Still in Ottawa, and so drugged by television and home cooking that I'm not sure I'll make it back. I'm reading the autobiography of British-born Canadian punk diva Carol Pope. Her amusing book paints a picture of Toronto in the seventies and eighties, and reminds me that that city can sometimes be a fun place, despite its grisly history of once having been the hog-slaughtering capitol of the western world.
I lived in T-O, or "T-dot" as the homies sometimes call it, in the nineties, when I was just a young man setting off into the world. There was a burgeoning spoken word scene going on at the time, and I started hanging out with the poets. Most of these people, myself included, wanted to be Leonard Cohen, and we hung out in cafes and at open stages, reading our latest poems and trying to look morose. The only two exceptions to this rule were a fellow named Nick Beat (who wanted to be Jack Kerouac) and Cad Lowlife, who was like a cross between Jackie Gleason and Andy Kaufman.
Cad called himself a "hipster braggadocio" and even had business cards printed up with this title. He was the soul, as far as I can tell, of our whole little scene, and newcomers often didn't know just how to take him. Was he for real? A short, pot-bellied Jewish guy with a thick, New York accent, Cad would take the stage with his unabashed stories of pimpin' and "doin it" with "broads and dames". Women meeting him for the first time would usually find him repulsive, but if you spent some time with him it became apparent that behind his brash misogynistic display of ghetto sexuality was a heart of gold enwrapped in comedic genius.
Cad was something like the court jester at the Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy, an open stage for poets and musicians held every Tuesday night in a small room behind the bar at the old Gladstone Hotel on Queen Street West. The hotel back then had quite a bit of mystique to it. There was rumored to be some kind of European princess who lived in the penthouse, and a Reubenesque knock-off painting hung on the wall behind the bar, to give all the unemployed cowboys something to stare at when they were drinking.
In recent years, the hotel has received a face-lift, and the neighbourhood is slowly becoming gentrified. The Gladstone is now a trendy place for hipsters from The Duke down the street to come for some post-cocktail slumming. The Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy was evicted from their dank, beatnik haven in the room behind the bar years ago. When last I visited the Orgy, it was holding court in the upstairs of a Chinese food joint on St. Clair. Cad had a talent for searching out new venues, and convincing restaurateurs that the Orgy crowd would be good for business. But the night I showed up there were only three or four of the die-hard regulars, including Cad and the host, in attendance.
The whole spoken word scene, at least as I knew it, seemed to die out sometime in the late nineties, to be replaced by some other fad. Dub-poetry? Scratch DJ comps? Monster truck rallies? I have no idea. What I do know is that Toronto was a fun place to live for a guy in his twenties who thought of himself as a poet. If I could travel, like Dr. Who, back in time and visit myself, I would probably be a little embarrassed. There's no experience like inexperience, and I had plenty of it back then (probably still do, in fact).
When I visit the city now, however, I hardly know my way around. Everything has changed. I see young people enjoying their first tastes of the kind of freedom big city life can offer, but I don't envy them. And I don't really think of myself as a poet anymore either--at least, not in the Leonard Cohen sense of the term. A crossover hip-hop blogger lyricist maybe, but poet should be a term reserved for the truly immortal wordsmiths, and these fakie musings are but a flash in the digital dark.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Man Loses Keys
On my skateabout today, I stopped for a moment at the swamp. I love to sit quietly in nature to see which creatures will reveal themselves. On my approach, I only scared away some of the smaller, yellow-spotted frogs; two large bullfrogs remained in my little corner of the swamp, their bodies half-submerged, bulbous eyes peering over the top of the water at the dance of insects through the fronds. There was also a turtle sitting on a log, a ways off over the water. A few birds came by, and all the dragonflies: big, lumbering red ones; little, darting blue ones; and smaller, agile green-striped ones. The dragonflies make a terrific racket as they fly through the underbrush: nature's helicopters. Two of the striped ones started mating, dangling upside down from a thin branch, and their arching tails made an inverted heart shape.
It was quite muggy and humid today, almost tropical. I did some skating at the deserted tennis courts, attempting, unsuccessfully, to land some frontside varial kickflips. These days, when learning a new, seemingly impossible trick, I just remind myself of ollie fingerflips. They also seemed impossible, but now I can land them--once in a while. It was so hot, despite the thin cloud covering, that I had to stop every few minutes to rest. My shirt and hat were thoroughly drenched by the time I called it quits.
On the wall of my parent's spare bedroom is a painting I did about ten years ago, when I considered myself first and foremost a visual artist. Sometimes I still get nostalgic for brushes and paint, but I don't have the space to set up an easel. The painting my parent's have is probably my best one. A girl I used to know--a free-spirited theatre type who broke the hearts of a couple of my friends--wanted badly to buy it. I haven't heard from this person in years, but the painting is still here, and I'm glad I didn't sell it.
It's funny how art can be prophetic. This canvas is about 2'-by-1 1/4' and is a cartoonish depiction of a suburban wasteland. While there is an overall sense of harmony created by the elements of the picture, the environment itself is depicted as jagged, sharp and aggressive. The rocks on the ground are sharp little pyramids, and the sky, due to a cubist treatment, is serrated and harmful looking. A red and orange sun glares down on the scene sending sharp shadows across the bare, beige ground. There are two pieces of flora, a tree and a shrub, which are somehow holding their own in the midst of the arid environment. In the background are the silhouettes of several high-rise apartments breaking an otherwise barren horizon line.
