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2011 - The Year of the Grind

2012-01-07T10:16:00.000-08:00

So, when I first thought about this list (and it's actually been quite a while since I've, you know, codified things like this), I couldn't think of much for my list that wasn't released by Grindcore Karaoke (and 3 of my top albums came from that label - and there were very nearly several more). But, when I dug more deeply, researched more thoroughly, I realised: well, sir: 2011 was a grand year for new music.

And what a year for grind, huh?! The aforementioned label, shit-tons (yup) of solid releases, news of a (I don't know quite the word for it, but let's go with: Memorial): Nasum Memorial Tour and probably a bunch of other cool shit.

Without further ado! My list of 13 releases 'cause why not? I actually ordered them this year, too!
(a caveat first: as all who know me know, I am, typically, notoriously bad at saying anything when I say things about music, but here goes)

1. Cloud Rat - s/t

Blistering, angry, vivid, intelligent, really well-executed grinding . Very effective and much more affective than pretty much all grind-related shit I've ever heard. It's like if you took some roiling mass of chaos and wrapped it tightly in palletwrap; the chaos seethes and surges and spits and snarls but it can't break free (palletwrap is a brilliant control mechanism, ya see).
Favourite tune: "Dwell"

2. Human Touch - s/t

As soon as I heard the yelling intro to demo opener "Youth Prison," I knew I'd found a winner. And gang shout choruses! From there things maintain the intensity in this wickedly tuneful, angry, engaged, engaging hardcore. And just wait for the if-you-don't-feel-like-shouting-along-with-it-check-your-PULSE! awesome title track. Full o' anthemic, fist-pumping catharsis.
Favourite tune: "Human Touch"

3. Autopsy - Macabre Eternal

Generally, my response to death metal is "meh," but I have this gaping, festering hole of a soft-spot for Autopsy and their grimy, filthy, slimy vomitus. It's the atmosphere and the feel and the Chris Reifert!
Favourite tune: "Always about to Die"

4. Lock Up - Necropolis Transparent

It's a total ripper. Just like you'd expect from Lock Up.
Favourite tune: "Unseen Enemy"

5. Rotten Sound - Cursed

Another throat-ripping grinder. Seriously good year for this shit. And such a thick sound.
Favourite tune: "Ritual"

6. Fen - Epoch

One of those post-black metal bands... It's so spacious, expansive, expressive.
Favourite tune: "A Waning Solace"

7. Punch - Nothing Lasts

Wicked hardcore again. Angry, engaging. And full of outstanding breakdowns. Holy moly!
Favourite tune: "Time Apart"

8. Brutal Truth - End Time

Brutal Truth! Rich Hoak! (anything involving Rich Hoak is kind of awesome - Total Fucking Destruction almost made this list, too). And any time I mention Rich Hoak is a wonderful excuse for this!:

Photo by Christian Misje
Favourite tune: "Killing Planet Earth"

9. Drugs of Faith - Corroded

Richard Johnson has a wicked shout. And shouts yells screams yowls rages in wicked grind bands.
Favourite tune: "Hidden Costs"

10. Circle of Ouroborus - Eleven Fingers

Another spacious post-black metal sort of thing. Really effective at an oxymoronic claustrophobic expansiveness.
Favourite tune: "Sigil of Suns"

11. Tasseomancy - Ulalume

The band formerly known as Ghost Bees are back with neo-folk which is sparse sparse sparse. Echoing, lonely, melancholic, eerie, spidery, enchanting.
Favourite tune: "Diana"

12. Death Grips - Exmilitary

Dark, esoteric, experimental hip hop (who would ever have expected those words on one of my year-end lists, huh?!). Challenging, full of great beats and huge vocals.
Favourite tune: "Beware"

Tom Waits - Bad as Me

This doesn't really count in my ordered list. Any album Tom Waits releases gets picked up in my year end list. It doesn't even matter. Some really good hiccuping rock 'n' roll on this one.
Favourite tune: "Get Lost"

Oh, and another one that would've made this list if I'd been certain of its release date: Soundtrack to the Life of a Car Nearly Driving Into the Pacific by Richard Laviolette. I'm not sure if this was a 2011 release or late-2010, so it's not on here. Just in case. But, as always, damn great stuff from Mr. Laviolette. "Bats" is my favourite from this one.

The full list of contenders (that made it past the final cuts, that is - there was actually a metric shit-tonne more releases that I heard this year. Almost all of which were released by the aforementioned GK):

Akitsa - Auprès de la mort, triomphant!
Altar of Plagues - Mammal
Autopsy - Macabre Eternal
Bestower - s/t
Bird - 2011 Demo
Brutal Truth - End Time
Circle of Ouroborus - Eleven Fingers
Cloud Rat - Fever Dreams
Cloud Rat - s/t
Craft - Void
Death Grips - Exmilitary
Despise You/Agoraphobic Nosebleed - And On and On...
Drugs of Faith - Corroded
Earth - Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light I
Fags Hate God - Viscera
Fen - Epoch
Hoglust - Support Hate
Human Touch - s/t
Inerds - Choice Cuts
Inerds - Stonewall
Kate Bush - 50 Words for Snow
Les Cowboys Fringants - Que du vent
Lock Up - Necropolis Transparent
Mournful Congregation - The Book of Kings
Of the Wand and the Moon - The Lone Descent
PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
Punch - Nothing Lasts
Rotten Sound - Cursed
Soror Dolorosa - Blind Scenes
Tasseomancy - Ulalume
Tom Waits - Bad as Me
Total Fucking Destruction - Hater
Toxic Holocaust - Conjure and Command
Vintersorg - Jordpuls
Weekend Nachos - Worthless
Ygg - Ygg

And, as a final thought: this show - an amazing back-and-forth between Cloud Rat and Inerds:

MMXI

2012-01-01T09:42:00.000-08:00

What better time to do this than while hungover on New Year's Day?

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

huh. I can't think of anything really exceptional. Nothing standoutish. It was mostly a year of plodding along, scraping through, getting by, wrapping my head around the world.

OH!: drink Old Fashioneds. MAN! SO DELICIOUS!

2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year I said: "Use more footnotes! Write more, create more. Be better, be less disappointing."

I used no footnotes.

I did write more, for a while. (Jürgen struggled , until the end of September, so so close to 60 000 words.)

I was no better.

I was no less disappointing.

For this year:

Again, write more.

Do more.

Be more.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Nope.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Nope.

5. What countries did you visit?

Went to PEI for about a week in August. That was a wonderfully enjoyable temporary escape.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

A job that I enjoy on at least some level. You see, I do understand that I am fortunate to have a job that lets me afford food and shelter and have a little left over at the end of the day, but it would be nice to find something I enjoy, that is fulfilling, that means something more than a paycheque. But a paycheque is certainly appreciated.

At least one completed work of something I can genuinely say is Good - you know: writing, music - that sort of thing. Or, failing that (which is an inevitability), more and stronger work on Jürgen.

Being an all-around better fella'd be all right, too.

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

June 17 - Jeanette Winterson's reading at the library. She's been my favourite writer since either the first time I read The Passion (there are no books I've read and re-read more) or the first time I re-opened Sexing the Cherry. She signed my copy of The Passion and it was, all-in-all, quite an exciting evening.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I wasn't, you know, replete with achievement, but I am quite happy with how some of what I added to Jürgen turned out.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not doing enough of what I feel makes me me.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Nothing serious.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Maybe Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? It's pretty great. I can't really think of any other stand out purchases of the year.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

G.'s. Always and ever G.'s.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

14. Where did most of your money go?

Rent, vet bills, food, booze.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

From most to least:
G.
Sam and Hailey.
Jeanette Winterson.
Darkthrone. (they had this big resurgence with me. I can't really explain it, but they just started hitting me again. And I LOVE IT!)

16. What songs will always remind you of 2011?

I can't really think of any specific songs. Maybe "Beware" by Death Grips.
Other than that, I think 2011 would mostly be remembered in bands: Richard Laviolette and The Oil Spills and Cloud Rat

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? Neither, really. 2011 was pretty level, I think. A bit more resigned, but keepin' on!
b) thinner or fatter? About the same, I'm pretty sure. A bit heavier, though, I believe.
c) richer or poorer? Poorer for a while—took some time to recover from more expensive rent coupled with heavy vet bills and a trip to PEI. But climbing back up!

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Cool things.
Engaging.
Writing - I spend so much time sitting at my computer not writing. Why don't I turn some of that time into sitting at my computer writing?

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Complaining.
Being disappointing.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Spent it at the apartment and had a nice surprise visit from the folks.

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?

Every single day in endless turnings and spirallings

22. How many one-night stands?

23. What was your favourite TV program?

Breaking Bad and Mad Men and Downton Abbey and I don't think we watched much else?

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Don't think so.

25. What was the best book you read?

My favourite question! I keep a list of everything I read. In WORDPERFECT (BECAUSE I CAN)!

In the order in which I read them (the top 20 of the 77 I made it through):

Sheila Heti - How Should a Person Be?
Roddy Doyle - Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
James Joyce - Ulysses
Günter Grass - The Box
Susan Orlean - The Orchid Thief
Nicholas Evans - The Loop
Anne Carson - Nox
Cathy Malkasian - Temperance
Leanne Shapton - Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion, and Jewelry: Saturday, 14 February 2009, New York (Strachan & Quinn Auctioneers)
Zadie Smith - Changing My Mind
Werner Herzog - Conquest of the Useless: Reflections from the Making of Fitzcarraldo
Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Margaret Atwood - The Blind Assassin
Timothy Findley - Not Wanted on the Voyage
Adam Levin - The Instructions
Christopher Boucher - How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive
John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun
Dani Couture - Algoma
Jeanette Winterson - Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
Esi Edugyan - Half-Blood Blues

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Grindcore Karaoke

Holy shit. Thank you so much, Jay Randall.

Several of my top albums of 2011 came from this wicked label. That's a post for a later time, though—I'm still making cuts and rearranging.

27. What did you want and get?

There wasn't much that I was yearning for this year.

28. What did you want and not get?

An enjoyable job. Publication.

29. What was your favourite film of this year?

Well, I watched Fitzcarraldo again, so that one. Always that one.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

Went out for brunch at Brunchworks and supper at Terroni. I turned 29.

Drank some boxwine at home afterward.

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Yet again: healthy Sam.

More time to spend with G.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

Lounge set.

33. What kept you sane?

G. and Sam and Hailey.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

35. What political issue stirred you the most?

Toronto's municipal muddles.

36. Who did you miss?

Family. J&E

37. Who was the best new person you met?

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011?

The T. of Ice

2011-06-09T11:46:00.000-07:00

The last few days, it’s been really hot (grossly hot, breath-haltingly hot [okay, maybe that was just yesterday. But yesterday was when I noticed this convergence, so the excessive heat needed to be mentioned built up exaggerated, like some sort of pathetic fallacy mimicking, I don’t know, the bubbling frenzy in my brain as the gears churned and churned and heated up in that capacious space between my ears. And mentioned not least of all because it adds to my meagre narrative. And pathetic fallacy’s always a good time.]) and you know that haze that comes to really hot cities? You know it, sure: the haze that drapes itself across the city like a damp sheet of cheesecloth and changes the feel of the air and changes the colour texture tone of the air and everything around you. Well, I’ve been sitting at my desk at work the last couple days, looking out my window at the diffused dimmed muted light of the skyline and I realised that the colour texture tone of the view outside my window matches almost exactly the colour palette of The Sea of Ice by Caspar David Friedrich.

The buildings around me match the spikes spires broken sheets of ice in colour and tone and—with my farfromperfect eyesight smoothing out (and that muslin haze helping, too) the more distant buildings—even in texture; and it’s not much of a stretch to see those slabs of ice as huge chunks of buildings crumbled collapsed. There are several buildings with cranes roosting on their roofs; the cranes with their long necks (masts) and guy-wires (rigging) that whisper their way into the broken empty husk of the shipwreck.

Ever since I set The Sea of Ice as my work computer’s desktop background, I’ve been seeing it everywhere; the concrete slabs that form the beach at Tommy Thompson Park, any violently thrown-together pile of things and now, outside my workplace window.

Though, at the same time, it’s a strong juxtaposition, too; the painting is all about the power, the overwhelming might of Nature; the utter disregard of Nature for the human world and the view outside my window is more the human attempts at overwhelming Nature, the utter disregard of humanity for Nature (though Nature is patient and resilient and insinuative and just look at any cracking splitting pavement for a glimpse of this and maybe The Sea of Ice also works as portent in a sort of fun dystopian way).

