"Someday," you say. "Someday we'll go back down there. Late at night like. We'll dress all in black," you say. "Black jeans and hoodie. Maybe I'll even dig my old Ramones sweater out of the closet for the occasion. Pair of black Chucks for creeping around all quiet like. What do you say? You in? We'll pry open that rotten door at the back. The same door we used to skip past the line at. All those suckers waiting in line; you remember that? Head in through the back door," you say, "jump up on stage and give it one last go. You'll have your guitar and I'll-"
"Hey-"
"What?"
"The old hall burned down years ago."
"Really?"
"Four years at least."
"Oh."
Circa 1992. Lost in the pit, just a boiling mass of bodies, ripped jeans, and concert tees, damp with sweat and beer. Blood drips from my nose, the result of a wicked elbow to the face; an anonymous hit - no harm, no foul. My own knee connects now with the cheekbone of another, sending us both crashing to the sticky floor. There's the mad scramble to resurface before it's too late. Before we're trampled to death. My eyes briefly meet his through the chaos of legs and I'm offered a bloody grin. "No harm, mate," he seems to say. That second, we're both pulled back into the fray by the anonymous hands of the mosh angels. Got to rediscover the rhythm. Got to slip back into pattern, that swirling, agitated muddle. Got to get back
to
now.
Back to the calm of a sunny suburban day. Relaxing in the easy comfort of my backyard patio, I watch as you adjust the umbrella to better shield our eyes from the blazing sun. Hoisting my bottle of imported beer, I prompt you to do the same and offer a toast.
"To temporality," I say.
You echo the sentiment before allowing our bottles to clink.
"You know what the true failure of suburbia is?" I ask.
"Enlighten me."
"The true failure of suburbia," I say, "lies squarely in the very safety we all seek here. Its failure lies in its homogeneity, its uninspiring blandness, and in its rampant unoriginality. Where are the weirdoes and freaks to inspire our future children? Where are the decrepit arcades and concert halls they'll frequent?"
"Downtown, of course. They'll move out of here as soon as possible," you say, "and move downtown."
"I know. And then the adult switch will get flipped like an overloaded breaker and they'll all move back out here, each with the same burning question on their lips: why did I ever leave?"
"So much for antiestablishmentarianism."
"Ha!"
"You know, we used to mock this life and now we live it."
"There's just no way of getting around the way things are meant to be," I say.
"Formulaic, our lives."
"It's the natural progression of things," I say. "We all grow up yearning for anarchy only to wind up embracing antiquity."
Friday, June 2, 2006
Thursday, June 1, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
greener in the morning
Delia once told you of a time when she thought that death was transitory. I was convinced, she said, that death was a state which existed for only a short time, fleeting, like dew on the morning grass giving way, vanishing, at the sun's first caress. It comes from nowhere and disappears to the same, she said. From nothing we emerge and to nothing we fade.
I find, you said, that the morning dew has this peculiar way of making the grass seem greener; an illusion, of sorts, which is vanquished by the gushing of sunlight in the mid-morning. Free moisture saturates the structure of the leaves creating a temporary flushness, leaving the lawn rich as a dole deadbeat on cheque day - by afternoon, the lawn will have returned to its usual depressing, achromatic yellow-green.
Delia only nodded knowingly, not at all surprised by your observation, and told you of how death would bring the same ephemeral crispness to life by way of juxtaposition. But you'll only have a second to enjoy it, she added. The sun, that destructive ball of fire, is relentless and would soon burn off any moisture accrued during the cool of night.
So is night then life and day, death? you asked, made a little uneasy by this sudden turn in words.
Only for the purpose of this conversation, Delia said. Only for right now.
Light and dark; death and life.
They could each be each, you know.
Light is death to dark and vice versa.
And there is always a transition.
Something in between.
Dew on the morning grass.
The chill of an evening sun-
-making the grass seem just a little greener.
I find, you said, that the morning dew has this peculiar way of making the grass seem greener; an illusion, of sorts, which is vanquished by the gushing of sunlight in the mid-morning. Free moisture saturates the structure of the leaves creating a temporary flushness, leaving the lawn rich as a dole deadbeat on cheque day - by afternoon, the lawn will have returned to its usual depressing, achromatic yellow-green.
Delia only nodded knowingly, not at all surprised by your observation, and told you of how death would bring the same ephemeral crispness to life by way of juxtaposition. But you'll only have a second to enjoy it, she added. The sun, that destructive ball of fire, is relentless and would soon burn off any moisture accrued during the cool of night.
So is night then life and day, death? you asked, made a little uneasy by this sudden turn in words.
Only for the purpose of this conversation, Delia said. Only for right now.
Light and dark; death and life.
They could each be each, you know.
Light is death to dark and vice versa.
And there is always a transition.
Something in between.
Dew on the morning grass.
The chill of an evening sun-
-making the grass seem just a little greener.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
connexions
What do I remember? Recording music in the sweltering heat of a cramped studio in Namibia. Just the three of us, our instruments, and pages of music decaying in the torridity. Sweat dripped, staining notebooks. Sweat dripped, causing ink to run. Sweat dripped, smudging lyrics, altering them, rewriting them as we played. Stringed instruments had to be retuned throughout the day due to drastic changes in temperature and humidity. But we played, suffered through that lengthy session. You can still hear the heat, the near suffocation, in those recordings.