The central (and only) figure in the painting is a stick man: tottering on two stick-legs, and held up in his precarious position by a third, Daliesque, brace or post. The man is shaped like a lollypop, and looks like he is about to fall over backwards. A brown, UFO-shaped hat is suspended in the air just above his head. Behind the man is an elbow-shaped pipe or smokestack, out of the top of which some kind of funnel cloud or whirlwind is issuing. The stick man has an appendage on his side suggesting an open pocket, out of which a key appears to be falling--or perhaps it is being sucked into the vortex created by the pipe/smokestack. It is this dramatic feature of the painting that lends it its title: Man Loses Keys.
The central conceit of the work--one that I didn't even notice until it had been completed--is that while the figure in the painting is in the process of losing his keys--having them sucked out of his pocket, as it were, by a confluence of human and natural forces represented by the smokestack and vortex--he himself is shaped somewhat like a big key.
I have been looking at this painting in a new light this summer. The picture depicts a barren, aggressive environment somehow robbing civilized man of his keys. Maybe I'm just getting older, but the sun seems hotter and more difficult to bear for long periods these days. The uncharacteristic heat wave we've been suffering may just be an aberration, a blip on the weather charts, or it might be yet another sign of dramatic changes in the global climate.
I have heard that even if we were to drastically cut back on carbon dioxide and other harmful emissions--a step that the leading polluters on the North American continent are reluctant to take--the chemicals already in the air will take about one hundred years to break down. Since we can pretty much count on our not taking action until it is too late, it seems clear that coming generations will be the inheritors of a dramatically compromised, unpredictable, and likely dangerous global climate.
I was weaned on sci-fi stories and movies, so my consciousness is implanted with the idea that humanity will somehow persevere through the coming cataclysms, though the society in which we live may be radically altered. I, personally, see a new kind of damp in the very near future, and likely a new kind of dry as well; but who really knows? What the painting I made for myself suggests, with its central figure of a bewildered, tottering man shaped like a key, is that the resources needed for our continuing survival in the new environment are to be found not so much in all our dazzling array of scientific and technological knowledge, but within.
It was quite muggy and humid today, almost tropical. I did some skating at the deserted tennis courts, attempting, unsuccessfully, to land some frontside varial kickflips. These days, when learning a new, seemingly impossible trick, I just remind myself of ollie fingerflips. They also seemed impossible, but now I can land them--once in a while. It was so hot, despite the thin cloud covering, that I had to stop every few minutes to rest. My shirt and hat were thoroughly drenched by the time I called it quits.
On the wall of my parent's spare bedroom is a painting I did about ten years ago, when I considered myself first and foremost a visual artist. Sometimes I still get nostalgic for brushes and paint, but I don't have the space to set up an easel. The painting my parent's have is probably my best one. A girl I used to know--a free-spirited theatre type who broke the hearts of a couple of my friends--wanted badly to buy it. I haven't heard from this person in years, but the painting is still here, and I'm glad I didn't sell it.
It's funny how art can be prophetic. This canvas is about 2'-by-1 1/4' and is a cartoonish depiction of a suburban wasteland. While there is an overall sense of harmony created by the elements of the picture, the environment itself is depicted as jagged, sharp and aggressive. The rocks on the ground are sharp little pyramids, and the sky, due to a cubist treatment, is serrated and harmful looking. A red and orange sun glares down on the scene sending sharp shadows across the bare, beige ground. There are two pieces of flora, a tree and a shrub, which are somehow holding their own in the midst of the arid environment. In the background are the silhouettes of several high-rise apartments breaking an otherwise barren horizon line.
The central (and only) figure in the painting is a stick man: tottering on two stick-legs, and held up in his precarious position by a third, Daliesque, brace or post. The man is shaped like a lollypop, and looks like he is about to fall over backwards. A brown, UFO-shaped hat is suspended in the air just above his head. Behind the man is an elbow-shaped pipe or smokestack, out of the top of which some kind of funnel cloud or whirlwind is issuing. The stick man has an appendage on his side suggesting an open pocket, out of which a key appears to be falling--or perhaps it is being sucked into the vortex created by the pipe/smokestack. It is this dramatic feature of the painting that lends it its title: Man Loses Keys.
The central conceit of the work--one that I didn't even notice until it had been completed--is that while the figure in the painting is in the process of losing his keys--having them sucked out of his pocket, as it were, by a confluence of human and natural forces represented by the smokestack and vortex--he himself is shaped somewhat like a big key.
I have been looking at this painting in a new light this summer. The picture depicts a barren, aggressive environment somehow robbing civilized man of his keys. Maybe I'm just getting older, but the sun seems hotter and more difficult to bear for long periods these days. The uncharacteristic heat wave we've been suffering may just be an aberration, a blip on the weather charts, or it might be yet another sign of dramatic changes in the global climate.
I have heard that even if we were to drastically cut back on carbon dioxide and other harmful emissions--a step that the leading polluters on the North American continent are reluctant to take--the chemicals already in the air will take about one hundred years to break down. Since we can pretty much count on our not taking action until it is too late, it seems clear that coming generations will be the inheritors of a dramatically compromised, unpredictable, and likely dangerous global climate.
I was weaned on sci-fi stories and movies, so my consciousness is implanted with the idea that humanity will somehow persevere through the coming cataclysms, though the society in which we live may be radically altered. I, personally, see a new kind of damp in the very near future, and likely a new kind of dry as well; but who really knows? What the painting I made for myself suggests, with its central figure of a bewildered, tottering man shaped like a key, is that the resources needed for our continuing survival in the new environment are to be found not so much in all our dazzling array of scientific and technological knowledge, but within.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Mildew Masters Mole Man
The night before I left on my trip, I was in the basement laboratory cutting up some records on the Wheels of Steeltown (actually, it's a one-wheeler system), having a grand old time, when I noticed the floor under my feet getting wet. Behind the sounds of scrambled Blondie and Howard Jones tracks, I might have subconsciously noticed the steady dripping of water some time before, but only when I paused to take in the whole scene did it register. Since it hadn't rained in the memorable past, I went upstairs to investigate the source of the deluge.
