forklover

Listening to 'Take It Easy' by Surfer Blood. No, pappa don't surf (but I like to watch). The sweetness of the skill--richer than a vein of silver, a surfer riding a massive surge of turquoise. Neptune must know how hard it is...but when it's done right, nothing looks simpler.

A sixteenth century Italian diplomat named Baldassare Castiglione either epitomized or coined the term 'sprezzatura'. Sprezzatura(fucking fantastic word); 1. a certain nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make whatever one does or says appear to be without effort and almost without thought...2. a form of defensive irony: the ability to disguise what one really desires, thinks, feels, and means or intends behind a mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance. I came into contact with this word reading a Guardian review of the films of Eric Rohmer. None of which I've seen, but perhaps I should...anyway, the word itself reminded me of Burroughs' rant on 'do easy'...the practice of practicing smooth moves. The ability to make the most prosaic human chores a ballet of simplicity.

I like to think I achieve this state after a bottle of wine. Ha Ha, Ho Ho, and Hee Hee.

So...real nonchalance requires tremendous effort? Shit. Foiled again. But that sounds about right...the truly relaxed are already living several moves ahead of the game. In 'A Study in Scarlet' Sherlock Holmes says to the Doctor, "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence.... The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?". Quite an odd statement from an obsessive detective.

A question of ego? Doin' it easy implies not giving damn what others think...indeed, 'others' can't even enter the equation. Think of the best show you've ever seen, the best game, etc.... The performers, athletes, whatever, are lost in what they're doing and thus so are you.

When do we as individuals achieve this state? Well perhaps there are zen buddhists amongst us. Sex will do it. Runner's high. Transcendence--that's the ticket.

crack in the armour?

The old arena again, this time the back corner of the building, passed by today while walking with pooder. Beautiful AND sexy, the can reclines whilst awaiting its owner to heat it up once again...I mean, that's what I'm assuming anyway. Kids aren't shotgunning cola now, surely....

Wandering some of my childhood streets and remembering the old ley-lines of freedom, and the power points where the pathways met up; schoolyards, dirt hills on the edge (what used to be the edge) of town, that hidden grave-yard behind a strip mall, any place where foliage was allowed to grow unchecked--therein hidden caches of cigarette butts, empty booze bottles, moldy porn mags, rusty bicycle frames entangled in the overgrowth.

One of my best memories of my hometown--racing home late on my bike, fall, streets empty and cold, hypnotized by the thrum of my tires on the asphalt. Beady stars overhead blinking through bare gothic branches.

The grid of this town a frame that I've thrown successive canvases over, painting them with the obsessions of the moment. The mystery and magick I once attempted to infuse it with now replaced with questions--could I live here? What are the house prices like? Who the fuck lives here anymore? Well it has been a long time since I attempted to make friends with this place. Maybe it's best we remain...acquaintances, for now at least.

restore daiiad!

Apparently the actor Stephen Baldwin is asking to be 'restored'. It has something to do with the story of Job and the fact that Mr. Baldwin is broke. Google Stephen Baldwin Restored or something like that--you should be able to find the site where you can donate(!). I can't decide if this is a joke or not. Anyway, wish I'd thought of that when I was swimming in student loan debt. I could be living in this place now!

Played out

Walking the dog this morning past the old arena. Like every other building I frequented as a kid, it looks ten times smaller than it does in memory. I gave up hockey when I reached my teens, moving on to basketball, soccer, and artsy pretensions. From the ages of five to thirteen, however--well like thousands of others I assumed one day I'd be kissing the Cup. It's closed for the summer, but I can still smell this place. The musty aroma of the dressing rooms and unwashed equipment. Hard wood benches and concrete walls. The sharp cold numbing your throat when you hit the ice. Greasy cheeseburgers and ketchup chips, better than anything at McDicks. Numbness in the ankles from too-tight skates. The sound of sharp blades when you begin to glide.

I've spent the past two winters working in the United Kingdom, and my love for (european) football has asserted itself. I've got a team and I watch whatever games I can. I get passionate about it in a way I can't with hockey. The hockey playoffs are on and my dad is into it. I haven't watched a full game in years. At first I brushed off his invitations to watch, but, slowly, I find myself drawn to the box...it's the sounds that get me. The reliable tones of the CBC commentators, the rattle of the boards after a good hit, the thunk of a slapshot.

Of course I was an Oilers fan back in the day, but my longest love has been for the Leafs. The only game I can remember watching as a kid, and I did watch a lot, was a regular season match-up between the Leafs and the Oilers, which the Leafs won--the score was 13-7 or 13-6. Anyway, I was fucking stoked--I couldn't believe what was happening...this was in the day of Messier, Gretzky, etc. Eventually I gave up on the Leafs in my head; never in my heart, ha ha ha. As an aside--Torontonians--you have one of, if not the, richest team in the league--please, just one game, vote with your bloody feet and don't show up! You deserve better! The past is the past!

