hard to choose
between bon scott
and brian johnson
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
incredulous stair
he never
made much
of an adult
lost his hands
to false dice.
like tossing
swiss daggers
at heaven
made much
of an adult
lost his hands
to false dice.
like tossing
swiss daggers
at heaven
Friday, January 04, 2008
fit miss
it's like immediately i'm struck dumb.
exactly., all the effort it would take to tell about the night.
yep.
i know. it's like, everything was finally legitimatelly funny and tastefull and profound.
and without spelling istakes.
yes.
exactly., all the effort it would take to tell about the night.
yep.
i know. it's like, everything was finally legitimatelly funny and tastefull and profound.
and without spelling istakes.
yes.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
mixed bag
all it takes
to stay young.
all at stake is
to stay young
seriously, he says,
sometimes i feel rejected by my cat.
it's a gold mine.
guys use guitars
like women use high heels.
to stay young.
all at stake is
to stay young
seriously, he says,
sometimes i feel rejected by my cat.
it's a gold mine.
guys use guitars
like women use high heels.
Friday, December 07, 2007
F
The only thing I’d trade F for is to save a human life.
Ha. Dramatic.
That’s it though.
What about for a Lamborghini Countach?
Don’t be stupid
you wouldn’t want to walk on the moon?
No.
What about for the ability to fly?
No way.
You’re telling me you wouldn’t rade F for personal flying power?
That’s right.
And no moon?
Space sucks.
...
Maybe eventually for a billion dollars.
...
What are you smelling?
Nothing.
...
My Ultimate Mixed CD would have every song ever recorded on it.
That’s impossible. You’d never be able to listen to them all.
You think that there’s more songs than there is a lifetime of listening to music from the minute you’re born to the minute you die? Assuming you live at least to the average age of your gender.
Yep.
Prove it.
Ok, let’s say you have 42048000 minutes in your life. And there’s on average 4 minutes per song. ... Times.... How many songs in the world are there?
Let’s just say 10512000 songs.
Fine. So that’s 420048000 minutes... wait a minute!
Ha. Dramatic.
That’s it though.
What about for a Lamborghini Countach?
Don’t be stupid
you wouldn’t want to walk on the moon?
No.
What about for the ability to fly?
No way.
You’re telling me you wouldn’t rade F for personal flying power?
That’s right.
And no moon?
Space sucks.
...
Maybe eventually for a billion dollars.
...
What are you smelling?
Nothing.
...
My Ultimate Mixed CD would have every song ever recorded on it.
That’s impossible. You’d never be able to listen to them all.
You think that there’s more songs than there is a lifetime of listening to music from the minute you’re born to the minute you die? Assuming you live at least to the average age of your gender.
Yep.
Prove it.
Ok, let’s say you have 42048000 minutes in your life. And there’s on average 4 minutes per song. ... Times.... How many songs in the world are there?
Let’s just say 10512000 songs.
Fine. So that’s 420048000 minutes... wait a minute!
Sunday, November 25, 2007
pop zeus
There's this thing people have about being the first to know something that's due to arrive eventually.
-Well, information is power.
this is going to be another boring entry isn't it?
-yes. but you knew that.
-Well, information is power.
this is going to be another boring entry isn't it?
-yes. but you knew that.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The T-72
“What kind of rig does he have? I need a guy with a small rig.”
“I don’t know. I could ask him about it.”
“So, you could broker this and get him on hold for me?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Just tell him that I’m asking other people, but if he wants, I can put him on my list.”
“Yeah I can do that.”
“Alright. Where does he live?”
“I think with his dad.”
“Does he smoke weed?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have a car?”
“I think he has a van.”
...
“So small rig.... Like, describe the right setup.”
“Like my ideal rig? Um, A traynor head and a four ten cab.”
I wrote it down. “So how do you like your new neighbourhood?”
“Um, I found the indie record shop.”
“Is there a Junction local?”
“Yeah. We should go sometime. That girl that was in your band, Betts, she used to work there and maybe still does.”
“Oh yeah? That’d be good. When I get healthy enough to drink.”
“Uh huh. Hey there’s a beer in your fridge. Can I drink it?”
“Oh, you might not want to. I froze it by accident last weekend.”
“So?”