As it turns out, our neighbour has a tiny tomato crop growing behind his tool shed, beside the back wall of our house, and he has taken to leaving the sprinkler running on it at night.
The back wall of our basement is about a hundred years old, made of stacked field stone and, apparently, water permeable. Coincidentally, the boxes containing the remnant of my worldly possessions happened to be stacked against the portion of wall that had turned itself into a pleasant little cascade. My stuff wasn't right up against the wall, and it was on a platform, but some of the boxes were still a little damp. The whole basement, actually, is quite humid, and I'm most worried for my record collection that is shielded only by the thin skin of garbage bags (I should have doubled them up) in another section of the cellar. I can see why the basement might have been ideal for growing a certain contraband herb, and we found the evidence for such an operation having once existed when we moved into the place. But it turns out not to have been the best of storage spaces for my stuff.
We could ask the neighbour to use less water on his plants, or to move the plants to our basement--as this seems to be where most of the water is ending up; but I fear that, as far as my possessions go, the damage has already been done. Mold and mildew spell disaster for my sensitive lungs, so anything that the garbage bags didn't protect will have to go. Even if the sleeves of my records are toast, the disks themselves will hopefully be salvageable--and for the uses I plan to put them to, it doesn't much matter about their packaging.
I've always been the kind of person who takes care of his stuff. It must be the archivist or librarian in me; I like to preserve my things and cherish them. But it looks like it is not so much rust nor moth, but mildew that hath corrupted the remnant of my worldly treasures. I only hope that whatever heavenly virtue I might have stored up is less susceptible to the corrosive influence of the elements.
The worst thing about the whole affair is that it has set back work on my Earthshaker Beat Project--a kind of giant boom-box which I had planned to use too loosen the earth around certain banks and jewelry stores, the better to tunnel my way into their vaults. But this is just a minor setback for the insuperable criminal mind of the Mole Man.
As it turns out, our neighbour has a tiny tomato crop growing behind his tool shed, beside the back wall of our house, and he has taken to leaving the sprinkler running on it at night.
The back wall of our basement is about a hundred years old, made of stacked field stone and, apparently, water permeable. Coincidentally, the boxes containing the remnant of my worldly possessions happened to be stacked against the portion of wall that had turned itself into a pleasant little cascade. My stuff wasn't right up against the wall, and it was on a platform, but some of the boxes were still a little damp. The whole basement, actually, is quite humid, and I'm most worried for my record collection that is shielded only by the thin skin of garbage bags (I should have doubled them up) in another section of the cellar. I can see why the basement might have been ideal for growing a certain contraband herb, and we found the evidence for such an operation having once existed when we moved into the place. But it turns out not to have been the best of storage spaces for my stuff.
We could ask the neighbour to use less water on his plants, or to move the plants to our basement--as this seems to be where most of the water is ending up; but I fear that, as far as my possessions go, the damage has already been done. Mold and mildew spell disaster for my sensitive lungs, so anything that the garbage bags didn't protect will have to go. Even if the sleeves of my records are toast, the disks themselves will hopefully be salvageable--and for the uses I plan to put them to, it doesn't much matter about their packaging.
I've always been the kind of person who takes care of his stuff. It must be the archivist or librarian in me; I like to preserve my things and cherish them. But it looks like it is not so much rust nor moth, but mildew that hath corrupted the remnant of my worldly treasures. I only hope that whatever heavenly virtue I might have stored up is less susceptible to the corrosive influence of the elements.
The worst thing about the whole affair is that it has set back work on my Earthshaker Beat Project--a kind of giant boom-box which I had planned to use too loosen the earth around certain banks and jewelry stores, the better to tunnel my way into their vaults. But this is just a minor setback for the insuperable criminal mind of the Mole Man.
Fakie Vacation
I'm here in the nation's capitol, visiting my folks. The weather is lovely and the television gets 600 channels, so I might be a little busy for the next few days. Hopefully we'll hear from some of the other Fakie Agents, though I'll be stopping by too from time to time, during commercial breaks.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
RF (Radio Fakiegrind)
Yo! Peace to all radio free Fakiegrinders on all frequencies, in all known dimensions, beset with apprehensions, and secrets too furtive to mention, but keeping it real like a verb in declension. It's hot on the streets, pavement radiating heat, buildings wavering through ethereal sheets, and I'm rocking in the lab to counterfeit beats. But this is the way we deal in the town of steel, with air you can feel on your skin like a seal of disapproval. Tattoo removal: cost an arm and a leg, so pass me the strudel.
It's a rolling revival, curl my lip like Billy Idol, got a friend named Fivel with alliances tribal. I'm talking in jive to the hive, happy to be alive, got rhymes to contrive, an order of fries on the side. Rotating my hand-me-down wheels. This is how homelessness feels, roll me a stone, pass me a bone, guttural groan from the porcelain throne. But I'm no worker drone. Life in the shirker zone. Just a berzerker clone rocking the microphone.
In a trance to make you dance. Tapping keys on the breeze of chance. It's a bitmap romance, smashing up circumstance and disco tracks. Snippets of jigsaw jazz. Crickets spit rivets and chirp in the grass. Put the hear back in your ear, playing digital didgeridoos, sporting Spiderman Underoos. Riding trains keeping my brains in the caboose. It's the summer of no more stuff, wearing my heart on my cuff, flush in the underbrush--enough is enough!