If I were disgustingly rich and the painting were for sale, I would buy it and hang it on my wall and set a chair in front of it and just sit and sit and watch and sit and stare and sit and talk to it and sit and sit

Bonsai 1

2011-05-19T17:54:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying my hand at crafting a bonsai. This is my first attempt and it'll probably end badly, but I'll enjoy it every step of the way. It's so soothing, so calming, so relaxing, so another synonym. I like just looking at the thing and thinking about how to do things with it.

I've also started looking at trees differently, more closely.

When I first brought this little guy (juniperus procumbens nana - a typical firstling) home, it was very lush and way too full. As this is my first attempt at bonsai, I wanted to bring things down to a very sparse, open shape, so I could get an idea of how the branches looked, how to reshape the branches, how to manipulate the tree.

And, when I was looking at that lush, full tree, I saw a lovely flow between the two main branches; there was a fluid motion, an active shape that I felt needed to be exposed. So, I started chopping. And maybe I chopped a bit too much, but I like where we've ended up.

So, without further ado, pictures.

As it was in the beginning:

After the first couple prunings (notice the flow of the two main branches starting to reveal itself; maybe you'll like it, too!):

And today, I made my first attempt at wiring. I was a bit nervous about this — didn't want to do any damage (I've decided to do my damage in other ways, apparently). But, once I started in on wrapping the wire, I felt quite a lot better about it. We'll see how it went in a few weeks.

So, here's how the tree looks tonight (almost entirely bare):

Front (for now):

Back (again, for now [obviously, since if I decide to make the front the not-front, then the back can't be not the not-back]):

I still haven't decided what to do with that weird little branch that's sticking up in the middle, but I don't want to get rid of it and I don't think it looks right as it is. I'm going to sit on it for a while, though.

Looking forward to taking the wire off in a few weeks/a month to see if the branches kept their new shapes.

Also, there's a little piece of branch under one of the wired branches that I think I will try to jin when I decide the time is right to attempt that aspect of bonsai crafting.

Any advice or things to say?

MMX

2011-01-09T08:26:00.000-08:00

It's about time I did this, right?

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?

Started an office job. Basically, I'm this guy, but less dancefully talented:

And probably less eloquently upset about the whole thing. Oh, and my ties are definitely not as cool.¹

Felt an earthquake happen. That was new and something I'd like to never experience again even if it were one as slight as that thank you very much.

2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Looking back at last year's resolutions,² I've been almost moderately successful; I've [redacted] only, like, twice³ and I spent more time writing in 2010.⁴ Still a selfish pail of turpentine, unfortunately.⁵
This year? Use more footnotes!⁶ Write more, create more. Be better, be less disappointing.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

R. & E. had a baby. So I'm some sort of uncle or something.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Nope.

5. What countries did you visit?

I live underground and I work in the sky. You figure it out.

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

A job that I enjoy on at least some level.⁷ At least one completed work of something - you know: writing, music - that sort of thing.⁸ A self that I can genuinely enjoy.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

March 29. G.'s birthday and my first day at the new job.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Getting a less shitty job, I'd say. That's it. I wasn't all that full of achievement.⁹

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not writing more, not creating things, not doing anything good in a creative sense.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Nothing serious.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

I didn't buy much in 2010 that wasn't food- or drink-related that I can remember, though I did make an order with NH to get all the CB and DSO albums I didn't own. It hasn't arrived yet, though. Oh, and a few books, no doubt.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

G.'s. Always and always G.'s.¹⁰

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

Mine, at times. Probably not appalled, though, as that, to me, sort of carries with it the idea of, like, surprise and, man, am I ever not surprising.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Rent, vet bills, food, booze, student loans.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

G.
Sam and Hailey.

16. What songs will always remind you of 2010?

Rites of Spring - "For Want Of"; 'cause it's awesome and it gets played frequently because of that simple fact.
Darkthrone - "Circle the Wagons"; 'cause Darkthrone is Darkthrone. And new Darkthrone is Darkthrone. And that means awesome.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? Happier. Yup.
b) thinner or fatter? About the same, I'm pretty sure. Firmer, though.
c) richer or poorer? Richer; my new job paid (very) slightly more than the previous one. And, as of January 1, or so I was told on January 6, it'll pay slightly more on top of that. Decent.
Oh, and more student loan is paid off. So, less debt = richer, right? Right.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Cool things.
Writing - I spend so much time sitting at my computer not writing. Why don't I turn some of that time into sitting at my computer writing?¹¹

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Nothing.¹²
Complaining.
Being disappointing.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Spent it in the comfort of The Cave.¹³ It was a wonderfully relaxed, too short holiday.

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?

over and over and over and profoundly and achingly and¹⁴

22. How many one-night stands?

23. What was your favourite TV program?

Breaking Bad and DS9 and Flight of the Conchords and Kids in the Hall.¹⁵

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Don't think so.

25. What was the best book you read?

I re-read both:
Only Revolutions by Mark ¹⁶ Danielewski
Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth by Chris Ware
because they are amazing amazing amazing works.

Great first-time reads:
Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson (100% my favourite writer.)
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace
The Famished Road by Ben Okri
All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren
Market Day by James Sturm
Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie
Gob's Grief by Chris Adrian
Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I got myself a last.fm subscription, so I heard so many new bands¹⁷ that I don't even know.

27. What did you want and get?

A better job.

28. What did you want and not get?

An enjoyable job. Publication

29. What was your favourite film of this year?

My Best Fiend.

Which gave me this:

Thank you, Mr. Herzog (and, obviously, Mr. Kinski, too).

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 28. I had a wonderfully relaxed day at home, spending time with G.¹⁸

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

I'm gonna second G.'s answer and say: healthy Sam.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

Tight pants and tighter underwear.

33. What kept you sane?

G. and Sam and Hailey.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

35. What political issue stirred you the most?

Toronto's municipal election.

36. Who did you miss?

Family. J&E

37. Who was the best new person you met?

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010?

¹⁹

_______________________________________________________________________________

1 This statement is doubly true for the hairdo.↑

2 Find a job that doesn't make me [redacted] on a regular basis and to start writing again. Being less of a selfish pail of turpentine.
↑

3 Which could hardly be considered as some sort of regular basis issue.↑

4 Still depressingly small amounts of time and output, though.↑

5 Two outta three ain't bad, though; or so I've been told.↑

6 After struggling with trying to make them work in that other post and finally finally getting there, I need to use them all the time now.↑

7 Other than: at least it's better than the last job I was working.↑

8 An ambitious goal for me, I know. But a fella can dream, right?↑

9 SURPRISE!!!↑

10 Seriously, G. makes every day feel like a better version of itself.↑

11 There is no satisfactory answer to this question.↑

12 As in, I wish I'd spent less time doing nothing. Not as in there's nothing I should change.↑

13 The newly-minted name for this apartment that I promise to never use again.↑

14 over and over and over and profoundly and achingly and↑

15 Which I had actually previously never seen more of than a couple sketches.↑

16 Z.↑

17 Scads of them, even.↑

18 What more could I ask for? I mean, really now.↑

19 But: Thank you Mario! as in Sorry Daniel, Our Princess as in a good job and castle as in year.↑

Oh, boy, let me tell you...

2010-06-12T06:05:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought that, since you had to sit in front of your workplace desk on a Saturday morning, that it'd be a great idea to bring—instead of a lunch, since your workday usually finishes pretty early—a few snacks in your typical Tupperware sandwich container, perhaps still filled with the crumbs of yesterday's sandwich (which was painfully bereft of peanut butter as your workplace is one of those nightmare, bizarro worlds known as Peanut Free [sadly not referring to the price you pay for peanuts here] Workplaces)? Well, I have!

And, well, let me tell you, let me provide you with a handy little tip; I'll give you a moment here—don't worry: I'll wait; go! grab your pen and your piece of paper or piece of fabric, scrap of cloth, receipt, bare skin.

Okay! Ready? Here it is, folks: don't take a cheese string. Have you ever eaten a warm, soft, shudder-inducingly malleable cheese string (I'm sure I can think of at least one person reading this who could probably answer yes to this question...)? It's so not worth it. It's so rubbery; I can't even properly describe the experience. I kind of expected it to turn to some sort of living, moving sludge in my mouth. It was almost horrifying. But, damn it, it was still tasty. But don't do it. For the sake of your mental health. Eat 'em cold. Eat 'em cold.

Who Needs Aeroplanes?!

2010-06-06T18:19:00.000-07:00

Double rum 'n' coke and Doritos for supper?

Sure, it may sound like a great idea to sit at BAR:120 at the airport¹ at the slick, too high, too far away, red bar on a slick², wobbly white chair—spindly-legged, stream-lined, multi-descriptored, multiply hyphened—eating a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, staining my left forefinger and thumb a perfect, noxious orange, and sipping, through an incredibly wide-bored black straw, a magnificently pale rum 'n' coke while hockeycentral³ plays silently, subtitlelessly, on two flat-screen Toshibas above the bar and planes and luggage carts are visibly puttering about, framed by bottles of Beefeater and Bombay Sapphire, Grey Goose and Smiroff, Glenfiddich and Jack Daniel's⁴ and various jazz standards⁵ and classical and opera and Elton John⁶ flow from the speakers⁷ of some complex system which involves a screen with white scrolling text on a deepish blue⁸ background and periodically there's a deep, unsettling, thrumming vibrating going on, when I finally notice the three light fixtures shaped like airplanes—two jets⁹ flanking an old prop job.

But do you know what's an even better idea? A second double rum 'n' coke¹⁰.

And that's how my airport adventure begins¹¹.

Coming soon: the Flight. Or, rather, me in relation to the flight. You see, I'm one of those people who hates flying, who starts shaking and sweating and imagining all sorts of violent and fanciful things happening¹².

"Final boarding call for flight number OH MY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, bound for lying curled on the floor in a fetal position, streaming copious quantities of tears and streaming snot; mouth open; face contorted."

And Christ, my wrist is sore who even uses pencils and papers any more and I'll see you again soon, when I start documenting my reactions on the actual plane. Expect: Daniel represented by: Puddle.

Will I loose these two double rum 'n' cokes¹³ into the motion sickness bag, or will my ginger pills¹⁴ save me? Stay tuned to find out!

Oh shit—finally! I think the magic potion's starting to wear off, though¹⁵.

Oh god. I think Air Canada spelled flotation incorrectly¹⁶.

The lead-up to getting on the plane¹⁷ involved much pacing and excessive peeing¹⁸, so I'm actually glad to finally get on the plane and get this ordeal started so it can get finished.

I like that we get told to turn off our iPods these days¹⁹.

Like drinking the rum 'n' cokes, writing this is an experiment²⁰. You see, I thought that maybe if I was focussed on something other than OH HOLY SHIT THIS IS UNNATURAL²¹ I'd be able to handle that whole being where no human has any right being thing.

I open my little air spray nozzle guy full-bore and, for some reason, there's an absolutely lovely, frigid draught blowing at my ankles²².

Don't get me wrong, though²³: as much as the entire experience terrifies me, I love take-off. It's such a gigantic push, thrust, surge, force; it's positively awesome²⁴; it's monolithic; it's hungry; it's angry; it's impassioned; it's damn near as sexual as a huge phallic machine can get. It's good. Until that sinking hits my guts and that damn primal terror hits and I feel that panicked rush of holy moly where's the ground are we allowed to be doing this why didn't I just walk and there's the sweat and I almost dropped my pencil²⁵ from my instantly too-slick fingers.

Why can't we just fly along at around 100ft above the ground? Is 33 000 all that necessary?

Looking out the window²⁶ is humbling²⁷. And, at the same time, impressive. I feel a surge of misguided pride at the folly of humanity and our "development" fetish, our "development" idolatry. Damn, we mucked shit up, huh? But everything looks so SimCitily neat! Neat as in swell and as in tidy; all the grossness of humanity's tenure is all glossed over up here²⁸.

But back to the simple idea of flying; I get this Ikarian²⁹ thrill while my heart rate increases, while my breathing gets shallower and shallower.

I'll be back shortly before the descent for landing happens!

Changed my mind!—I came back early. Just to keep this YawnFest rolling³⁰. I just wanted to talk about getting... actually, nevermind: I got bored just thinking about writing it³¹. So, landing time it is, then.