“I thought it was bad to drink a beer after it’s been frozen.”
“Not canned beer.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
He took a big gulp and smacked his lips and smiled, a little beer squirted out. “Mmmm, delicious beer.”
“Freak.”
...
...
‘I was thinking about how you’re down on yourself for being short. I found out something that might make you feel better.”
I stared at him.
“Did you know that the Soviets designed their T-72 specifically for soliders under 5'6"?” He bobbed his head up and down, smiling, drinking the thawed beer. “It’s one of the greatest tanks of all time.”
“I don’t know. I could ask him about it.”
“So, you could broker this and get him on hold for me?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Just tell him that I’m asking other people, but if he wants, I can put him on my list.”
“Yeah I can do that.”
“Alright. Where does he live?”
“I think with his dad.”
“Does he smoke weed?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have a car?”
“I think he has a van.”
...
“So small rig.... Like, describe the right setup.”
“Like my ideal rig? Um, A traynor head and a four ten cab.”
I wrote it down. “So how do you like your new neighbourhood?”
“Um, I found the indie record shop.”
“Is there a Junction local?”
“Yeah. We should go sometime. That girl that was in your band, Betts, she used to work there and maybe still does.”
“Oh yeah? That’d be good. When I get healthy enough to drink.”
“Uh huh. Hey there’s a beer in your fridge. Can I drink it?”
“Oh, you might not want to. I froze it by accident last weekend.”
“So?”
“I thought it was bad to drink a beer after it’s been frozen.”
“Not canned beer.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
He took a big gulp and smacked his lips and smiled, a little beer squirted out. “Mmmm, delicious beer.”
“Freak.”
...
...
‘I was thinking about how you’re down on yourself for being short. I found out something that might make you feel better.”
I stared at him.
“Did you know that the Soviets designed their T-72 specifically for soliders under 5'6"?” He bobbed his head up and down, smiling, drinking the thawed beer. “It’s one of the greatest tanks of all time.”
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
the bottom is bottomless
i want to hurt you but i also want to be funny.
-that's not good, considering your strengths.
you don't understand, i can't make sense of your desires. they conflict with what i know is right.
-but you keep coming back.
i know. do you think this means i am a failed man?
-...
...
-are you hungry?
i could eat.
-that's not good, considering your strengths.
you don't understand, i can't make sense of your desires. they conflict with what i know is right.
-but you keep coming back.
i know. do you think this means i am a failed man?
-...
...
-are you hungry?
i could eat.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
stripper deck
she says, the way i am with you is the way i could be with anyone else.
as a normal person who wants normal things, this hurts. but she is beautiful and i am old enough to realize that beauty is beyond me. i am willing to accept any terms a hot woman wants to put on me in order to fuck her, even once.
she says, so that's the reason i think married people are fucked. i don't see how someone should be so special you'd choose their finances over someone else's.
again, a solid point, i think.
but, she says, once in a while, i fuck someone that does it so good and is so hot that maybe i wouldn't mind chilling with them. but there are so many parties, you know?
i do know. there are so many parties.
as a normal person who wants normal things, this hurts. but she is beautiful and i am old enough to realize that beauty is beyond me. i am willing to accept any terms a hot woman wants to put on me in order to fuck her, even once.
she says, so that's the reason i think married people are fucked. i don't see how someone should be so special you'd choose their finances over someone else's.
again, a solid point, i think.
but, she says, once in a while, i fuck someone that does it so good and is so hot that maybe i wouldn't mind chilling with them. but there are so many parties, you know?
i do know. there are so many parties.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
deep into his bugs
when you have bed bugs, all you really want to talk about are bed bugs. and because bed bugs take over your life, your stories of bed bugs will be among the best ones you ever tell. to tell a great story, it helps a great deal to live it first. when you're invested in your point of view, especially in times of infestation, it comes across.
though after say, a wedding, or an apres work drink with colleagues, you might reconsider these riveting, intense descriptions of having bedbugs. 'highways of bites' along your legs, 'crouching underpanted' in your bed with a flashlight and tweezers, 14 days of 'sleepless, muderous' nights...
i'd guess that if you were a bed bug you'd see things totally differently. you're not worried about any of these insanities. you're just trying to get fed. your life is totally crawl-suck-die. the question is, what about a bed bug that one day develops some appreciation for the fact that all he'll ever be is a bed bug?