Just rockit like a pocket full of poesy. Lips red and rosy. Girls getting cozy. Clock the record with my bionic eye socket--when the beat's ripe I drop it. Like fresh berries from the garden, gave the slip to the Warden. No longer seeking pardon just because I had a hard onomatopoeia. Verbal diarrhea. 808 made in Korea. Chilling out like Chester Cheetah. Peace! from the west unto the east until all souls shall be released. Rebel art marked with the sparks of the beast, still you know we'll never cease.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Early the Bird
It was an odd, sad day around here today. Upon waking in the morning, my housemate found a baby bird lying on the throw rug in front the kitchen door. One of the cats must have found it and brought it in, as it was bleeding in a few places but still very much alive. I made a nest for it out of tissues in a plastic container. As you can see from the photo, the little guy's head was mostly beak, and his eyes had not yet opened onto the spectacle of nature.
Once in the nest, the tiny bird started craning its neck and opening his beak wide so I could see right down his translucent gullet. I found a small worm in the back yard, which I cut in half and fed to him. He gobbled it down eagerly, making little peep-peep noises all the while. As I held him in my palm I could see right through his rice paper skin to his miniature rib cage. It was like a row of whiskers or filaments that heaved with each breath.
It was only later that I realized I probably should have cut the worm into little pieces--mashed it even to simulate the semi-digested worm and bug pabulum that mommy birds regurgitate for their young. Maybe this bird didn't even like worms. I'm still not sure what species it was. But eventually the bird started heaving as if he were in pain.
Possibly its stomach or another inner organ was already ruptured from the treatment of the cats, but I still felt like it could have been my fault for the bird's discomfort. I looked like it had a lot of internal bleeding, but I couldn't tell if it had started before or after I fed it the half worm. I kept the bird close by for the rest of the day, feeding it sugar water through an eye dropper. It got weaker and weaker as the hours passed, and eventually couldn't even lift up its head to sip water or eat any further pieces of worm.
Then my friend Vlad dropped by, so we went for a walk down by the water. We were out for an hour or so and, when we returned, the bird had passed away. In the morning I had been so happy thinking that the bird might make it. He seemed strong and full of will to live, and I was excited while searching the local corner stores for dew worms. The guy who sold them to me said that they have gone up a quarter in price due to the dry weather we've been having.
When it became apparent the bird wasn't going to make it, and that it might have been partly my doing (for feeding it the still wiggling worm), I got sad. I was too cowardly to try to put it out of its misery (though I was bravely cutting up worms--unnecessarily it turns out), and I didn't want to give it back to the cats as they would likely only maim and kill it slowly. So I sat with the little creature and tried to make its last hours as comfortable as possible. Life is so mysterious, incredible and melancholy at the same time. The will to live will live forever, but no single creature can contain it for that long.
Once in the nest, the tiny bird started craning its neck and opening his beak wide so I could see right down his translucent gullet. I found a small worm in the back yard, which I cut in half and fed to him. He gobbled it down eagerly, making little peep-peep noises all the while. As I held him in my palm I could see right through his rice paper skin to his miniature rib cage. It was like a row of whiskers or filaments that heaved with each breath.
It was only later that I realized I probably should have cut the worm into little pieces--mashed it even to simulate the semi-digested worm and bug pabulum that mommy birds regurgitate for their young. Maybe this bird didn't even like worms. I'm still not sure what species it was. But eventually the bird started heaving as if he were in pain.
Possibly its stomach or another inner organ was already ruptured from the treatment of the cats, but I still felt like it could have been my fault for the bird's discomfort. I looked like it had a lot of internal bleeding, but I couldn't tell if it had started before or after I fed it the half worm. I kept the bird close by for the rest of the day, feeding it sugar water through an eye dropper. It got weaker and weaker as the hours passed, and eventually couldn't even lift up its head to sip water or eat any further pieces of worm.
Then my friend Vlad dropped by, so we went for a walk down by the water. We were out for an hour or so and, when we returned, the bird had passed away. In the morning I had been so happy thinking that the bird might make it. He seemed strong and full of will to live, and I was excited while searching the local corner stores for dew worms. The guy who sold them to me said that they have gone up a quarter in price due to the dry weather we've been having.
When it became apparent the bird wasn't going to make it, and that it might have been partly my doing (for feeding it the still wiggling worm), I got sad. I was too cowardly to try to put it out of its misery (though I was bravely cutting up worms--unnecessarily it turns out), and I didn't want to give it back to the cats as they would likely only maim and kill it slowly. So I sat with the little creature and tried to make its last hours as comfortable as possible. Life is so mysterious, incredible and melancholy at the same time. The will to live will live forever, but no single creature can contain it for that long.
Drunk off Gingerbeer
Emma, the lady across the street--the same one who threatened to do away with Murphy the cat if she caught him in her garden again--gave us her old air conditioner today. It's now installed in the window of my former bedroom, where my housemate's autistic son currently has his therapy during the day. Normally I sleep there at night on an inflatable mattress that's actually pretty comfortable. But tonight my housemate beat me to it, seeing as it's a good eight degrees cooler in there.
This heat really is like nothing I've ever experienced. Coupled with the smog, I think that a great many people are suffering--myself included. My housemate's son, however, is sleeping soundly on the bed behind me. He's part African (the first Afro-Polish Highlander in existence, my housemate likes to boast), and perhaps constitutionally more equipped to deal with the heat. Since I was there at his birth, I feel a special bond with this child. My housemate was under sedation, so my hearing his first cries through the door of the hospital room was the first that anyone who personally cared experienced of him ex utero .
He is utterly lovable. His autism makes him quite undemanding; long, quiet walks where he stares at cars and lights, and singing songs he recognizes from television cartoons, coupled with regular feeding and diaper changes make him the happiest boy you would ever meet. But I worry about his future, how he will develop and make his way through the world. My housemate is doing everything she can to give him a fighting chance.
