking-
Whitman: Ms Sinclair, enough, I understand-
Sinclair: You can even be the girl if you want. Maybe you are; it doesn’t matter. Can you tell me what the beach smells like, doctor? What you smell right now?
Whitman: The smell of seaweed is carried in off the ocean in the brackish air. If you stay long enough the salt lines your nose, the mucous membrane, and you start to taste it. You smell the sand, too. It’s fresh and earthy. It smells new, yet it’s so old.
Sinclair: Have you ever been to the beach, doctor?
Whitman: No, I have not.
Sinclair: But you’re right, that’s exactly how it smells. You only know that because you’re there right now. You’re there right now with me.
“It’s nice to see you again, Ms Sinclair.” He sits himself down on a little stool along side the couch. “You seem rather melancholic today – is there something you wish to discuss with me?”
Ms Sinclair doesn’t even stir when the doctor approaches, but lays still, relaxed, with one arm draped over her eyes. After considering his question for a moment, she responds, lazily. “Indeed, Doctor, but I’m going to suggest we do away with all the distractions first.”
Bemused, Dr Whitman smiles. “Pardon me?”
“It’s easy doctor, I’ll just ask that you first clear your mind – focus...”
The doctor flips open his notebook, puts his pen to paper, ready to take notes. “Now, just one minute, Ms Sinclair; what is it you're you talking about?
Sinclair: Focus...
Whitman: My word! You can be silly sometimes.
Sinclair: But isn’t this better? No more fluff?
Whitman: If you say, Ms Sinclair, if you say. Now, what is it you wish to tell me?
Sinclair: You are not actually here, Doctor.
Whitman: Please, Ms Sinclair, not this tired issue again.
Sinclair: The same but different. I’ve been doing some thinking. There’s a twist.
Whitman: Oh? How so?
Sinclair: I am not actually here either.
Whitman: Ah...
Sinclair: Oh, tell me you’ve never considered the possibility.
Whitman: Well, sure I have, but then I came to the conclusion that the possibility is absurd.
Sinclair: And what makes you so smart?
Whitman: You.
Sinclair: Ah! He jests! The man has a sense of humour!
Whitman: Ms Sinclair, please...
Sinclair: Just consider it. We’re not here, we’re-
Whitman: Ms-
Sinclair: No! I will not stop talking. What if we’re not here, doctor? You say you’ve considered it – everyone has. What if it’s true?
Whitman: Something like Chuang Tzu and his butterfly dream.
Sinclair: Right - sort of. Chuang Tzu could not tell if he was dreaming he was the butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming she was he. What I’m proposing is that they were dreaming of each other.
Whitman: Hmm, interesting.
Sinclair: Right? It could be true that neither existed. Or maybe they both did but were someone – something – else...
Whitman: Go on, Ms Sinclair, you have my ear.
Sinclair: What if we’re not who we think we are? What if we’re not real, or are real and are someone else? We could be two egos haggling over the price of a nickel-plated Kalashnikov in a weapons bazaar in the bordertown of El-Azhr. We’re both clutching the weapon across the table, feeling its cold metal in our hands, and spitting harsh words at one another. And we imagine, together, that we’re actually a doctor and patient. Even if for a spit-second our thoughts and imaginings coincide, our other selves are brought into a different reality – a different universe. Tell me, doctor, have you ever held a gun in your hands?
Whitman: Yes, I hunt quail.
Sinclair: So you can tell me how a gun smells, how your hands smell after you’ve held one?
Whitman: Like, like metal – metallic, and something else. Sort of...oily.
Sinclair: Right. And you’re smelling it now.
Whitman: I am, yes.
Sinclair: We might even be two lovers on a beach, lying side by side in the sand, our hands stretched out toward one another, my fingertips gently brush yours. We’re not even talking; only thinking-
Whitman: Ms Sinclair, enough, I understand-
Sinclair: You can even be the girl if you want. Maybe you are; it doesn’t matter. Can you tell me what the beach smells like, doctor? What you smell right now?
Whitman: The smell of seaweed is carried in off the ocean in the brackish air. If you stay long enough the salt lines your nose, the mucous membrane, and you start to taste it. You smell the sand, too. It’s fresh and earthy. It smells new, yet it’s so old.
Sinclair: Have you ever been to the beach, doctor?
Whitman: No, I have not.
Sinclair: But you’re right, that’s exactly how it smells. You only know that because you’re there right now. You’re there right now with me.
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