It's not impossible. Plenty of people i know freak out about halfway through their lives. It's like one day they shoot awake and look around and think: what the hell am i doing here? there are certain roles right? science is constantly revealing castes, formulas and molecular imperatives for evergrowing lists of lifeforms and spaces (to think humans are excluded is fooling yourself). and still we seem to need to agree, no matter what science proves, that no one knows what it's really like to be you.
when you think about it, whose story is more interesting? a lentil-flavoured, middle-aged man, infested by bed bugs, alienated from a wedding party? or a wingless, middle-aged bed bug, the product of traumatic insemination. who suddenly comes to an DDT-induced, crushing self-realization? crawl-suck-die? brutal.once a bed bug, always a bed bug. design imperatives. Cimicidae Schopenhaur.
i guess it's not a competition.
though after say, a wedding, or an apres work drink with colleagues, you might reconsider these riveting, intense descriptions of having bedbugs. 'highways of bites' along your legs, 'crouching underpanted' in your bed with a flashlight and tweezers, 14 days of 'sleepless, muderous' nights...
i'd guess that if you were a bed bug you'd see things totally differently. you're not worried about any of these insanities. you're just trying to get fed. your life is totally crawl-suck-die. the question is, what about a bed bug that one day develops some appreciation for the fact that all he'll ever be is a bed bug?
It's not impossible. Plenty of people i know freak out about halfway through their lives. It's like one day they shoot awake and look around and think: what the hell am i doing here? there are certain roles right? science is constantly revealing castes, formulas and molecular imperatives for evergrowing lists of lifeforms and spaces (to think humans are excluded is fooling yourself). and still we seem to need to agree, no matter what science proves, that no one knows what it's really like to be you.
when you think about it, whose story is more interesting? a lentil-flavoured, middle-aged man, infested by bed bugs, alienated from a wedding party? or a wingless, middle-aged bed bug, the product of traumatic insemination. who suddenly comes to an DDT-induced, crushing self-realization? crawl-suck-die? brutal.once a bed bug, always a bed bug. design imperatives. Cimicidae Schopenhaur.
i guess it's not a competition.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
can't roll filters
you should kill guys like me. i think when i get angry and drunk, you should punch me. i think you should not pick up the phone when i call.
i would rather we just call it quits. i would rather not have to incorporate your successful trajectory. your good times are getting expensive.
i would rather we just call it quits. i would rather not have to incorporate your successful trajectory. your good times are getting expensive.
winter sun
without you my ideas are one dimensional. i'm nowhere. i will die unexplored if i'm not careful. if you're going to go alone, you have to set alarms. and even then, you're not safe. conversation is the most important art form. we need to talk. you and i. without your voice i am nothing. it's the only thing i've ever been good at. but not without you.
proximity
when i meet a tattoo artist, i'm convinced the next thing i'm going to do is get tattoos.
when i meet a cornet player, i believe that jazz is the best.
when i meet a blonde i think there could be no other woman.
when i get home, i can't remember anything.
when i meet a cornet player, i believe that jazz is the best.
when i meet a blonde i think there could be no other woman.
when i get home, i can't remember anything.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
how am i not myself
being new is hard, but i keep telling myself that really, being new is awesome. because it is. when you're new, you get to be who you really are. if only briefly. too quickly we're constrained by the impressions we create. we learn to conform to established social paradigms. there is nothing better than being a stranger in a strange land.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
better you try to kill me
[could i implore you to try not to make your living off of cartoon interpretations? wouldn't it be better to try to engage an actual narrative?]*
why is it that the only satisfaction i can get is to impugn another's output? or that's all i remember doing. anyway, in conversations is where i'd rather lay my stake. in thought and solitude, im a disaster. please don't you judge my sad output. i am a good soldier.
i don't want to hurt your feelings so bad you'd want to quit everything we've invented. i don't want you to hurt so bad you'd choose to just quit and be over everything.
maybe i wish i could always be your special project. maybe i don't like having to pay off. but isn't that what you like? being a little better than me?
are you sitting there right now, feeling like everything you've ever done is just shit and mud? and haven't you come home every night from bottles and cheating, wishing to be found out, to be discovered, so the decision would be made for you? haven't you wanted to stop living with your lies and secrets and supressed designs? haven't you thought that i would be the one to make you choose?