But this is the kind of neighbourhood we're living in: when it's deadly hot someone gives us a free air conditioner. When I wanted to shave my head, our other neighbour lent me his clippers and gave us a bottle of strong, homemade Portuguese wine to boot. Complaining of the heat to my other neighbour, she offered to lend me her tent so I could sleep in the back yard. Arnie across the way gives us loaves of bread he gets from his church, and the neighbourhood kids often come around to play with the box of spare action figures I leave by the back porch.
I don't really know what I have that I could give back to anyone. Sometimes I feel so cold and detached, even in the midst of this heat wave. Our neighbours, the Bease crew, the people at church have all been extremely hospitable. I feel undeserving but grateful. And you, dear readers, who take time to read these postings, what could I ever say that is worth the inestimable value of your attention? I guess all I could say is thank you.
This heat really is like nothing I've ever experienced. Coupled with the smog, I think that a great many people are suffering--myself included. My housemate's son, however, is sleeping soundly on the bed behind me. He's part African (the first Afro-Polish Highlander in existence, my housemate likes to boast), and perhaps constitutionally more equipped to deal with the heat. Since I was there at his birth, I feel a special bond with this child. My housemate was under sedation, so my hearing his first cries through the door of the hospital room was the first that anyone who personally cared experienced of him ex utero .
He is utterly lovable. His autism makes him quite undemanding; long, quiet walks where he stares at cars and lights, and singing songs he recognizes from television cartoons, coupled with regular feeding and diaper changes make him the happiest boy you would ever meet. But I worry about his future, how he will develop and make his way through the world. My housemate is doing everything she can to give him a fighting chance.
But this is the kind of neighbourhood we're living in: when it's deadly hot someone gives us a free air conditioner. When I wanted to shave my head, our other neighbour lent me his clippers and gave us a bottle of strong, homemade Portuguese wine to boot. Complaining of the heat to my other neighbour, she offered to lend me her tent so I could sleep in the back yard. Arnie across the way gives us loaves of bread he gets from his church, and the neighbourhood kids often come around to play with the box of spare action figures I leave by the back porch.
I don't really know what I have that I could give back to anyone. Sometimes I feel so cold and detached, even in the midst of this heat wave. Our neighbours, the Bease crew, the people at church have all been extremely hospitable. I feel undeserving but grateful. And you, dear readers, who take time to read these postings, what could I ever say that is worth the inestimable value of your attention? I guess all I could say is thank you.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
IntroSpectator
I finally made it to a meeting of the Steeltown Skateboard Assembly. It was held at a local skateshop which, gloriously, was air-conditioned. I sat there listening to the proceedings, framed by a wall of absurdly expensive shoes and flanked by a tantalizing array of fresh skateboard decks. My own deck is pretty worn down, but the fellow sitting beside me--another instructor for the upcoming skateboard camp--had an antique deck from the eighties that was in an even more dilapidated state. As the skate camp is a volunteer gig, it would be nice if the city supplied the instructors with some new equipment, but I'm sure we'll make do with rolling 2-by-4s if necessary.
The weather has been way too hot and my foot has been sore, so I took my bicycle to the meeting. When I stopped at the Bease on the way back home some out-of-towners were there, and a raging session was developing. These guys were good riders, skating with an aggressive energy that showed no mercy to the new grinder box that everyone agrees was built just a little too high. Every skater's style is different, but one fellow in particular had a focused animality--an intensity to his stare that wasn't so much frightening as sublime, like watching some kind of bird of prey alight upon water to snatch up a fish.
I was glad to be boardless and part of the cheering section. No sense trying to prove myself in the midst of a fray where I couldn't have competed anyway. The game of SKATE that ensued was instructive: all the latest flips done with ninja precision--and then some. I'm still strange, but not so much a stranger now at the park. It was good to just chill out and watch instead of being caught up in the raptures of The Zone.
Lately I've been contemplating the beauty of tricks that have no name, of tricks that meld into each other in a seamless flow of skate-i-tude. There is no real name, for instance, for a kickflip-and-a-half to casper, but it's a rude move (and bad for the shins if you miss). The same goes for G-turns on the nose that turn into 306s on the tail. You don't even expect to do it, but centrifugal momentum and the counterbalance of the spinning Earth just set it up that way and you follow the lines, wherever they go.
The weather has been way too hot and my foot has been sore, so I took my bicycle to the meeting. When I stopped at the Bease on the way back home some out-of-towners were there, and a raging session was developing. These guys were good riders, skating with an aggressive energy that showed no mercy to the new grinder box that everyone agrees was built just a little too high. Every skater's style is different, but one fellow in particular had a focused animality--an intensity to his stare that wasn't so much frightening as sublime, like watching some kind of bird of prey alight upon water to snatch up a fish.
I was glad to be boardless and part of the cheering section. No sense trying to prove myself in the midst of a fray where I couldn't have competed anyway. The game of SKATE that ensued was instructive: all the latest flips done with ninja precision--and then some. I'm still strange, but not so much a stranger now at the park. It was good to just chill out and watch instead of being caught up in the raptures of The Zone.
Lately I've been contemplating the beauty of tricks that have no name, of tricks that meld into each other in a seamless flow of skate-i-tude. There is no real name, for instance, for a kickflip-and-a-half to casper, but it's a rude move (and bad for the shins if you miss). The same goes for G-turns on the nose that turn into 306s on the tail. You don't even expect to do it, but centrifugal momentum and the counterbalance of the spinning Earth just set it up that way and you follow the lines, wherever they go.