Oh shit. I bet Ikarus didn't have to deal with turbulence³². I'm shaking like madness. We hit a big patch and the bottom dropped out of everything for a terrifying two seconds that lasted at least several hours. My fortunately empty Coke can went flying. As did my pencil. Through those fear-sweat slickened fingers again. I managed to find it, though, with the help of the kind woman³³ sitting in the aisle seat beside me and held my book, journal and loose sheets of paper for me while I used my iPod as a flashlight to hunt down my hiding pencil. I found it jammed under my seat and hurry up and land safely you damn³⁴ flying contraption.

I'm doing that scared breathing thing I do where I breathe in really shallowly through my nose and then let it out through my nose like it's a fucking tonne of bricks.

And oh damn I have to do all of this again on Monday. Why did I agree to this? I am some kind of fool. I really need to pee. But there's no chance that I'm getting out of this seat 'til we're on the ground.

There's the perceptible declension, felt long before it's seen; the increased drag on the plane: we're starting in on the final approach and it's time to stop writing before I vomit out my panic on the ceiling. More from the ground.

My guts are incredibly perceptive; every bank, every rise, every fall: they know about it before I fully register that some change in motion is happening. Upon landing, that primal, instinctual terror that's been percolating takes hold³⁵ and it's all I can do to not scramble over the seats, pushing people out of my damn way before the plane decides to eat me.

And it takes my more feral, instinctual aspects a good long while to calm down.

The couple Dad-styled double³⁶ rum 'n' cokes waiting for me certainly helped with the calming.

I can't wait to go through all of this again tomorrow³⁷.
__________________________________________________

1 Ol' Pearson International.↑

2 not as in slippery, but as in cool, hep, et cetera. The red bar, however, hits on both points.↑

3 showing three men in front of an unknown—to me—statue which is wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey 
(red) and a helmet (white), leading me to reminisce about the days when I cared
enough about hockey to choose the Blackhawks as my favourite team.↑

4 as well as, for completion's sake—as I feel troubled at not including them; feel a pang—Dewar's, Kahlúa, 
Grand Marnier, Bacardi, Canadian Club, Crown Royal, Rémy Martin, Tanqueray, Hennessy and 
Courvoisier.↑

5 "Mack the Knife," anyone?↑

6 "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." Who doesn't love butterflies, right?↑

7 beside the Dewar's and Grand Marnier at opposite ends of the bar.↑

8 cerulean, maybe?↑

9 which look more like wingèd: rockets, ballistic missiles, unidentified translucent and glowing space 
sausages than they do like jets.↑

10 which is, if possible, even more magnificently (or, as I prefer, magnificentlier) pale than the first.↑

11 other than the transitting there and the post-TTC trekking across (and up) vast expanses from the TTC 
drop-off point.↑

12 overpasses crumbling under the bus; lightning striking the plane and somehow making it explode;
the plane somehow imploding, me getting to feel the compaction and then, again somehow—demigodly, 
I guess (because I don't even understand how I'd otherwise make it this far in some sort of state of 
sensation)—experiencing my own implosion within the plane: a microcosmic repetition; or, simply, 
running out of air, feeling my lungs fail with each attempt and, painfully obviously, just 
crashing. Which is, of course—even in its unlikeliness—the likeliest disaster I dream up.↑

13 which were totally drunk as an experiment in fear-subdual.↑

14 organic Gravol is kind of a stunning thing. (Mostly the) Same stomach-calming skills without the sleep 
for weeks side-effects.↑

15 lesson learned: don't ingest the fear-subdual potions too far in advance of the need of fearlessness.↑

16 I just used our old friend dictionary.com to discover that floatation, AC's idea of the word, is an 
acceptable variant. This is unjustifiably, unreasonably, comforting.↑

17 that'd be the waiting, of course.↑

18 which, I'm sure, can mostly be attributed to the two double rum 'n' cokes but, also, whenever I'm 
nervous, my urine tends to generate exponentially more quickly.↑

19 when I went to Iceland in 2005, I turned off NOTHING! That's right: I didn't have an iPod. I was listening 
to mix tapes I'd made. Yeah. Mix tapes. On one of those good ol' yellow Sony Walkmans. The 
kind with that handy little flip-lock thing that closed over the buttons.↑

20 why did I wait 'til now to tell you this? 'Cause this is where we start to find out if it worked.↑

21 speaking of, have you seen the X-Files episode "The Unnatural"? It's probably one of my favourite TV 
things. And do you know why? Baseball, inexplicably. I've discovered that, in an interest that 
can be traced back to Field of Dreams, I have a keen passion for things that romanticise and 
mythologise baseball. Why is that, exactly? I have no idea. I find the game dull, boring, and an 
absolute pleasure to watch. Wait. What? How does that even work? I can't explain it. All I can say 
is that it does. Work, that is. I thrill to the idea of baseball. I yawn to the practice of 
baseball. But I can't stay away. I think, though, on the most basic of levels, that my interest 
in it comes from the investiture of emotion in its mythologisation; the characters in these things 
love baseball as though it's the only thing they've ever encountered that's worth loving. And 
feeling that passionate about something is something I can support, understand and feel. Recently, 
in contrition for not having bought Kinsella's Shoeless Joe that time I saw it for under $10 
and felt a skip in my heart beat's pattern and then somehow talked myself out of buying it, I bought 
Malamud's The Natural. I look forward to reading it and going to more Jays' games. I'll let 
you know how that works out for me.↑

22 I need as much cold as possible in this flying situation; I sweat like mad. And, usually, end up 
ridiculously stinky: the sweat of fear has such an awful, acrid stench. Or is that just 
something my olfactory factory cooks up? It's true for my mind and its close friends, 
though, so whatever. My sweat after a hard day's work at Vesey's—as a for instance—always 
smelled so—not good—but wholesome, pure, deserved. My plane sweat just smells like 
excreted fear.↑

23 and here's the snag.↑

24 in the traditional sense of the word.↑

25 even with its rubberised little grip.↑

26 when I can stomach it.↑

27 I always seem to get the window seat. Is it punishment for something I don't know about? But I love it, 
god damn it. Being the masochist I am.↑

28 apparently, fearing, from the very depths of my guts (which seem to extend pretty deeply), for my life, 
turns me into a philosopher whose profundity rivals that of your profoundest university freshman 
smoking pot for the first time.↑

29 as in, "of (or like, really) Ikarus," obviously.↑

30 and to keep my mind occupied, of course.↑

31 in all seriousness, I was going to talk about getting a can of Coke. Yeah. See what I do when I'm reaching 
for something? Clutching at straws? Except the can only comes with a plastic cup. No straws.↑

32 apparently having your wings' glue melt and subsequently plummeting to your death in the sea is better 
than being bounced around a little bit. Oh, Deimos and Phobos.↑

33 who's reading Alice Munro's Runaway and seems to like doing this about as much as I do and who 
screamed out "Jesus Christ" and "Oh holy God" when we hit the large pocket of turbulence.↑

34 and by that I mean absolutely wonderful please don't hurt me.↑

35 even though I by now recognise that I'm on the ground and that the plane won't win this time (the battle, 
certainly, but not the war).↑

36 equivalent to a more than generous triple or a stingy quadruple from less discerning tenders of bar.↑

37 added by the calmed representation of your humble writer while transcribing his scribbles to electronic 
posterity.↑

A dinner? A supper? A meal.

2010-03-03T17:43:00.001-08:00

I've been reading DFW's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again collection of essays + arguments the past week or so, and it's inspired me, which is, really, pretty impressive; I've been in such a lengthy drought that I wasn't certain I'd pull myself out of it with any degree of success (though I guess I can't really weigh in on the success of this venture or not; maybe just getting something written can be considered success enough? This time: sure). But yeah so this collection sort of pushed the write buttons, if you'll allow that. What to tackle, though, right? What can I put this reawakened writerly zeal to work on? It had to be something new, though, I felt, before I started writing things out. Why not the supper that my partner g. and I enjoyed in celebration of our third anniversary? Sounds good to me! (and don't worry: I know I don't hold a candle to the hurricane that was DFW, but inspiration is inspiration and the inspired are not chosen by the inspirer. But writing is good; it's such a primal urge that after having been depriving myself of such an outlet [simply because I just could not write anything; nothing would come out of me], the feeling of its return is such elation; to such a degree that I'm like a mindless fool here [an out-of-practice mindless fool at that!]. So, keep this in mind, I guess: I'm just having a good time.)

Tonight, we went out to a Fancy Place (well, fancy in my eyes) for a nice, celebratory, lengthy, full meal. The place: The Rushton; a place of candles in frosted glasses on tables; metal-tiled (brass? tin? I don't really know these things. And after several seconds of intense research: pressed tin.) ceiling (it really is a lovely ceiling); an ornate chandelier, of some sort of impressive origins, I have faith (again with the intense research: bronze, vintage piece from 1920s France); original artwork on the walls (and for sale! Of much of the stuff that's been there in the past, there have been several pieces that, were I gifted with any amount of disposable income, I would have loved to have provided with a good home); dimmed lights, a requisite in this sort of place, I think—something inspiring hushed talk (which, as the place fills up, doesn't really work, but oh well: the atmosphere still hovers), implying some sort of privacy; curtains outside, in the pre-entry vestibule—lush curtains which hint at something—again—secret, secluded, private; an intimate place, well-suited to just such a celebratory, lengthy, full meal.

First off, of course: the wine course. Kicked things off with a bottle of Tawse Winery Chardonnay. 2006, if I remember correctly. Is it all right to say that ordering wine by the bottle makes me uneasy? That whole server coming to the table and displaying the bottle, cutting the foil, pulling the cork and then? oh, and then: the tasting. Does it make cold sweat pop out on anyone else's back? (just for posterity's sake: I've never been the actual taster; that privilege has always [by always, I mean: both times {which were both at anniversary suppers , incidentally}] fallen to g. Oh, brave g.; I shudder at the very idea of being the responsible party.) I look at that splash of wine in the bottom of the glass, the server (Rob, according to my receipt [who was pretty great]) waiting patiently for the verdict and I feel like a cringe. Yeah, that's right: like I'm some sort of full-body cringe, like I am cringe personified. What happens if we don't like it? Do they take it back? Do we still have to pay for it? What do they do with the opened bottle of undrunk wine? Deep, ponderous, metaphysical. The sort of stuff that keeps people awake at night, to be sure. Fortunately, g. accepts the wine. A breath (apparently I had been holding my breath? Who knew?) escapes me, but I'm left wondering: does g. actually like it? I think, if I were in the same position, I'd probably tell the server that, I don't know, gasoline was acceptable if that's what they poured for me. But to the wine itself: it was really quite tasty, with this interesting full smokiness and, like, a very clean taste. Like I was rinsing, sanitising, sterilising my insides. In the best way possible (though the sediment in the wine was a bit offputting [I thought the first chunk was a bread crumb]).

A bread crumb from that wonderful thing: meal-prologue bread (don't you love when a meal has a prologue of fresh bread and some sort of wonderful spread comprised of chick peas, red peppers, garlic, spices and who knows what else?), which, thankfully, was not responsible for the bottom-feeding wine glass flotsam (I was unreasonably placated when I discovered the true source; I can't really explain [honestly flabbergasted here {as an aside within this aside: is it odd—atypical, perhaps?—that, when I look up words at dictionary.com, I don't first go to the mainpage, but rather go directly to the word's page ?}] why wine chunk is better than bread chunk), was a great Whetter of Appetite.

In retrospect, I imagine that whetted appetite would've been better served with something a little more upscale, a little more high-falutin', than fish 'n' chips (though it least it bore the more adultly coded name of "fish fry")—something like the pasta, maybe (or the swordfish special, like g. got). But whatever: I love me some good fish 'n' chips. Oh, yeah: and the chip part of the equation: totally sweet potato. Always a good time.

G.'s swordfish special also looked like a good time—big ol' fish-block! And collard (g.: "oh, C—O—L—L—A—R—no E—D") greens that were tastily plant (plant as adj.). The swordfish also was tastily something (though not plant).

Interlude! (aka: bathroom break):
As with most of these shoebox-sized restaurants, the bathroom is in the basement, which is nice: no chance of getting the table by the bathrooms here. The railing to the basement? Holy moly: it's bigger around than I am; it's like a banister exemplar. Solid. Comfortingly so. And a word of warning (well, several words, really): there is a mirror at the bottom of the stairs. A full-length, floor-to-ceiling sort of affair. To your right. You can't see it until you reach the bottom and then bam! there you are and your peripheral vision is telling you that someone is tailing you, that someone is sort of coming toward you and it's mildly frightening in an atavistic sort of way. The men's bathroom is an interestingly laid-out awkward failure: there's a toilet and a urinal (speaking of: why do so many urinals have their drain holes aligned in such a way as to suggest no other image but a penis [REALLY!]? [This one, however, did not; it moreso resembled the Y that happens in drawings of a female crotch. Urinal drain holes, man. No idea.]), separated by about half a foot, with nary a divider. It's very unlikely that both are ever used at the same time. Anyway, the sink's really cool. It's a rectangular prism, with a smaller rectangular prism cut out of it. There's a lovely fake orchid, too.