*im unhappy with this, but it's close enough.
why is it that the only satisfaction i can get is to impugn another's output? or that's all i remember doing. anyway, in conversations is where i'd rather lay my stake. in thought and solitude, im a disaster. please don't you judge my sad output. i am a good soldier.
i don't want to hurt your feelings so bad you'd want to quit everything we've invented. i don't want you to hurt so bad you'd choose to just quit and be over everything.
maybe i wish i could always be your special project. maybe i don't like having to pay off. but isn't that what you like? being a little better than me?
are you sitting there right now, feeling like everything you've ever done is just shit and mud? and haven't you come home every night from bottles and cheating, wishing to be found out, to be discovered, so the decision would be made for you? haven't you wanted to stop living with your lies and secrets and supressed designs? haven't you thought that i would be the one to make you choose?
*im unhappy with this, but it's close enough.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
archetype
She comes over and she’s soaked from the storm. In the end, it's a good thing she's come by to straighten me out. It makes my job easier. At first though, those surprise knocks on my window, man, I am terrified. I roll off the couch onto the floor; my cat comes racing in to hide under the bed. They say our pets become us. Bearing out the science, mine exhibits a significant amount of terror in mundane circumstances.
Partly it’s because my body has fallen apart that I don’t want to let strange women in to my place; unless I’m drunk. The other reason is because I already know everything they’re gonna say to me. Truth is, I should have married a long time ago. Mostly because marriage makes other people feel comfortable around you. It’s like they don’t trust the motives of a single man. I don’t blame them. My motives are not good. But I know plenty of married guys, and more married women, that are worse than me. She’s one of them. And when she shows up at my door, at 4am during a thunderstorm, I’m expecting the worst. .
Partly it’s because my body has fallen apart that I don’t want to let strange women in to my place; unless I’m drunk. The other reason is because I already know everything they’re gonna say to me. Truth is, I should have married a long time ago. Mostly because marriage makes other people feel comfortable around you. It’s like they don’t trust the motives of a single man. I don’t blame them. My motives are not good. But I know plenty of married guys, and more married women, that are worse than me. She’s one of them. And when she shows up at my door, at 4am during a thunderstorm, I’m expecting the worst. .
Thursday, September 20, 2007
(photograph)
...
im going to post the one where you can barely see me.
ha. but you're still gonna put up your picture.
...
so do you see? you're egotistic like anyone?
i fucking hate talking to you.
i know. so what do you want to drink?
the opposite of what you're having.
im going to post the one where you can barely see me.
ha. but you're still gonna put up your picture.
...
so do you see? you're egotistic like anyone?
i fucking hate talking to you.
i know. so what do you want to drink?
the opposite of what you're having.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
these days
there was a time when you wouldn't have championed suburban output. but i understand how it is to make a dollar. Your name is known these days; and who would argue with success? you deserve your plaudits.
am i awful because i don't like you any more? yes, of course. maybe if i had some of your substance it wouldn't seem so shallow. anyway, i have at least learned to behave at parties.
now there are galleries and tea and listed events. adroit deferrals and publicity agents to absorb blame for missed invites. it's ok. plus one is something i've come to dread anyway. there is no worse place for friends than backstage.
am i awful because i don't like you any more? yes, of course. maybe if i had some of your substance it wouldn't seem so shallow. anyway, i have at least learned to behave at parties.
now there are galleries and tea and listed events. adroit deferrals and publicity agents to absorb blame for missed invites. it's ok. plus one is something i've come to dread anyway. there is no worse place for friends than backstage.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Saturday, September 08, 2007
summer babe
admit it, you're not as flexible as you think you are. are you willing to make exceptions? maybe you are. maybe i under-estimate you. (should under-estimate be hyphenated?)
what's nostalgia? a weakness? a temptation? how far back can you pull the lens? is nostaliga limited to incidents? to bands? to decades? are paradigms nostalgic?
i don't know. i am beginning to think there's nothing wrong with anything.