Unwind the Mind
Look upon the body as unreal,
An image in a mirror,
Or the reflection of the moon in the water.
Contemplate the mind as formless
Yet bright and pure.
Not a single thought arising,
Empty, yet perceptive,
Still, yet illuminating,
Complete like the Great Emptiness.
This is the beginning of a poem called Contemplating Mind by the seventeenth century Ch'an (Japanese, Zen) Master Han-Shan. As Master Shen-Yen writes in his book On Getting the Buddha Mind (1982, Dharma Drum Publications):
He (Han-Shan) exemplified the bodhisattva ideal of developing wisdom through meditation, study and compassionate action. In the spirit of his times, he did not make a strong distinction between the sects of Buddhism and was eclectic, incorporating elements of Confucianism. His style was a fusion of the austerity of Ch'an with the inclusive view of the Hua-Yen sect. To this day his undecayed body remains intact in the monastery of the Sixth Patriarch on mainland China.
I find both Han-Shan's poem and Master Shen-Yen's book to be religiously instructive and marvelously poetic at the same time. For instance, I am somewhat anxious about the skateboard camp I will be helping to instruct at the end of the month. I've been trying to keep in shape, but still have a fallen arch in one foot, and my joints are pretty sore and unresponsive in this heat. When I start telling myself that I'm too old to be skating, or that I'll never make it through five straight days of being an instructor, I think about Han-Shan's poem and it reminds me not to worry so much about my physical person.
The Buddha Mind, Calligraphy by Shen-Yen
Skateboarding is always, ultimately, a leap into the Great Emptiness. You can train and practice to perfect your skills but the act itself remains a spontaneous interaction with the environment. And in those moments when the mind is empty, with not a single thought arising, and you bring a backside G-turn around to perfect rotation, there is no difference between yourself and the environment.
An image in a mirror,
Or the reflection of the moon in the water.
Contemplate the mind as formless
Yet bright and pure.
Not a single thought arising,
Empty, yet perceptive,
Still, yet illuminating,
Complete like the Great Emptiness.
This is the beginning of a poem called Contemplating Mind by the seventeenth century Ch'an (Japanese, Zen) Master Han-Shan. As Master Shen-Yen writes in his book On Getting the Buddha Mind (1982, Dharma Drum Publications):
He (Han-Shan) exemplified the bodhisattva ideal of developing wisdom through meditation, study and compassionate action. In the spirit of his times, he did not make a strong distinction between the sects of Buddhism and was eclectic, incorporating elements of Confucianism. His style was a fusion of the austerity of Ch'an with the inclusive view of the Hua-Yen sect. To this day his undecayed body remains intact in the monastery of the Sixth Patriarch on mainland China.
I find both Han-Shan's poem and Master Shen-Yen's book to be religiously instructive and marvelously poetic at the same time. For instance, I am somewhat anxious about the skateboard camp I will be helping to instruct at the end of the month. I've been trying to keep in shape, but still have a fallen arch in one foot, and my joints are pretty sore and unresponsive in this heat. When I start telling myself that I'm too old to be skating, or that I'll never make it through five straight days of being an instructor, I think about Han-Shan's poem and it reminds me not to worry so much about my physical person.
The Buddha Mind, Calligraphy by Shen-Yen
Skateboarding is always, ultimately, a leap into the Great Emptiness. You can train and practice to perfect your skills but the act itself remains a spontaneous interaction with the environment. And in those moments when the mind is empty, with not a single thought arising, and you bring a backside G-turn around to perfect rotation, there is no difference between yourself and the environment.
More Merry Men the Merrier
I didn't get a chance to properly introduce Fakie Agent Rock-steady, a new contributor to the long-and-getting-longer digital scroll that is Fakiegrind. Rock-Steady currently abides on the sunshine coast, and I think you will find he has a very keen ear for the sounds that sooth the savage beast.
Welcome aboard, Rock-Steady! Please keep an eye peeled for his lyrical postings, and venture forth into MP3 land to track down his suggested tracks, if you can.
Welcome aboard, Rock-Steady! Please keep an eye peeled for his lyrical postings, and venture forth into MP3 land to track down his suggested tracks, if you can.
Virtual Shopping
Fakiegrind's "No More Stuff Month" has been downgraded to a "Much Less Stuff Month". This morning I went out with every intention of looking for a job, but found myself at the thrift shop instead. Every serious thrifter knows that first thing in the morning is one of the best times to find treasures, and there was a host of shoppers hanging around, waiting for the attendants to come out of the back room with their great rolling carts full of new junk.
Happily, I thought to bring the Fakiegrind Spycam with me, so instead of shopping for items, I was actually hunting pictures, as these take up far less space in our already crowded quarters.
This morning brought in several typewriters, beautiful to behold:
I was tempted to purchase this plastic battering ram:
But I held myself back. Then I made it to the record section:
This is where it all goes down.
I broke my resolution to buy No More Stuff, when I saw this irresistible disk:
(Meco:Encounters of Every Kind)
It proved to be a good buy. I was down in the lab this very afternoon, mixing it up on the Wheels of Steeltown, and testing the limits of my record stylus.
Man, but it's hot tonight. Hope I didn't incur any divine wrath with my church lurking. Can't a guy speak his mind anymore without bringing on a heat wave? We'll figure all these things out, one of these days.
Happily, I thought to bring the Fakiegrind Spycam with me, so instead of shopping for items, I was actually hunting pictures, as these take up far less space in our already crowded quarters.
This morning brought in several typewriters, beautiful to behold:
I was tempted to purchase this plastic battering ram:
But I held myself back. Then I made it to the record section:
This is where it all goes down.