"We've managed to trap disomfort there in those tracks," you said.
Indeed, the day's swelter had infected the music - and we were happy for it.
What do I remember? The slushy streets of Manhattan in November and a much-needed lesson in the ownership of knowledge. I met you and another - one of your students - at a previously arranged coffee shop in the theatre district. Having got there first, making myself comfortable in front of the fireplace with a book, I stood up, embracing you in a warm hug before I introduced myself to your company. After the introduction, the student, her name was Elise, pointed down at my book and asked what I was reading.
"Critique of Dialectical Reason," I said, adding, "Sartre."
You looked at the student, beaming, and said: "See, I told you. Can you believe he spends his time reading such stuff?"
The student shook her head, looking at me in disbelief. "You read for pleasure the stuff we read out of necessity," she said. "Can't think why."
I smiled a little, catching the mischievous twinkle in your eye, and I turned back to the student, Elise. "Two people read the same book," I said, "one because she wants to and the other because she has to. Who's going to get more out of it?"
She didn't answer; she didn't have to. We all sat and ordered up a round of caffeinated beverages and flakey pastries. Talk spun naturally from philosophy to art and onto life in general, while wet snowflakes the size of silver dollars stuck to the windows before melting into individual streams running down that glass. Talk spun naturally in that way that it is wont to do when the right people get together. That day, that snowy day in New York, we were those right people.
What do I remember? A long, strange trip between the moon and the beach of a tiny lake in southern Ontario. High on mushrooms and E, feet pressed into soft sand, digging deeper and deeper, seeking the cool, never finding it. The twinkling stars above with their swollen coronas. Our naked elbows resting on hot sand, feeling each and every grain digging happily into skin. You were beside me, as we watched the others wading in the placid, blood-warm waters.
"How do you know if you've found the right woman?" you asked.
I considered this question for about an eternity. It was a good one, as all questions are when you're that high. I searched the stars for an answer then, and found one floating in the yellow starlight glistening off a tiny ripple on the lake. I let it drift all the way to shore before I picked it up with my eyes, let it settle into my brain, and allowed it to work its way out of my mouth.
"You'll know you've found the right woman," I said, "if she makes a good batch of pancakes."
I could see you nodding slowly in my peripheral. Understanding. Fully.
We were connected, then, all of us. Those resting on the beach, those wading in the waters, those exploring the trees - we were connected, then. Each of us with the same questions on our lips, and the same answers in our ears. Each a thread woven into the same length of cloth, rolled tightly into a bolt. Connected. One. Always.
"We've managed to trap disomfort there in those tracks," you said.
Indeed, the day's swelter had infected the music - and we were happy for it.
What do I remember? The slushy streets of Manhattan in November and a much-needed lesson in the ownership of knowledge. I met you and another - one of your students - at a previously arranged coffee shop in the theatre district. Having got there first, making myself comfortable in front of the fireplace with a book, I stood up, embracing you in a warm hug before I introduced myself to your company. After the introduction, the student, her name was Elise, pointed down at my book and asked what I was reading.
"Critique of Dialectical Reason," I said, adding, "Sartre."
You looked at the student, beaming, and said: "See, I told you. Can you believe he spends his time reading such stuff?"
The student shook her head, looking at me in disbelief. "You read for pleasure the stuff we read out of necessity," she said. "Can't think why."
I smiled a little, catching the mischievous twinkle in your eye, and I turned back to the student, Elise. "Two people read the same book," I said, "one because she wants to and the other because she has to. Who's going to get more out of it?"
She didn't answer; she didn't have to. We all sat and ordered up a round of caffeinated beverages and flakey pastries. Talk spun naturally from philosophy to art and onto life in general, while wet snowflakes the size of silver dollars stuck to the windows before melting into individual streams running down that glass. Talk spun naturally in that way that it is wont to do when the right people get together. That day, that snowy day in New York, we were those right people.
What do I remember? A long, strange trip between the moon and the beach of a tiny lake in southern Ontario. High on mushrooms and E, feet pressed into soft sand, digging deeper and deeper, seeking the cool, never finding it. The twinkling stars above with their swollen coronas. Our naked elbows resting on hot sand, feeling each and every grain digging happily into skin. You were beside me, as we watched the others wading in the placid, blood-warm waters.
"How do you know if you've found the right woman?" you asked.
I considered this question for about an eternity. It was a good one, as all questions are when you're that high. I searched the stars for an answer then, and found one floating in the yellow starlight glistening off a tiny ripple on the lake. I let it drift all the way to shore before I picked it up with my eyes, let it settle into my brain, and allowed it to work its way out of my mouth.
"You'll know you've found the right woman," I said, "if she makes a good batch of pancakes."
I could see you nodding slowly in my peripheral. Understanding. Fully.
We were connected, then, all of us. Those resting on the beach, those wading in the waters, those exploring the trees - we were connected, then. Each of us with the same questions on our lips, and the same answers in our ears. Each a thread woven into the same length of cloth, rolled tightly into a bolt. Connected. One. Always.
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