Back to the food! Know what comes after the main course? Yup. Exactly. Dessert. What a wonderful thing. I have a sweet tooth that is verging on the ridiculous, that could outfight the sweet tooth of any kid ever. I still (sometimes, when it's available) will eat spoonfuls of sugar. Just like that. I'm a fan of dessert-time. I got a chocolate pecan tart, which was more than suitably delicious and came partnered with a blackberry. I love blackberries. Smooth (I love fuzzless, redless raspberries [though I also love fuzzy, red raspberries—and those coppery "autumn gold" ones, too]), less tart and so yummy! I love the look of them, too: all those little berry-balls stuck together... G.'s chocolate torte was also tasty (perhaps... scrumptious?) and came partnered with something that looked like some sort of combination of plum tomato and cherry that also happened to be orange and that tasted like some berry that I am entirely familiar with but that I couldn't tell you the name of.

So, that was the meal. Not even the best part, though. The best part was hanging out with g., celebrating us, just having a grand old time. Talking and laughing and being all anecdotal.

Bizarre admission time: at work I was really excited about this and, quite unexpectedly, nervous. Yeah. Nervous. It was like a first date, or something; it was like discovery, learning, meeting again. And, another admission: I loved that. Every day is beginning, continuance, culmination.

A final note (finally, huh? I mean: come on, this went on for ages! I really didn't expect that.): I had a lot of unabashed fun writing this. And it felt so good to write again. To put words into sentences into paragraphs into a full thing. Whether it'll even be interesting to anyone else: I don't know. I hope so, of course, but if not: that's all right, too. It fulfilled its goal for me: affirming that I was still (sort of) capable of writing. I feel better, clearer. And all it took was a little food, a little wine, a little celebration and an amazing partner.

2009? 2009.

2010-01-30T17:51:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd give this a shot. Why not, right? It'll pass a little bit (a lot, as it turned out) of time and it's writing. Which is something that, despite my recent lack of it (the veritable dearth of it), I still really enjoy doing. Writing is such a great release/outlet/exhalation, that I wish it would still come readily to me. Maybe it'll return. I certainly hope so. Sooner rather than later, of course. I feel sort of unfinished without it. Incomplete.
So, here goes nothin', I suppose.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Most importantly, in relation to the progress of the rest of the year, I sliced my right ring finger open at work. It required seven stitches to close. That's quite a story. Not really one I feel like telling right now, though. Sorry about that. Let's leave it at the thought that my hands seem like strangers now. Unfamiliar.
What else happened this year that had never happened before? Let's leave the shitty stuff alone (I think that last one's good enough) and focus on some of the good things. Met LeVar Burton. Went to FanExpo. Both of these were really fun events. Celebrated our second anniversary with my absolutely outstanding partner, Gabrielle (this was happening the day after we met LeVar Burton; we told him, and he sang for us). Visited Niagara Falls. There's a lot of water there, huh?! Saw Isis and Skinny Puppy (separate shows) live, which was something I never really expected to happen. Started a blog about wine-drinking and wine-appreciation and wine with Gabrielle.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't even remember if I made any resolutions last year. I guess this year's would be to find a job that doesn't make me [redacted] on a regular basis and to start writing again. Being less of a selfish pail of turpentine.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I don't think so. Not that I can remember, anyway.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, fortunately.

5. What countries did you visit?
Work, house, work, house, work, new house, work

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
A positive sense of self. A job that i enjoyed for at least a single reason.

7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
January 10th: Sam and Hailey joined the family.
July 17th: sliced open my right ring finger.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
[redacted]

9. What was your biggest failure?
Oh, dear.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but I sliced open my right ring finger.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Maybe the complete series of TNG? Food was pretty all right, too. I like that stuff.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Gabrielle. For being so damn supportive, patient and there. Sam. For being so much fun (for the most part). Hailey. For being such a silent, crazy beast.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
A couple people at work. Mine.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent, food, booze.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Skinny Puppy. FanExpo (particularly Avery Brooks and Bruce Campbell). Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle.

16. What songs will always remind you of 2009?
"Sincerely, Liza (Bucket Song)" by Richard Laviolette. It was in my brain almost constantly throughout the year.
That's the only one I can think of. I've been working on listening through my entire CD collection from A to Z (currently on O), so there's not really much I've listened to over and over.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Probably sadder.
b) thinner or fatter? Roughly the same.
c) richer or poorer? Richer, I guess, considering that I have my credit card balance back to zero and more of my student loan paid off.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Writing, playing music, working at things I enjoy, being posi.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Damaging myself, brooding, being negi.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with the M. family. In a mostly relaxed sort of week. Eating a lot.

21. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle still and again and again and still and

22. How many one-night stands?

23. What was your favourite TV program?
DS9.

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't think so.

25.What was the best book you read?
Looking back at my reading list for 2009, I discovered that I read almost 100 things, so I'm going to list my top ten, in the order in which I read them.

Love Is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
You Remind Me of Me by Dan Chaon
Local Anaesthetic by Günter Grass
Contact by Carl Sagan
On Beauty by Zadie Smith
Bone by Jeff Smith
White Teeth by Zadie Smith

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I don't think I discovered any new bands, though, in relation to listening through my CD collection, I reawakened my love for Darkthrone and Nasum.

27. What did you want and get?
Cats.

28. What did you want and not get?
A decent job.

29. What was your favourite film of this year?
Synecdoche, New York, Wendy and Lucy, and Aguirre: Der Zorn Gottes (I really enjoyed watching it yet again). Pretty sure that Synecdoche, New York pulls out the win. Big time. Wow.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Drunkenly and untunefully played a guitar and sang loudly (just to clarify: the singing was just as drunkenly and untunefully done as the guitar playing). Drank more than I should have.

31.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Finding a job that offered something.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Not caring, probably.

33. What kept you sane?
Gabrielle, Sam and Hailey, weekends, booze, video games (video games!), books, music and coffee.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

35. What political issue stirred you the most?
I've been much too apathetic of late. Need to work on that, to be sure.

36. Who did you miss?
Some PEI folk. Josh & Erin. My family.

37. Who was the best new person you met?
Gabrielle; many times.

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009?

39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
I can't really think of anything right now. So many songs are struggling for the top spot in my brains right now. It's like a rumble that is royal up in there. Maybe mix a little Darkthrone, a little Xasthur (always a little Xasthur), a little combatwoundedveteran, a little Skinny Puppy, a little something else and WHIZZ-BANGO!: there it is. 2009 in a few lines.

Zachary Richard - Réveille

2009-06-07T11:52:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since I've done one of these, huh? (I actually started on this one back in November, and just didn't get anywhere with it.) And, now that I've started in on this one, I've almost entirely lost the desire to finish it. But, don't worry, I will. These days, though, writing's been difficult for me; I have no drive, no ambition, no inspiration, no creative spark: I've mostly just been sort of shambling along, in mental stasis, functioning on a level of simple existential necessity. Now that all that preambling blah blah blah is out of the way, on to the Song of the Day!

One day at work, one of my co-workers asked me about my family—how many of us there were, where we were from, how long we'd been in Canada: that sort of thing; I started with the most recent immigrant to come to Canada in my family: my paternal great-grandfather Oskari: in the 10s of the 1900s. Which my co-worker found to be quite a loose definition of recent. I then continued to my mother's family, the Melansons... who have been in New Brunswick since, if I remember correctly (I'll check with Mom at some point for something more accurate/specific and get back to you), the 1700s. I know that Mom was born in the house her great-grandfather had built and that the house was included in a book about old Acadian houses in the Shediac area of NB. My co-worker was impressed, perhaps with a hint of incredulity; he told me, smiling proudly, that his son was the first member of his family (he had come to Canada with his parents and siblings 9 years ago [if I remember correctly]) who had been born in Canada.

This conversation led me to thinking about my heritage—what my Acadian-ness means—which, of course, led me back to this song, to which I was introduced by Gabrielle.

His voice. Man, this guy can sing! He has such a clear voice, a resounding alarum bell of a voice. There's such an emotional force to this song, which, I suppose, is a damnably obvious statement, given the subject matter. It's a fiercely Acadian song; a fiercely powerful reminder of heritage, of history, of remembrance. It is an indictment. It is swollen with indignation and intense love and anger and sadness. It is infused with a timelessness; it sounds aged and present, historic and contemporary.

It's difficult to write about this song—as I've discovered even more intensely since delving into this writing, this examination, the song on repeat in iTunes—as I feel too close to it, too personally connected to the song.

I've adopted it, appropriated it as my battle hymn of familial patriotism.

This version of the song is from his performance at Le Congrès Mondial Acadien (1994), which I find weaker than the studio version; though it does still maintain the heartfelt sincerity of the original, I find it lacks somewhat in the stripped bare and raw emotional intensity of the studio recording. It still stands as a strong monument to the Acadian people.

My artistic/creative goals for 2009!

2009-03-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

Over the past couple weeks, I've been thinking a lot about the things I'm trying to create. About how to proceed; about the ideas to incorporate; about plot and character; about form, function, content. Unfortunately, lately I've really been struggling with coming up with ideas, with coming up with good form, good construction; I've been sort of on the fritz, mentally-speaking lately—due, in no small part, to my pretty constant overtiredness, stress and insinuant ungood feelings/depression. Though that's not the only reason work has slowed (as sometimes those can actually work to my advantage, depending on the variety I'm faced with); possibly of equal importance is the lack of goal; without deadlines or tangible results in view, I'm floundering. And so, I present, to those silent few who have any interest in my creative output: my goals for 2009 (in terms of quantity of work [I can always go back and work on that niggling "quality" thing later]):

bring Jürgen; ou: Les Cloches ne sont pas belles to a minimum of 50 000 words. This is, most likely, easily achievable (it would mean that, working daily, I'd need only write approximately 100 words a day). And I have many ideas for the novel, I just need to write them.
finish or at least significantly add to: "Babel," "Go to Hell," "The Old Woman," "The Woman Blowing Bubbles," "Breathless Urgency," "Mustn't Let It Rust," "He," "Dream Lover," "Hayride," "Les Goddams," "It's Cold in the Kitchen when You're Naked," "On How to Dispose of Skunks," "Slinky Pojak," "writer/character," "On Botany and its Possibilities," "Shamhat," The Wagner play (at least the introductory scene), The Stain Stays and the Stink Sticks, The Memoirs of Oskari Kultalahti, and The Ballad of Toot Uncommon and Pierce-Face.
write and record at least one song (that isn't terrible) (or record at least two already written songs).
draw/paint/otherwise put on paper at least one piece that I don't hate.
perhaps attempt a little sculptural piece (specifically, the one I've had in mind for the past four or seven years).
post more things here.

Yeah, it's a pretty intense—and no doubt idealistic—list. And, most likely, I'll not achieve a minimum of 2/3 of it. But, at least I've set out goals for myself. It feels sort of like doing something. I'll keep the world updated on my progress. Not too regularly, though.

The Eggsciting World of EGGS!

2009-03-06T16:11:00.000-08:00

A bit of a review (which is certainly not eggshaustive) of the past few months, solely in relation to work:

I get up eggstremely early (for me, anyway; ten after five isn't all that eggstravagant, I suppose, but I like to eggsaggerate) and eggsit the house and stand at a corner, eggspecting the bus to arrive posthaste. When it doesn't, I eggshale in a sigh, eggspectorate a bit and then board (once the bus arrives, of course). After the commute, I walk to the EGG PROCESSING PLANT WHERE I WORK!

At work, I stand around, doing eggsciting things, which may include: putting things in boxes!, putting things on conveyor belts!, mopping/squeegeeing the floors!, shovelling shells!, pouring chemicals (which eggsert an influence over the well-being of my pulmonary system, no doubt) into large vats! and, essentially, being responsible for all sorts of eggsacting work! I guess I get a bit of eggsercise, though.

There's nothing too eggshilarating about the work, really; I think I may have lied in this post's title.

All in all, it's mostly just eggshausting.