I broke my resolution to buy No More Stuff, when I saw this irresistible disk:
(Meco:Encounters of Every Kind)
It proved to be a good buy. I was down in the lab this very afternoon, mixing it up on the Wheels of Steeltown, and testing the limits of my record stylus.
Man, but it's hot tonight. Hope I didn't incur any divine wrath with my church lurking. Can't a guy speak his mind anymore without bringing on a heat wave? We'll figure all these things out, one of these days.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Church Lurker
I love the poetic aspects of the Bible; its place as a repository of the history of the English language; its mythological comprehensiveness and multiplicity of voices. I love its mixture of the earthly and otheworldly, the sacred and the murderous, the sanctimonious and the sublime. I like the way its construction resembles a colossal act of bricolage, yet still maintains a narrative coherency throughout. I'm almost tempted to side with literary critic Northrup Frye in asserting that it is the single greatest work of art the world has produced. I am very fond of dipping into the Bible to read about what that cranky old Nobodaddy hath wrought in His ongoing argument with humanity.
But I can't seem to find a church I feel comfortable attending regularly.
Last night I went with my neighbours to their church on the outskirts of town. It was of the sing-song variety, complete with rock band, overhead lyric sheets, and a charismatic guest preacher with testimony galore. It was a "feel good" kind of service, and I could see that it filled a spiritual need for the people who were attending. The music was quite nice, and I was glad to have an air-conditioned space where I could sit and read the good book, but I started getting tired after the second hour of song and sermon.
The church I have been attending, the one that I actually joined--thus damning myself in a certain sort of way--is more of the "feel slightly bad now, so you can feel better later" variety. But at least the services are focused on a scholarly presentation of scripture, and an earnest attempt to transform one's life through revelation. I enjoy the poetry and metaphor of scripture, and try to ignore the other stuff. But it builds up in my system like a poison, and so I ultimately have to remove myself from its influence and "detoxify" to feel sane again.
Sometimes I marvel at the way spiritual messages make their way into churches despite the outlandish contortions of theology and dogma. It seems that whenever I go to a church, any church, I hear something illuminating, even if it is repeated ad nauseum. At the same time, spiritual messages are broadcasting all the time, from every quarter, if one is so inclined as to tune one's ear to their frequency.
There is a kind of paradox about western religion. Without churches, dogmas and systems the Bible would never have been preserved and propagated throughout the nations; yet the Messianic message points to the ultimate futility of doctrines and systems. Jesus predicted the destruction of the temple of the religious tradition in which he was trained, but I wonder if the religion that has developed in Jesus' name would be any more to his liking or not. I wonder if any church could really get it right, or if there even really is a "right".
Thank God there are churches and people who go to them: ardent believers praying for the sins of themselves and others, who look to the coming Kingdom and the return of the King with a sometimes strained but ever sustaining faith. And thank God I am not one of them. But then again, maybe I am one of them. I hardly even know any more.
On the one hand, I am greatly moved by the Christian vision of the City of God, to which all civilization is aspiring--though I doubt I would ever want to see any such vision installed anywhere within visiting distance of my front door (just read Plato's Republic to see what I'm talking about). But I'm of the persuasion that we already live in the City of God (though perhaps we're not always its best citizens), that it really is spread or scattered all around us, whether we see it or no.
There is a Zen saying that sums up the angles of this problem:
The world is perfect, with infinite room for improvement.
I'm an impatient guy, and can't be waiting around for the Son of Man to show up. The City of God is right here, but it requires continual recreation in our hearts and lives in order to remain a mainifest presence. I guess that everyone has to figure it out for themselves, and if we can manage that well enough, then maybe Jesus won't be too pissed if he ever finally does make his way back into the picture. 'Till then, I'll keep lurking in whatever sacred spaces present themselves.
But I can't seem to find a church I feel comfortable attending regularly.
Last night I went with my neighbours to their church on the outskirts of town. It was of the sing-song variety, complete with rock band, overhead lyric sheets, and a charismatic guest preacher with testimony galore. It was a "feel good" kind of service, and I could see that it filled a spiritual need for the people who were attending. The music was quite nice, and I was glad to have an air-conditioned space where I could sit and read the good book, but I started getting tired after the second hour of song and sermon.
The church I have been attending, the one that I actually joined--thus damning myself in a certain sort of way--is more of the "feel slightly bad now, so you can feel better later" variety. But at least the services are focused on a scholarly presentation of scripture, and an earnest attempt to transform one's life through revelation. I enjoy the poetry and metaphor of scripture, and try to ignore the other stuff. But it builds up in my system like a poison, and so I ultimately have to remove myself from its influence and "detoxify" to feel sane again.
Sometimes I marvel at the way spiritual messages make their way into churches despite the outlandish contortions of theology and dogma. It seems that whenever I go to a church, any church, I hear something illuminating, even if it is repeated ad nauseum. At the same time, spiritual messages are broadcasting all the time, from every quarter, if one is so inclined as to tune one's ear to their frequency.
There is a kind of paradox about western religion. Without churches, dogmas and systems the Bible would never have been preserved and propagated throughout the nations; yet the Messianic message points to the ultimate futility of doctrines and systems. Jesus predicted the destruction of the temple of the religious tradition in which he was trained, but I wonder if the religion that has developed in Jesus' name would be any more to his liking or not. I wonder if any church could really get it right, or if there even really is a "right".
Thank God there are churches and people who go to them: ardent believers praying for the sins of themselves and others, who look to the coming Kingdom and the return of the King with a sometimes strained but ever sustaining faith. And thank God I am not one of them. But then again, maybe I am one of them. I hardly even know any more.