So--am I going to follow this play-off season religiously? Hells no. But I know I'll be there for some games...dad informs me the Kings are a team of young unknowns with an outside chance. Alright then. Go Los Angeles!

Driving Home

Beautiful three days at the lake. Dawn drive home. Companion; Pooder, aka Poots McGee, aka 'the boy', aka P-dot, aka Poo-snippety, etc.... Attitude, courtesy of the Smiths; "everyone has to live their life, and god knows I have to live mine..." and the Sundays; "desire, desire's a terrible thing, but I rely on mine...". Wan early sunlight hitting the tops of the trees, pale blue sky, wide wide road.

Waiting for the thaw...

Losing something that's really important to you becomes, over time, a gift. Not like being a kid losing sleep on Christmas Eve--in fact, at the time, it's like you're starving and your worst enemy hands you his last shit sandwich. So far, so obvious. But over time you realize that what you've been given is one of the best presents ever--opportunity.

The opportunity to view yourself from a different angle and think o yeah, that's what I look like. The empty space created by loss seeks to be filled by something new--and power comes from the realization that you can choose what flows in to replace it.

a place called pre-destine

One horoscope informs me that some desire of mine will snowball over the coming weeks, steamrolling down the birth canal, arriving fresh and fully formed...another horoscope tells me that though it certainly is the case that I'm trying to make changes for the better in my life, it's best to not do too much at once, and let things happen gradually.

If I were to take this advice and use it actively, I suppose I'd take the second point to heart first. I've often tried to change my life in a scatterbrained fashion; e.g., I am going to become a ninja, write a novel, travel the world, act in several movies, and read every important book ever written--and have something original to say about them too. I think I learned that approach doesn't work. Sure things get done, but those few secret desires haven't happened, yet. The older I get, the more secret they become--because the more foolish you look yapping about shit that remains in the realm of possibility. So secret they remain, but; those goals shed their light on you from their space of future probability--the street of desire runs both ways--the trick may be in knowing the end goal wants you as much as you want it. And a strong relationship like that usually pushes aside all other desires.

So, thing in the distance I want so badly, do you want me too?

birfday!

In The Cult of the Fact, Liam Hudson writes something to the effect of, "When a man turns thirty-five, he begins to be aware of his mortality"--that's a loose paraphrase--I'm too lazy to look up the exact quote at the moment. All I can say is, 'Amen, brother--testify!' I would add my own caveat--"Especially when said man is not where he planned to be at this tender age"...of course, things could be much worse. I've got great friends, family, a work life which, though not lucrative, is satisfying, (a little) money in the bank, etc...but!

There was a post on StreetbonersandTVCarnage yesterday by Robert Foster where he talked about choosing an 'alternative' life as opposed to a 'normal' one of early mornings, suburban effluvia and 'working for the man'...he was, for the most part, savaged in the comments. Kudos to those who write personal missives on highly trafficked websites, I say. I was dismissive in my comment to his article--not abusive, but dismissive. The fact is, parts of his essay hit a little close to home.

Without going into too much detail, it's safe to say that I had some of the same thoughts when I was younger. I suppose I was in my mid teens when I started devouring Henry Miller, the beats, Burroughs, et al...and decided a 'normal' life wasn't for me. Of course, I had no concern (yet) for the basics of life--i.e.--normal or not, we're all similar in the sense that we need to eat and put a roof over our heads. The process of navigating through one's dream life and the real one--that's been my concern for years--and I haven't done the greatest job of it. I've been naive, outright stupid, a master of procrastination (no discipline), and completely oblivious to simple facts of life that were not only staring me in the face, but actually getting up and slapping me, once-twice-thrice!

Anyway, I'm nothing if not a late bloomer. This birthday finds me awake and having a coffee at 7a.m. It's windy and wet outside, a light frosting of snow on the ground. The plan is to go hiking in Waskesiu national park with a couple of friends. A couple of beers and a chilly barbecue later on. The first birthday in a while where the plan isn't to get buck wild...but I guess you never know, right?

Whose nightmare am I waking from? Am I Dracul, waiting for the setting sun?

Fire and Forget

What wants to be free cannot be suppressed. But that power, that energy, will it be harnessed?

Alone?

What lurks beneath? Lovecraftian nightmare cities, with monstrous deities entombed? Or just all those things I've ignored and suppressed...minor little things that with time have grown, slowly synthesizing what light reaches them in the depths, adrift in subterranean currents, waiting, knowing their time will come.

What's for dinner?

Instead of the naked lunch, where the morsel lies exposed on your fork, the opaque banquet; let's eat, drink, and let all sorts mingle in our guts. Pay no attention to what you imbibe.

Burroughs launched a very smart missile; programmed to strike at the hypocrisy at the centre of entrenched power structures. What could shock in the same way today? Perhaps a cluster bomb of paintings, novels, poems, videos...but where is the enemy? Who is the enemy? There is no enemy? The enemy is you, me, all we three...there are as many realities as there are brains on this planet.

Introducing...

Image: a representation, an idea, the root of imagination. A projection--my 'image'. Or switch the I and the M and add an R.