The wine blog. Yeah, I know!

2009-01-23T21:27:00.000-08:00

All right: since g.'s been back in the TO, we've been drinking wine (to be honest, we drank wine before we left the TO for a holiday, too). Drinking wine and writing about it in a little journal thing. Talking about wine, drinking wine, talking about it some more and then drinking a bunch. It's cyclical, really.

Anyway, we decided that the notes we wrote in the journal should be shared. For the good of all humankind, really.

We are not connoisseurs. We just really like drinking wine. And, since we talk about it to each other, we figured that we should bring our wisdom to a wider audience. So people can, in the future, buy their wine informedly. And have fun, of course. That's the main goal. Fun is foremost in this pursuit. Honest.

In the truest sense of the word, we are not oenophiles. But, in a loose interpretation, we most certainly are. With a bullet.

So, if you want to know what we have to say about wines——both tasty and otherwise——go here.

Possible Names for Future Cats:

2009-01-09T16:35:00.001-08:00

Pairs:
Dave and David
Jackson and Triggs

Singles:
Egil
Njál
Grettir
Skarp-Hedin
Airplane
Spaceship
Carl
Rod Stewart
The
Prorogation of Parliament

That's it for now.

Oh, man.

2008-12-12T07:55:00.001-08:00

Dear blog,

Yes, I am still kickin', and I'm sorry I don't talk to you more often; it's just that leaving for work at quarter to six in the morning and not getting home until around four thirty makes me tired and generally unwilling/unable to do Things. I know this isn't a very good excuse, but please forgive me: I'm doing the best I can.

Love,
Daniel

Khanate - Skin Coat

2008-11-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

Alan Dubin has one of the crazier voices (and one of the more reasonably terrifying lyricists) on the market. But it's perfectly suited to the sonic assault that is Khanate. The plodding, ominous, depraved, intense assault that is Khanate.

Though I most enjoy their most recent album (Capture & Release), there are amazing moments on all their albums, of which "Skin Coat," taken from their eponymous debut, is one. Compared to later works, this song moves along at lightning speed, and its fullness is impressive. Listening over Khanate's catalogue, it's obvious how much importance they place on space, how interested they are in the idea. They're probably the best band that I've ever heard at manipulating space, knowing when to fill it, when to leave it empty. They are not afraid of silence (maybe not quite so unafraid as John Cage, but close).

"Skin Coat" is chilling, as much of Khanate's work is. Dubin's repeated "shhh" works to such an effect, certainly. And, again, the space issue is important here, imbuing the work with a claustrophobia-inducing feeling, leaving no stone unturned in the quest to create something truly sinister sounding. The rest of the band is just as intense, in a restrained way——pushing and pulling at their respective instruments, pushing and pulling at space and time within the song's structure. Building, tearing down. They mimic the sinister quality of Dubin's vocals almost perfectly; the section beginning at about 5:10 being the greatest example: a cohesion of vision, violence and malice seething just below the surface.

Intensely, violently beautiful.

Bobby Darin - Dream Lover

2008-11-08T17:06:00.000-08:00

So, as I'm sure some people may know, I was raised on a steady musical diet of 720CHTN, from when I lived in Pictou until it finally died a nasty death, its death knell ringing loudly and clearly on July 5th, 2006, permitting the entrance of the weak Ocean 100 and signalling the end of decent (even passable) pop radio on PEI.

Obviously, I heard Bobby Darin many, many times throughout the 20-some years of listening to 720. I remember especially appreciating the convergence of my bathtime with "Splish Splash." And while that song may be one of those Golden Oldies, Bobby Darin's pinnacle for me is "Dream Lover."

His voice!: so smooth; the melodies!, the harmonies! The backing singers are pretty great. It's a perfect little pop nugget. The vaguely contrapuntal movements of Darin and his backers are, basically, magic. And they work so well at pushing the song forward and upward.

Also, it's used in Hot Shots. And who doesn't love Hot Shots?

It's also, in part, the inspiration for a story I'm slowly chipping away at, even affording me a wicked title.

Good News!

2008-11-07T16:07:00.001-08:00

Wine is being drunk from a cat bottle, A New Hope will be watched in the near(ish) future (we started with The Phantom Menace on Wednesday and we're plowing right on through) and I'm starting work on Monday morning! 7 to 4, Monday to Friday (so cat wine = celebration, really, for my good news and Gabrielle's success; high fives to her, yup).

Man, when the staffing agency guy called me today and told me that I could start work on Monday, the stress just melted out of me. Good times.

And the commute will give me good amounts of time to read! I'm excited to no longer be just a cash drain!

Agoraphobic Nosebleed - Kill Theme for American Apeshit

2008-11-07T15:50:00.000-08:00

Agoraphobic Nosebleed is one of my favourite bands (I'm really excited to get their split with Insect Warfare [another great band] when I have a few extra dollars kicking around).

Frozen Corpse Stuffed with Dope is an exceptional album and this tune is one of the stand-outs for me. LISTEN TO THE BREAKDOWN! The vocal style on this song is one of my favourites they use (and they mix it up quite a lot, from song to song, album to album). The sort of yelps that they use at the start: so good. The drum machine: I love it. They use it well, they don't try to mask that they're using a drum machine like some bands; they revel in it and push it to levels beyond (at least most) humans, pushing into the realm of gloriousness. And the guitars! So precise and cutting. AND THE BREAKDOWN!

Also: look at the album cover!:

SKULL EYE SOCKET LASERS!!!
Enjoy.

Nasum - Red Tape Suckers

2008-11-06T17:26:00.000-08:00

This is one of Nasum's songs for the Really Fast compilation (Volume 9). Each band on the compilation is given three and a half minutes, and, doing a bit of research, Anders Jakobson discovered (this is all according to the liner notes he wrote for the Grind Finale set) that Red-Tape Trash Survey had put the greatest number of songs into that three and a half minutes, with five songs. So, they set out to top the record, and ended up with nine songs. "Red Tape Suckers" is sort of a tongue-in-cheek stab at the former record holders. This sense of humour appeals to me.

And so does the riff. And so do the drums. And the vocals.

I'm glad someone went to the "trouble" to make a video for this song.

Oh, Job Hunt...

2008-11-05T16:57:00.000-08:00

Today I had an interview. It went reasonably well and, when it was over, the HR woman who made up half the interview panel told me that I could call her (just in case she missed me if/when she called) later in the day, as they would have made a decision some time in the afternoon.

So, at around three thirty I called and she told me that she still needed to check things over, get things approved with the owner and that, if she hadn't called by five thirty, I should try her again.

I did so and she told me that she had received approval to hire me but then, not more than an hour after she received word, one of their other contracts for November and December had been cancelled on them. So, because the people doing that job are already working for the company, it behooved them to transfer those workers to the project I would have been participating in.

So close.

She did, however, tell me that she would try to get in touch with some of the other companies with whom they're involved to see if anyone needed a worker. I appreciated that. And her genuine disappointment at the falling through of my possible employment.

So close.

Cassandra Wilson - Red River Valley

2008-11-05T13:09:00.000-08:00

I first heard this song on CBC RadioTwo, back when I was working at Vesey's. I was working in the small former sometimes greenhouse attached to the back of the equipment building. The corrugated plastic siding of which was yellowed and cracking. The next season, the equipment department transformed it into the washbay for golf carts and mowers. And used it as a breakroom, though it was not all that comfortable on overly bright and hot days. So, to get back to my story: I was sitting in the little greenhouse, transplanting little sprouts from fiber paks:

in which they grew in groups of at least six to individual pots for each sprout. Sitting on a stool, leaning on an almost rotting wooden shelf, listening to CBC RadioTwo on a radio that had difficulties maintaining clear reception. I think I was listening to Studio Sparks, hosted by Eric Friesen (one of my favourite radio hosts; he always sounded so personable, someone I could sit down and chat with about all sorts of musics). This song came on; that first arpeggiated chord and the resounding, dirty twang that followed, the sparse, almost empty expanse of the song, hooked me. I slowed down with the transplanting; I held my breath; I turned up the radio and listened to the static and volume pitch and yaw until finally settling comfortably into something barely louder than what I'd started with.

Then Wilson's voice entered. These are the only two instruments throughout the song: the lone, mournful slide guitar and the full, expressive voice.

I snatched up a plastic planting stake, grabbed my Sharpie and wrote "Cassandra Wilson - Red River Valley" across it and admonished myself to find this song. I searched online when I got home, learned the name of the album, went to the since expired music store in the Charlottetown Mall and, to my surprise, found the album and learned that Marc Ribot is featured on it (though not this song)!

And, though the rest of the album pales in comparison to Wilson's rendition of this classic, it's a pretty strong release.

The way the guitar and voice play across each other——dance, even——is exceptional. They are entwined, enmeshed, they strive together to create a beautifully melancholy version of this song, pulling it up from the mire of countrified melody into some sort of almost ethereal, spiritual, rarefied experience.

DOWNLOAD!

A side note: until I can find a better way (for example: somewhere [free, obviously] to host audio which I could then stream in my blog, I'm going to use rapidshare for downloading. Of course, this will only be for the songs I can't find videos for on YouTube or as an audio stream elsewhere. I'm open to suggestions on this, so if you know of anything, please let me know.)

Tori Amos - Raining Blood

2008-11-04T15:01:00.001-08:00

When I first heard (this was before it was released) about Strange Little Girls, I was pretty excited. Number one, I love Tori Amos and, number two, I really like covers. A lot. And I was really excited about her plans for the songs. How she intended to (and succeeded at) a new vision, a reinterpretation, not only of the sounds and structures of the songs, but also the intentions, the meanings of (at least some of) the songs.

And "Raining Blood" comes out a big winner for me, in some respects. Mostly because of how chillingly she transforms a pretty much classic thrash tune. Sure, the Slayer tune is good, but it lacks in everything except rifftasticness and speed. She imbues the song with emotion, with atmosphere, with scope and depth.

Amos' version is haunting. Spine-tingling. And expansive. The drone which carries throughout the piece draws everything toward it and provides a shifting foundation, like storm clouds rolling through. And Amos' vocals float over the top, a harbinger of doom, an ill wind blowing through.

It's too bad Slayer's not this dark and ominous sounding...

Laurie Anderson - O Superman

2008-11-03T12:37:00.000-08:00

I first heard this song in the Women, Gender and Music course I took at Dal when I was going to King's.

The class was, if I remember correctly, in the Dalhousie Arts Centre——the same building that is home to the Rebecca Cohn Auditorium. The room our class was in had a pretty decent sound system, a projector and a large screen at the front of the room. We watched the video (included below——I highly recommend watching it in its entirety) and i sat stunned, silent, awed. From that first note straight through to the end. And every time I've listened to it since then, it's still really resonated with me. It's a powerful, moving piece of music. And a wonderful experiment, too.

Anderson was quite a pioneer with the whole electronic music thing, invented some cool things, including "a tape-bow violin that uses recorded magnetic tape on the bow instead of horsehair and a magnetic tape head in the bridge." (stolen from the Wikipedia article about her) She uses that on, among other things, the United States Live 5LP set that I'm slowly working my way through. She was all about using pitch-bending effects to alter her voice, to present the entire spectrum of range for the human voice through just one person. Things like that. She had Things to say, too. And would not, from what little I know, hold back. Sort of an inspirational person, really.

This song is totally one of my favourites. And I don't mean one of my favourite Laurie Anderson songs (although that is also true), but just one of my Favourite Songs. For real.

Kanye West - Love Lockdown

2008-11-02T07:08:00.000-08:00

This is the first attempt at something I'm going to do my damnedest to keep up with: I'm going to review(/write something about) one song a day (I'm sure I'll do a great job at keeping up with this——just wait: my longest streak will be two days; let's lay bets.). Sometimes (like today), it'll be a song I don't know by an artist I don't know. Sometimes, it'll be a song I've loved for a long time by a favourite artist. And I'll try to include a YouTube link to each one, whatever it may be (whether that means linking to a fan-created video or an official one, it all works out the same).

So, Kanye West's "Love Lockdown." Obviously, I've heard of Kanye West. Mostly from Taylor's gushing. And one day I read an article about West's upcoming album 808s & Heartbreak. I thought it was a pretty wicked title, so I searched around on YouTube for Kanye West, and found "Love Lockdown."

The three-note bass/drum intro, which continues throughout the song, is understatedly wicked; it focuses things, it keeps things on track.

I really like the vocal line in the verses; sure, vocoder may be a bit overused, but I think West's embracement works. It, like the bass/drum loop, is never really overstated.