On the one hand, I am greatly moved by the Christian vision of the City of God, to which all civilization is aspiring--though I doubt I would ever want to see any such vision installed anywhere within visiting distance of my front door (just read Plato's Republic to see what I'm talking about). But I'm of the persuasion that we already live in the City of God (though perhaps we're not always its best citizens), that it really is spread or scattered all around us, whether we see it or no.
There is a Zen saying that sums up the angles of this problem:
The world is perfect, with infinite room for improvement.
I'm an impatient guy, and can't be waiting around for the Son of Man to show up. The City of God is right here, but it requires continual recreation in our hearts and lives in order to remain a mainifest presence. I guess that everyone has to figure it out for themselves, and if we can manage that well enough, then maybe Jesus won't be too pissed if he ever finally does make his way back into the picture. 'Till then, I'll keep lurking in whatever sacred spaces present themselves.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Return to Bladzig
These odd drawings were discovered stuffed in an old Alphabet's cereal box, in a neglected corner of the basement.
This must be just like living in paradise, and I don't want to go home
The beat of your heart is the pulse of a clock.
We move together building dreams against the shores of reality.
The people are always hungry to fill the void,
so we toil for we are void.
Haven't had much time for anything outside of work lately.
That's good because I need the money.
As I stagger towards a weekend where I'll spend most of my time sleeping off the demands of the week I wonder for how many years can people do this.
I mean, there's a comfortable numbness that settles in when you consistently get way less sleep than you need. When the physical demands stop you from thinking all together. You don't have energy for spiritual pursuits, art, or even much recreation ie. TV.
But at what price?
Is there any real cost for this? If you say that all things "art" are inherently unnecessary and "spiritual" synonymous with imaginary then we aren't really missing anything.
Am I alone in feeling there is something more? Am I just imagining something to give this hollow existance meaning?
"...and whoever's hippo eats the most marbles, wins!"
Way to go Way
Pro skater Danny Way successfully completed his massive jump over the Great Wall of China yesterday, thus accomplishing in one deft manouver what hordes of Mongols failed to do.
It might seem hard for any extreme sports enthusiast to top Way's feat of daring and bravado, but sometime next year, skate legend Biff Burtbinder, backed by an undisclosed philoanthropist, will attempt to become the first person to skateboard in outer space.
When asked about the technical difficulties of trying to skateboard in a zero-gravity environment, Biff answered, "Dude! I've got a whole medicine cabinet full of gravity. No case of heartburn is going to stop this spaceman!"
It might seem hard for any extreme sports enthusiast to top Way's feat of daring and bravado, but sometime next year, skate legend Biff Burtbinder, backed by an undisclosed philoanthropist, will attempt to become the first person to skateboard in outer space.
When asked about the technical difficulties of trying to skateboard in a zero-gravity environment, Biff answered, "Dude! I've got a whole medicine cabinet full of gravity. No case of heartburn is going to stop this spaceman!"
Fakiegrind's Merry Men
It's summer time, and our Fakie Agents are scattered far and wide, leaving tired ol' Flatlander to hold the fort. Kill-Joy is sweating it out on rooftops of the mid-west, but will be heading to the coast for a hopefully more air-conditioned post in a skate shop later this summer. Em is battling narcolepsy and dream-deprivation--not to mention massive skateboard withdrawal--in the town he calls home. Dr. Flavour is cultivating the love of wisdom while he plods away in the Big Smoke love of humanity racket. And the Endtime Adjuster, that egregious metaphysical malfunction, is off wandering the globe, investigating (or perhaps instigating) eschatological conspiracies and selling insurance.
As for Maid Marion, she done up and left--or maybe the Sheriff has her locked away in one of his dungeons. But we're hoping to hear from one or two new Fakie Agents in coming days.
So, in the immortal words of Buck 65, "Keep your eyes wide open".
As for Maid Marion, she done up and left--or maybe the Sheriff has her locked away in one of his dungeons. But we're hoping to hear from one or two new Fakie Agents in coming days.
So, in the immortal words of Buck 65, "Keep your eyes wide open".
Ask the Doctor
Dr. Flavour has a PhD in philosophy, and is eager to answer your questions about free will, ontology, baseball or how best to open a sticky jar of pickles. Leave a comment with your question and he will almost certainly attempt to address your query.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
"No More Stuff" Month
Just like the magazine Adbusters promotes Buy Nothing Day from time to time, I am declaring the rest of July "No More Stuff Month". I realized today, while cursing the lack of garage sales in my neighbourhood, that I have cultivated a habit of mind that is constantly grabbing, scavenging, pining away for more and more new stuff.
It hardly matters what the stuff is, most of the time, just so long as it's new (to me). I don't even have a proper room anymore, but I'm still out there looking for more stuff. I've got two boxes of records I haven't listened to yet, and a stack of books I might never read. So what's up with that?
It's time to stop the madness. If I start feeling the need to hit the thrift shops, I'll just content myself with some of the treasures I've already accumulated. Or better yet, I'll grab the Thomas Moore book that I picked up for a quarter the other day, The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life, and head down to the waterfront to do some reading.
As far as this Flatlander is concerned, I'm just going to say,
Enough is enough when it comes to more stuff.
It hardly matters what the stuff is, most of the time, just so long as it's new (to me). I don't even have a proper room anymore, but I'm still out there looking for more stuff. I've got two boxes of records I haven't listened to yet, and a stack of books I might never read. So what's up with that?
It's time to stop the madness. If I start feeling the need to hit the thrift shops, I'll just content myself with some of the treasures I've already accumulated. Or better yet, I'll grab the Thomas Moore book that I picked up for a quarter the other day, The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life, and head down to the waterfront to do some reading.
As far as this Flatlander is concerned, I'm just going to say,
Enough is enough when it comes to more stuff.
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