The only thing that is, really: the choruses. They're sort of involved in an excess, with a driving tribal drum feel. Tribally rococo? Sure. Though this contrast is, certainly, intentional. And, what is more, it works.

Also, I heard that, due to pressure from fans, West is rerecording the song. I don't think it's necessary, but, since I'm not one of his real fans (as this is the first song of his I've heard), I suppose I shouldn't have much of a say in the matter.

It's a pretty swell song, to be sure.

Jolie Holland makes a GREAT SHOW!; or: How to Win Gabrielle's Respect (or, at least, one way to do it)

2008-11-01T14:04:00.000-07:00

The title, part one:

Though I prefer the older albums, which carried an atmosphere of an earlier era, the new album still holds my interest, as Jolie Holland is one of my favourite singers. She has a voice that is uncannily well suited to bluesy, countryish folky music; a sort of slow, drawling lilt (which is, as Gabrielle pointed out at the show, lower pitched than her bass player fellow's [more on him later]) that fairly drips with a sincere emotion and a clear——a lucid——tone.

I would have liked to have heard a couple of my favourites ("I Wanna Die" [more on that later] and "Stubborn Beast"), though I did get to hear my other two favourites, so I won't complain too much; these being: "Adieu False Heart" and "Old Fashion Morphine." Though the latter does work better when it involves horns as it does on the album. Still an awesome song, though, and played with just the right sort of sway and slide.

Everything was played superbly (though I think the other guitarist could've been turned down a wee bit during most sections).

The "more on that later" for the bass player: he told a whale joke that, though incredibly, geekily funny, I can't repeat here. Not because it's naughty ('cause when would that ever stop me, am I right?), but because it's a joke that needs to be told out loud.

The "more on that later" for "I Wanna Die": see, I would've loved to have heard it live, but, really now, I didn't feel right about yelling "I wanna die" at the show. Maybe someone would have misinterpreted things. Also, I wanted to ask, after the show, if it was in any way referencing "House of the Rising Sun" in a continuation of the American revisioning of old broadside ballads. Since I didn't actually get the chance (big crowds around her), I'll assume the answer is yes. It just makes sense that she'd be involved in the continuous evolution of ballads, in the malleability of the form or in a commentary on it.

It was a great show, no doubt, and I'm glad I got to see it.

The title, part two:

You can:

— be of a more diminutive stature than anticipated when appearing on stage.
— drink (white) wine from the bottle on stage and follow that up later on with what was (probably) rum 'n' Coke.
— wear a ginormous ring on one of the fingers of your fretting hand and still manage things with no visible difficulty.
— be pretty much awesome (this last one, I think, might be a requirement [i.e., there's no wiggle room on this one]).

Wicked times.

!

2008-10-24T15:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog,

Do you want to know something awesome?

Being an unskilled person looking for a job in a city full of skilled people looking for jobs. That's what's awesome.

Love,
Daniel

I Haven't Had Much to Say (Which Is Why I Haven't Been Saying Anything)

2008-10-23T23:20:00.000-07:00

I am still jobless. That's some of the less exciting news I have.

More exciting things:

— Next week, we are going to see Jolie Holland!(for which concert there will undoubtedly be a review posted here. Several days late, of course.)

— Tonight I finished the longest piece of writing I've ever completed. A short story which clocks in at 21 pages (6134 words), called "The Weather God." I'm at least reasonably pleased with how it turned out. Obviously it needs some (read: a lot of) work, but the ideas are there. Most of them, anyway. A first reading by someone who isn't me will let me know if I was clear enough, though still subtle enough, with the hinted things. Or, perhaps, too out in the open. The reading will help. And this story is something I intend to include in a collection I'm developing in MY BRAINS called Hello, City. I have two other stories finished in rough drafts, both of which are only about a quarter of the length of this one, called "The Guitar Man" and "The Man Wearing the Black Suit and Carrying the Gray One." I like both of them, too, which is a nice surprise. Also, I have plans to insert, between each of the stories, little things I'm calling "vignettes of place," which are very short——no longer than a page——and have no characters, no plot; none of that stuff. Just descriptions of places. I have a few of these started: "The Payphone," "The Pigeon" and "The Bathroom He Used" (this last one may not be included. It was just something I whipped up, though it probably doesn't belong with the rest of the collection.). And several other ideas, including the backyard at this place and a parking lot.

Hi, my name's Mr. Pretension. How are you?

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds; or: Holy Shit. These Guys, They Are Loud! (I'm so glad I remembered my earplugs)

2008-10-07T07:41:00.001-07:00

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. I got to see them play. Last Wednesday (like with the Shellac show/post combo, I preferred to let things dull into the fogginess of my memory before posting about them. This way I can make stuff up with fewer pangs of conscience). I was introduced to these guys in 2000 or thereabouts by the Brothers L.——probably moreso the younger than the elder. I've been diggin' 'em since around that time.

So, the show. At The Kool Haus. Which is massive and open and solidly floored. Which we learned after waiting in line for at least half an hour, slowly progressing toward the entrance. That's what we get for getting there only ten minutes before doors opened, I guess. So, we ended up with a line of sight not all that great——especially for Gabrielle, which I felt bad about the entire show. Especially when the six foot something fellow moved, about halfway through the show, directly in front of her. So close that when she blinked, her eyelashes got stuck in the weave of his sweater. The extrication process was long and painful. I could see most performers from about the waist up.

The openers, Black Mountain, were unimpressive I found. I thought every song, at its commencement, was a cover. And not of anything spectacular. Imagine Black Sabbath stripped of all their darkness and bluesiness and converted into even more stereotypical arena rock. There you go. The woman who sang in the band, with her sea-sickeningly wide vibrato, reminded me of Grace Slick. So, I guess that's a good thing.

To Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds!
Their setlist (from what I could remember when we got home——I'm not sure on the order for parts of it, but I'm almost positive I've got every song they played listed):

The Night of the Lotus Eaters
Dig, Lazarus, Dig
Tupelo
The Weeping Song
Red Right Hand
Hold on to Yourself
Love Letter
Midnight Man
The Ship Song
The Mercy Seat
Deanna
We Call Upon the Author
Moonland
Hard On for Love
Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry

Encore. Of course.:

Get Ready for Love
The Lyre of Orpheus
Stagger Lee

I was a bit disappointed that it was mostly their rockers that were played, though not surprised. And they rocked them well. Watching Jim Sclavunos and Thomas Wydler go at their kits was an entertaining sight; the contrast in their styles was... readily apparent. J.S. was a wildman behind the kit. All flailing limbs and contorted body. T.W. was the epitome of calm. Perfect posture; light, spare movements——though no less hard hitting. I think I have the names right. Just to be on the safe side, though, reread this section and swap the names.

Nick Cave was pretty much the quintessential Rock Star. The traditional "I love you, too"s; the incessant "fuck"s. That sort of thing. A wicked showman.

Except for "Get Ready for Love," which suffered from tuning and timing issues (and the lack of the gospel choir), the set was damn near impeccable. Oh, yeah: add to the peccadilloes: the lack of my favourite verse (among others) in "The Lyre of Orpheus" (I think they just wanted to get out of there at that point. Because of this lack, I'm going to post the lyrics, and put everything he/they skipped in bold [and my favourite verse in italicised boldness]):

Orpheus sat gloomy in his garden shed
Wondering what to do
With a lump of wood, a piece of wire
And a little pot of glue
O Mamma O Mamma

He sawed at the wood with half a heart
And glued it top to bottom
He strung a wire in between
He was feeling something rotten
O Mamma O Mamma

Orpheus looked at his instrument
And he gave the wire a pluck
He heard a sound so beautiful
He gasped and said O my God
O Mamma O Mamma

He rushed inside to tell his wife
He went racing down the halls
Eurydice was still asleep in bed
Like a sack of cannonballs
O Mamma O Mamma

Look what I've made, cried Orpheus
And he plucked a gentle note
Eurydice's eyes popped from their sockets
And her tongue burst through her throat
O Mamma O Mamma

O God, what have I done, he said
As her blood pooled in the sheets
But in his heart he felt a bliss
With which nothing could compete
O Mamma O Mamma

Orpheus went leaping through the fields
Strumming as hard as he did please
Birdies detonated in the sky
Bunnies dashed their brains out on the trees
O Mamma O Mamma

Orpheus strummed till his fingers bled
He hit a G minor 7
He woke up God from a deep, deep sleep
God was a major player in heaven
O Mamma O Mamma

God picked up a giant hammer
And He threw it with an thunderous yell
It smashed down hard on Orpheus' head
And knocked him down a well
O Mamma O Mamma

The well went down very deep
Very deep went down the well
The well went down so very deep
Well, the well went down to hell
O Mamma O Mamma

Poor Orpheus woke up with a start
All amongst the rotting dead
His lyre tucked safe under his arm
His brains all down his head
O Mamma O Mamma

Eurydice appeared brindled in blood
And she said to Orpheus
If you play that fucking thing down here
I'll stick it up your orifice!
O Mamma O Mamma

This lyre lark is for the birds, said Orpheus
It's enough to send you bats
Let's stay down here, Eurydice, dear
And we'll have a bunch of screaming brats
O Mamma O Mamma

Orpheus picked up his lyre for the last time
He was on a real low down bummer
And stared deep into the abyss and said
This one is for Mamma
O Mamma O Mamma

Another low point to the show (though not, entirely, the fault of the band): the dude beside us getting uncomfortably excited at the line "I'm gonna give the gates a shove" during "Hard On for Love." The dude was beside himself with something; I'm not too sure I want to know what, though.

The high point of the show, though was "The Mercy Seat." They emphasised the intensity of the song, building and building to the clever climax. I love the lyrics to this song, the progression through the story. It's very well laid out.

Other highlights: Gabrielle's creepy as all get out eyes before the show started. There were black lights everywhere. So: CREEPY. And wicked.

Other high points (song-related):
— singing along with everything at, or near, the top of my lungs.
— Warren Ellis
— Mick Harvey
— "We Call Upon the Author"
— "Deanna"
— "Red Right Hand"
— and, of course, the obvious set closer: "Stagger Lee"

Upon rereading this post, I've realised that I say pretty much nothing. It's apparently really difficult for me to write about a band that's as high up on my list of favourites as these guys are (I mean, seriously, check out my last.fm profile!)

I went to the show expecting to be entertained, and expecting the band to blow my mind. I was definitely entertained, but I'm not sure if the band entirely blew my mind. Maybe my expectations were too high? Though it was an amazing set, don't get me wrong. Everything was played with an excess of energy and everything sounded good, full, large and they all looked like they were having a good time. Maybe it was the overwhelming size of the audience that cut down on the show's goodness for me. Since I wasn't comfortable, the quality of the show diminished? It's probable.

But, yeah, nice work, boys.

RACCOON!

2008-10-07T07:15:00.000-07:00

Not long ago——maybe a week and a half——I was lying on the bed reading (David Maine's Fallen) when I heard rustling in the backyard. Rustling followed by silence; silence followed by crashing. I looked out the window and saw a raccoon which had attempted, I think, to climb down one of the support columns of the trellis, but instead sort of fell down it. Once on the ground it looked around and just plodded along, content, at ease. So I went to get my camera, of course. And snap some FUN!

Little fella!:

Here it's climbing down to the lower level of the yard.:

Time to go back up!:

...and back down...:

Checkin' shit out!:

Back up (over the bar this time)!:

OH SHIT!:

Ensuring the sturdiness of the solar-powered lights.:

And, finally, going to hang out with the kids on their lunch break at the elementary school next door (little fella didn't even flinch when the bell rang, thus positing a sense of courage [et cetera] more steadfast than my own.:

Good times.

It's curtains, folks!

2008-09-20T16:25:00.001-07:00

This afternoon, Gabrielle and I paid a visit to the second hand shops on St. Clair West (well, more accurately, the second hand shops within a limited stretch of St. Clair West [there could be countless others tucked away in other corners of the street. There could be scads of them. SCADS!). So, first: Salvation Army Thrift Shop. We were, specifically, looking for a small table for the front porch and curtains for the living room (and possibly some other things). No luck there; although, there was an almost winner in regards to a jacket, which, unfortunately, was too big for Gabrielle. It would probably have looked more appropriate draped across a larger person's frame. Lurch's, for example. What I mean to say is: it was a nice jacket.

After this shop we headed to the Goodwill Store. And success in the form of MAGIC appeared before our very eyes. Hanging amidst the bed linens and tablecloths and valences and material riddled with holes was something almost too marvellous to imagine. A long thin strip of fabric that screamed decadence, aging luxury and possibly a few curse words.

We took the fabric home (as well as Stephen King's Skeleton Crew), but not before stopping off at the Saturday afternoon Green Barn Farmers' Market (on the corner of Wychwood and St. Clair), where we picked up an incredibly tasty baguette. And then we were homeward bound.

We ate a lunch of baguette (that's how we know it's incredibly tasty——we don't just take the seller's word for everything. Caveat emptor and whathaveyou.) and cheese and then got down to business, cranked some good tunes (Ringers, Ampere, This Is My Fist and This Bike Is a Pipe Bomb. In that order. Conveniently, we finished working just before one of my records was to come up in the rotation).

We cut the fabric into three strips and hand sewed into the top a space for the curtain rod that was here when we moved in. And, gosh, they look good!

CLOSED!:

OPEN!:

Shellac attack! or: how to survive auditory surgery

2008-09-18T19:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night: The Horseshoe Tavern.
Pre-show: rum 'n' cokes at home (commencing, perhaps, somewhat earlier than most would assume a good starting time).
Excitement: high.
Also: I waited for at least 40 hours to post this, just to ensure that things would be a bit dimmer than they should be when one is writing a review of something.

To be honest, I am quite new to Shellac. Only in the past couple years have I heard them, though I had read reviews of albums, shows, long before I knew of Steve Albini as anything other than a producer.
Anticipation was running fairly high as we journeyed to the bar; there may have been an excited whoop from someone in the party, but I cannot be certain of this. Certainly, though, there was enthusiasm.
The opening performer, Chris Brokaw, played some interesting pieces——his chordal choices were interesting, and it was fun to compare the (other) music nerds in the audience to the other folks; the (other) music nerds (and maybe I was doing this, too. But there are no witnesses, and I am, to be fair, an [possibly THE] Unreliable Narrator) bobbing their heads, to the 6/8 tunes, counting in two, whereas those less inclined toward music theory were straining their necks once——actually, twice per triplet, since this head-bobbing phenomenon involves an up and down. And that equals twelve strains to each neck per measure! A little excessive, to be sure. But, let us return to Mr. Brokaw, leaving his audience where we belong. Some poorly-chosen (to my taste) effects marred some of the pieces; for example: flanger. I've never really been able to get behind that for anything but its novelty value (yeah: that's coming from the guy who made a lot of the loud stuff happen in HJT. [please refer again to that whole Unreliable Narrator conceit, please]). However, I enjoyed his voice——it reminded me, at its finer moments, of Elliot Smith on "Needle in the Hay." As a whole, though, it was a passably enjoyable set.
And, like many of the people there, I'm sure, I was mostly looking for Shellac; the opening performance was essentially irrelevant. A time killer. But a better time killer than many others out there. So, of course, once the time was killed, more time had to be killed in waiting for Shellac to set up.
From the moment they started into the first song, Shellac put on a great show. An intense show.
Imagine being tied to a tree and witnessing a herd of seismosaurs charging toward you, chased by an allosaurus or three. And maybe——just maybe (best case scenario)——the seismosaurs rumble on past you, step on your toe, knock the tree over, send up a few clouds of dust. You still have to deal with the one (or three) allosauruses (allosauri?!). And they'll probably devour you whole (much easier than continuing to chase the big guys. I mean, you have a broken toe, probably——you won't be able to run all that well——and, of course, you're still tied to a tree [please note: allosaurs are lazy]).
Now, in case you're wondering about the relevance of the above: I will explain it! (see what I'm doing here? It's a trick referred to as: A TERRIBLE THING TO DO. Never lay out the gameplan like that, guys. A faux pas if ever there was one. Just go: BAM! and hit the reader with the thing the gameplan is made of; don't badger them with the plans.)
Shellac was like that. Inevitable. Devastating. Rending everything in its path. And (like a charging allosaurus [or three] invariably is) awesome.
The show was great. It's as simple as that.
The high point for me came when they played "Squirrel Song." It was the first Shellac song I'd heard, way back in the times of mist. And I'm quite sure it's my favourite (which seems to be the case with some other people, too [not that "Squirrel Song" is their favourite or their first, but that the first Shellac song they hear is their favourite]). Everything was played bang on.
And it was nice to see a bass player who gave a shit about what the drummer was doing. Bob Weston, whenever he moved away from the drums for any reason, could be seen inching back toward them, his eyes glued to the snare and hi-hats. Which leads me to my next point (please refer to the paragraph starting "Now, in case..."): Shellac is tighter than... something which is sealed up as tight as a drum. If you stuck your finger in a vise, and tightened it as tightly as it can be tightened: Shellac would be tighter (and possibly hurt less).
It was the best show I'd seen since the last best show I'd seen (and that doesn't even bring the allosaurs or the seismosaurs into consideration). Also note: the last best show I saw was The Evens at the Haviland Club in Charlottetown. I mean: COME ON! Ian MacKaye in Charlottetown! (and it still wins)

(unfortunately, I missed the last two songs: I was overcome by heat, hunger, thirst, sheer volume, fatigue and the big crowd and had to sit on a bench in the blackly painted basement, gulping in air that wasn't overwhelmed by too many people sucking it in)

(and the way to survive this sort of auditory surgery: wear ear plugs. LOVE YOUR EARS! PLEASE! They're the only ones you'll ever have! Unless you buy some new ones from some enterprising young person somewhere.)

David Foster Wallace

2008-09-13T17:52:00.000-07:00

Eli Horowitz told me to name one of my wiimotes after him. It was before I had read Infinite Jest. After reading it, I decided to do just that. It's an amazing triumph over words.

Taylor just sent me this link from metafilter. Which also led me here. I'm sort of shaking right now.

Also, to commemorate writers' night here at The Morass, I'm posting some stuff at my "literature" blog. First posts.

I'm telling you stories. Trust me.

2008-09-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

That pair of sentences appears no fewer than four times in The Passion by Jeanette Winterson. A book which happens to be able to call itself my favourite. I've read it no fewer than eight times. It resonates with me. I feel it in my gut, head and heart (in order of intensity, lowest to highest). It's also one of the very few books in which I see, in my mind's eye, when I drape flesh over the characters, one of the main characters as me (another one being Clive Barker's Imajica, which might be a story for another day). Henri, in case you were wondering.
The motif of storytelling is one which Jeanette Winterson tackles more than once in her œuvre and is also something which I've been working into Jürgen; or trying to, at least (though from what I hope is at least a slightly different angle). The very idea of storytelling, the importance of it fascinates me. Its encapsulation of elements of culture, of history, of the interpretation of these(this last being, at times, the most important element from my perspective). I guess that's what being a (quasi)storyteller does, huh?
Another common motif of Winterson's is time. She is a master of manipulation in this regard; time is almost always twistable, bendable, corruptible in her works. It is not what you expect; it exists beyond any set of laws.
But, yes, back to The Passion. It is the story of Henri. He worked for Napoleon. In his kitchens in the field. (I'm not very good at talking about books——even worse than I am at talking about music, it seems. I'm not really sure why, but I can never seem to find the words. Especially with a narrative as breath-taking as this one. Maybe it's because I know I will never write anything half as powerful, half as evocative, half as invested with meaning.)
It is the story of Villanelle. She is a Venetian who has lost her heart. It is the story of Henri and Villanelle, twined together, spiralling into a tight mesh of their two voices.
Winterson's prose is incredible; simple, compact, emotive; and, at times, as near as any writer could come to perfect. It never stumbles; every word rings out on the proper note.
Without Jeanette Winterson, I don't think I would ever have decided to really try my hand as a writer (and, if she were to know this and to ever read anything I write [I'm allowed to dream, all right?], I hope she would not find the idea too repulsive, too insulting). No other writer has made me——through the same sentences (found in her essays in Art Objects)——so desire to write always and to never write another word, so inspired me and made me so contemn my own words.

(An update on my writing: Jürgen has, since I last posted about it, swelled by about five thousand words. The last section I finished, however, made me need a break——I was sort of overwhelmed by it, which is a good thing; I hope it'll have the same effect on others who may (eventually) come to read it.
Also, I've been organising some of my poetry in the hopes of completing a manuscript in time for submission season [January to March or April for most publishers I've checked out]. Not that it's likely at all to find a publisher. But it certainly won't if it just sits in my computer, gathering digi-dust and world wide cobwebs [yeah, I know: I groaned, too].
And, of course, I'm always working on shorter things, too. And, when each piece——if I think it good enough——is completed, I will submit them singly to publishers of short fiction anthologies and the like.)

But back to Winterson, for a moment, if I may.
Jeanette Winterson is my favourite writer. She writes things which resonate deeply in me, which inspire me, which swallow me whole.
Please read her. Please lose yourself in her words. Please jump, with abandon, into her worlds. You'll thank yourself, I'm sure.
Let me close with words from Jeanette Winterson, words from Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery (an extract of which can be found here.):

In the West, we avoid painful encounters with art by trivialising it, or by familiarising it. Our present obsession with the past has the double advantage of making new work seem raw and rough compared to the cosy patina of tradition, whilst refusing tradition its vital connection to what is happening now. By making islands of separation out of the unbreakable chain of human creativity, we are able to set up false comparisons, false expectations, all the while lamenting that the music, poetry, painting, prose, performance art of Now, fails to live up to the art of Then, which is why, we say, it does not affect us. In fact, we are no more moved by a past we are busy inventing, than by a present we are busy denying. If you love a Cézanne, you can love a Hockney, can love a Boyd, can love a Rao. If you love a Cézanne rather than lip-service it.

S'more Spore?

2008-09-13T16:05:00.001-07:00

All right, so I don't actually have Spore (nor have I played it), but I've been, off and on, since around 2(ish), watching Gabrielle play it. Peeking over her shoulder, straining from the completely stretched-out length of my headphones' cord, leaning back in my computer chair. And now I want to play it. It looks like a good time. Also: an incredibly difficult time, from the sounds of things.
But, I have had the trial version of the Creature Creator for about a month or so. It doesn't have all the parts and whatnot, but it's still pretty wicked. Being able to build messed up looking little fellas from the ground up is a pretty swell time. So, I added a widget to this blog. Yeah, I know, I know. I just like showing off my little guys.
Maybe some day I'll actually play the game, too. Who knows these things?

(Also: check out my SQUIPONY!!! [oh, combatwoundedveteran])

ALSO! (unrelatedly):

2008-08-31T20:41:00.000-07:00

Solange Knowles (who I only know because of the outstandingly entertaining words of the women at Go Fug Yourself [mostly Jessica, according to the "signature"]; I don't care about celebrity fashion at all --- whether atrocious or wonderful; but the voices --- the authorial voices --- of both Jessica and Heather are among the best of the blog writers whom I've read. I'll read what they have to say about things I care nothing about, and enjoy it.) was someone I just assumed was famous because she was related to someone famous. I was proven wrong by YOUTUBE. I'm not sure if you've heard of that (it's a pretty underground site --- you know: SECRET), but that's where I went after viewing purple feathers.
WHO IS THIS?!
So, I checked out Solange at YouTube. And learned that she, like her (probably?) more famous sister Beyoncé, is a singer (who, from what I've heard of both [which, to be fair, is not much] is much better). I listened to a song called "I Decided":

And I was, to be unabashedly (I've been reading a lot of E.A. Poe recently, so I'm diggin' adverbs like that. What are you gonna do?) honest, quite impressed; it's such a throwback. Do you remember Aretha? Diana? et cetera? And, at the same time, trying to push things forward. It's great. Also: the fact that the song doesn't really move anywhere (in that the main progression is repeated throughout the song's entirety) really excites me (I dig when things are repeated ad nauseam). When does pop music be so bold as to be so stagnant?! Dynamics and harmonic discrepancies are, really, the only variation. And it works. I dig the lack of variation. I dig the incessancy.
And the beat* is pretty swell, too.

*Who doesn't dig claps?

G.I. Joe: The Movie

2008-08-31T20:13:00.000-07:00

This movie astounds me. It is incredible. In a sense, it is unbelievable. Some of the visuals, when viewed through the perspective of adulthood, are, to be entirely honest, quite horrifying. (And, to continue this thread of honesty, when viewed drunkenly, they are equally horrifying; perhaps even moreso.)
We watched this movie tonight. A celebration of sorts, I suppose; Taylor arrived in Toronto today, and drinks and G.I. Joe were, apparently, the only means available to us to properly recognise such a momentous occasion.
Watching the movie, I was inundated with MEMORY. Every character who flashed on the screen was met with a yell from me: "That's AVALANCHE!," "That's a CRIMSON GUARD!," "That's NEMESIS ENFORCER!" (et cetera).
The brain is a wonderful thing, huh? I mean, I hadn't thought of those characters in years. They had long since passed out of mind. (I even remember the last G.I. Joe I bought and, while buying him [Freefall], acknowledging that he would be the last G.I. Joe that I would ever buy for myself. This was, even while I was standing at the cash at Toys 'n' Wheels, quite an experience. I mean, knowing that you were in the death throes of your youth; knowing that you were experiencing your final hurrah as a child. It was quite an ordeal, really. I played with that guy as though the hounds of Hell were snarling at my heels; or something, to be sure, quite worse: the end of my childhood. Knowing its end was coming inspired such endeavours to maintain, to solidify, to make permanent, its presence. Though that's a story for another day, I'd say: this one's about G.I. Joe: The Movie.)
Suffice to say: that movie was an integral part of my childhood, and it has, quite apparently, remained entrenched in my memory --- to be excavated when Hasbro deems appropriate. Which is to say: when drinking a bottle of red wine and watching a children's movie (prefaced with instructions on how to correct VHS tracking issues).

We are opera-ing at peak efficiency.

2008-08-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

Today, walking east on College Street (in front of the Leslie Dan Pharmacy Building [U of T, yo]), we happened to see a man coming toward us riding a bicycle (in the proper bike lane, of course). When I first saw him, I thought he was yawning; his mouth was opened; a cavernous maw. As he came closer, I heard a faint sound and, to be honest, I thought the yawn a trifle long. Then, when he was almost upon us, I realised what was happening: he was singing. A constant note. One incredibly long "oh," with a touch of vibrato in all the right places. It was magical.

Also, I really want one of these.

Drinking and RPGs

2008-08-22T21:42:00.001-07:00

Is that really any way to spend a Friday (or Saturday, as the case may have been last weekend) night, you may ask. And, perhaps, it's a valid question; valid enough to warrant the asking, one would suppose. However, if you were to actually ask that most probing, that most in-depth, of questions, the correct answer, apparently, would be yes. A quite resounding one, in fact.

A nice, relaxing, mellowing bunch of wine; yelling, cursing at a screen filled with somewhat blurred characters; hackin' 'n' slashin' with ruddy-cheeked glee. It's pretty much good times. Give it a go and report back to me.

+3 to Drinking Skill.

Writing

2008-08-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

I haven't been doing much of today's title lately. In the past couple months pretty much all that I've done involved starting another story ('cause I don't have enough partly-finished things on the go, obviously). Maybe one and a half lines of bad poetry. And of course lots of things that make me go: "Oh hey, that's a wicked idea for a story! Write it down!"

ASIDE: ["Dream Lover," the aforementioned story (from the first paragraph, remember?!), is actually turning out at least slightly better than anticipated (which isn't necessarily saying much). And, essentially, it's completed. The ideas are, that is (and of course they're written up in that nice little WordPerfect file). It's been a long time since I've actually finished something. Even something very short (which this one won't be. Not really, anyway). It'll be nice. Not the story, but that finishing something deal.

Next on the list (once all my bigger things are finished): a play about Richard Wagner. Seriously. I mean, I spent all that time reading My Life, so why not put it to good use, right? That's a lie: I bought the book and read it with the express purpose of writing about Wagner. Which might be better than just reading about him for enjoyment. And that is why I wrote thirty-five pages of notes about this book in my little coil-bound notebook.] END ASIDE

I have a lot of notes for everything. An envelope that is burstingly full of little pieces of paper - receipts, pages torn out of vehicle driver's manuals (only the back pages - the "notes" pages; nothing important), little scraps torn off sheets of stuff that's already considered scrap paper, Post-It notes... you get the idea - sits on a lower shelf of my computer desk. Using my powerful gift of foresight, I've actually typed out (most of) the stuff written on these things in a WordPerfect file. But little ideas that make up about three lines of text do not a story make.

Lots of those little ideas written in little letters on little scraps do, however, when combined, tend to make up a story. Or, at least, that's what they try to do. Which brings me to my exciting news!

I worked on Jürgen today! For the first time in well over a month. Well, that's not entirely true, I suppose. But it is the first time I've added at least a thousand words to it in over a month. And the really good news? I passed fifteen thousand words tonight! It seems like a nice, simple, minor milestone. Well, for most writers, it, no doubt, is a minor milestone. For me it's large. Giant. I work at the same pace as that at which fossils turn into fuels. Jürgen, though, is probably pretty close to completion. Not in any written state. But in my head. Pretty much everything's there. It just needs to be excavated. And all the big bits need little bits to connect them. It's mostly exciting. For me, anyway. Frighteningly, I think that it wants to be massive. Probably(/hopefully) not Joseph and His Brothers massive (bless your heart, Mr. Mann) or even Infinite Jest massive ('cause I don't have any chewing tobacco), but massive enough. I'd like to finish it some day. If only so I can say that I've finished something that big.

Activate the corpses!

2008-08-10T15:13:00.000-07:00

combatwoundedveteran, anyone?

These guys are my favourite band. When I'm listening to them. I think when their sounds overwhelm my auditory receptors (whatever: I don't care if you just call them ears [and auditory canals, semi-circular canals, cochleae, auditory nerves, eardrums {tympanic membranes}, mallei, incus and stapes]; I do what I want), they also beat the living snot out of my memory centres which relate to music. Think about it: some crazy squipony* running amok on all that soft brain tissue. HOOFS, guys! HOOFS!
So, the brain's gettin' all gooshed up by the aforementioned hoofs, and tentacles are probably fairly busily rending and tearing things asunder. And, quite obviously, after this devastation, I totally can't even remember that other music exists. The squipony's assaults are terrible and utter. Or maybe it's just that their music is astonishingly good.
I wish cwv still existed.

I will leave you with the lyrics for "Folded Space: Mapping Unexploded Ordinance" (a song whose lyrics are presented in good ol' Mac-Voice):

There were giant squid for 27 days in August & September. My bathwater multiplied into oceans when I blinked. It was always dark, and the moon followed the same pattern as reality. I built fear into unknown shapes, several, they worked in unison; coiling around my limbs, ribbon filaments that moved as invertebrates. Tendon and muscle, without joints.

Always night, I step in a puddle it is an ocean, the rain starts and floods everything. The sinks fill, sea level is mine every night. 27 days of it.

I had these enemies and at the beginning the moon was small, I had no light, treading seas that exploded moments prior. I introduced myself to panic, I said hello. At this came motion beneath me, and the touch of smooth flesh, wrapping around elements of my body, and they touched my genitals, tightening around abdomen. Underwater, gagging and blind. REPEAT.

The time I spent in the agreed upon continuity found me getting dirty, as I had been avoiding liquids, and more irrational. I stopped brushing my teeth, no liquid soap. No bar soap with liquid catalyst. No one came near me, my odor was weaponry. Work had no more use for me and soon I slept outside sprawling in beds of dirt, hugging it to me. When the rains came, I was forced to use pills to battle sleep. But I could not win, and again I was killed.

And I struggled on trying not to die, to be drowned, strangled, and chewed, concurrently. My only comfort the patches of dry earth I found to sleep in, feeling strong. They killed me anyway, the moon opening now, them becoming visible, only to disappear. They had ways of creating their own shadows. I saw only the stray pieces that flashed outside the black cloud they projected. No weakness, and in their element, I was continually murdered.

I did not know how many times I could die, the deaths were growing tedious. Maddening. I tried to kill myself, at first water, as far down as I could go and did not go back up. My skull was just beginning to go numb, and it was on me soon eating most of my leg. Suicide was failure and I was truly fucked.

I woke up, walked to street and waited for a car. Fifty miles an hour, one was coming. I took a step, was off my feet for a few seconds, then face first, onto the road, with my legs coming down over my head, bent backwards, in half. I wanted it done, but it wasn't. There was no pain, nothing broken, get up, walk back inside. I took a knife out of the drawer and into my stomach. Nothing. My gun tried to put a bullet into my face and failed. I appeared doomed only to die with my nightmares, and now I knew. I needed as much light and emaciated earth as I could find my element and strength. The desert and the open skies followed the lunar cycle to the desert near the canyons and rock formations. My savior smiled back, parched and beautiful. The sun was falling. I gathered rocks and laid them out into humans. I took position among them. No water for miles. I closed my eyes.

The moon was bright overhead when I heard it coming, the first drops of rain beginning. It had come in on storm clouds that were fast closing in on the moon and casting great shadows towards me. The downpour started, attempting to flood me out. I stood and the long dead land resisted, shifting enormous tectonic plates, the water running between them. I turned to the stones. They formed and rose with me as it fell to the ground gasping and flailing parts. We stood over it, a feeble spray of ink marking paths in the defiant soil. A pile of pale flesh shivering and caking with dirt. I took a rock to one of it's eyes. The others long appendages from it and threw them to the sky. The fear was gone, I beat my fists on it. The rain stopped. The others backed away, howling and ripping everything from inside it's shell, I was covered in fluid and bits of organs. Again I turned to the stone men and we lifted the giant husk. We carried it to the rock formations and dropped it. The stone men dissolved back into the landscape. I climbed onto the shell and smiled. I waited for the sun.

*for the uninitiated:

Imagine! or: Soda-pop suffering in 10 simple steps.

2008-08-06T14:49:00.000-07:00

Imagine going to a gigantic store like, for instance, IKEA.
Imagine ordering a Pepsi, filling the cup at the machine and getting some slightly browned water.
Imagine dumping that in the fountain pop machine’s drain.
Imagine filling the cup with something that more closely resembles Pepsi (and drinking the drink).
Imagine getting lunch at the restaurant, which resembles a university residence meal-hall, inside the gigantic store.
Imagine filling a glass with Mountain Dew.
Imagine taking a sip, and drinking nothing but syrup.
Imagine dumping that in the fountain pop machine’s drain, hoping that there will be enough space in that little tub for a glassful of pop-syrup (with little ice cylinders).
Imagine filling the glass with 7UP.
Imagine taking a sip of this and tasting heavily-chlorinated fizzy-ish water.

If you successfully complete these simple steps, you will have imagined my day.

Words, mostly.

2008-07-31T12:15:00.000-07:00

I realised it was probably about time I started a blog; writing is one of the things I most enjoy, whether it involves nonsense I've invented (which will be featured, eventually, in some form or another, at The Ecstatic Destruction of the Mythic) or nonsense I just decide I want to spout about other people's creations (music and books, mostly) or even nonsense about things I've done and seen. Meandering musings of little worth, too. Oh, how I love those: they make me feel significant, someone who could be important, as though I have Things to Say. And I really like - given the opportunity - to be read. Especially if the reader can find anything worth reading in anything I've written - even a single sentence. So, basically, most things that I write that aren't fiction or poetry will be written here (updated when the moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligns with Mars and all that fun stuff: stringing words together takes me a while). And the idea of making my words so readily available to whomever might possibly stumble across them is, while an exhilarating one, quite probably the most frightening thing my words will ever face (go easy on them, folks: they're shy, they're timorous, they're easily startled. But hopefully they'll prove resilient, made of stern enough stuff to survive. Maybe you can toughen them up).

Words are an exciting, integral part of my identity (that's a story for another day, though, I think) and so sharing them becomes an important aspect of what I am, too. Words transform, each one a drop in the ocean, capable of grinding down the stones, wearing down the battlements (I just placed the business end of a set of nail clippers against my mouth as I typed that, then grimaced in horror at myself and tossed the clippers, making a shuddering sound as I did so. Asides are an important part of the flow of things: a river, shooting off from that ocean of words? An insidious attack, meant to surround the target, unaware of its impending ensnarement, meant to weaken the foundation, the walls built up against the ocean. Water does a good job of winning). And that's enough of that. For now. Words of wisdom? Words of yawndom? Words of bloated, pompous self-reference? Words too small for their shoes? Words of no consequence? They are themselves; they flip, spin, twist and become whatever their reader sees.

So, this is going to be my home for yelling/speaking calmly/whispering about whatever I want to yell/speak calmly/whisper. A general hue and cry, as it were.

Am I going to say anything new? No.
Am I going to write anything worth reading? It's doubtful.
Am I going to have a good time doing this? Yes.

Enjoy.
Please.