If your greatest arguments are about nostalgia, then you're doing ok in life i think. If you're worried about cultural credibility, i think you are probably not going to get published. i speak from experience.
i write all this because i can't stop listening to pavement.
what's nostalgia? a weakness? a temptation? how far back can you pull the lens? is nostaliga limited to incidents? to bands? to decades? are paradigms nostalgic?
i don't know. i am beginning to think there's nothing wrong with anything.
If your greatest arguments are about nostalgia, then you're doing ok in life i think. If you're worried about cultural credibility, i think you are probably not going to get published. i speak from experience.
i write all this because i can't stop listening to pavement.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
sympathy for the muddled
[oh no, here we go again...]
i am a failed man. an incomplete man. i am unimpressed with the conversations i have. my most important submissions lack definition. pathetically, i live in constant shame, self-recrimination and guilt. i think evil is pretending first-hand knowledge. i'm sure that i don't do enough to warrant the meagre praise i get. i wonder sometimes that maybe i think i deserve something. i think that's an awful way to be. i don't have children. and i don't love someone. i sometimes think that we have to be so much. it's hard to live up to. but that's probably a cop out. but i'm not sure. see? i'm an insult to the old country.
[is this the best you've got? really? that's the way you think? you are so lame. try something! live! do something!]
make a fucking exception please! i could write all the opposite things too. i don't want to sound desperate. i just don't know any better. we're all doing well for ourselves. it's ok.
[i'm so confused. do you ever make sense? is this a cry for help?]
there are so many books and stories and reality shows and everyone keeps telling more and more and what's the point of mine? it's so boring and it's about people making excuses but trying to explain how it's more than excuses. come on. all these wailings for princesses and waterboarding for truth. i mean, i've seen girls glue their panties to their asses in order to win ribbons. what should i take seriously?
[I'm not here to make you feel better. I didn’t come here to tell you it’s hand to mouth on a different plane. Nobody bleeds for the dancer.]
I don’t have a high level perspective. I don’t make that much money. I got debts to friends and I lie about things to my family. i pretend to be clean. Everyone I love sees things differently. What should I do? should i think that misfortune is an accident? should i be compelled to help you compete? it's hard for me too. an advantage is fucking continuum. i fucking want more, just like you. fucking courtesy and my vain desire to provide a decent fucking example is all that keeps me from voting fucking conservative.
[i still don't get it. it's like your narrative line is all mixed up. this kind of lousy, undisciplined blathering gives me a headache.]
i am a failed man. an incomplete man. i am unimpressed with the conversations i have. my most important submissions lack definition. pathetically, i live in constant shame, self-recrimination and guilt. i think evil is pretending first-hand knowledge. i'm sure that i don't do enough to warrant the meagre praise i get. i wonder sometimes that maybe i think i deserve something. i think that's an awful way to be. i don't have children. and i don't love someone. i sometimes think that we have to be so much. it's hard to live up to. but that's probably a cop out. but i'm not sure. see? i'm an insult to the old country.
[is this the best you've got? really? that's the way you think? you are so lame. try something! live! do something!]
make a fucking exception please! i could write all the opposite things too. i don't want to sound desperate. i just don't know any better. we're all doing well for ourselves. it's ok.
[i'm so confused. do you ever make sense? is this a cry for help?]
there are so many books and stories and reality shows and everyone keeps telling more and more and what's the point of mine? it's so boring and it's about people making excuses but trying to explain how it's more than excuses. come on. all these wailings for princesses and waterboarding for truth. i mean, i've seen girls glue their panties to their asses in order to win ribbons. what should i take seriously?
[I'm not here to make you feel better. I didn’t come here to tell you it’s hand to mouth on a different plane. Nobody bleeds for the dancer.]
I don’t have a high level perspective. I don’t make that much money. I got debts to friends and I lie about things to my family. i pretend to be clean. Everyone I love sees things differently. What should I do? should i think that misfortune is an accident? should i be compelled to help you compete? it's hard for me too. an advantage is fucking continuum. i fucking want more, just like you. fucking courtesy and my vain desire to provide a decent fucking example is all that keeps me from voting fucking conservative.
[i still don't get it. it's like your narrative line is all mixed up. this kind of lousy, undisciplined blathering gives me a headache.]
Friday, August 17, 2007
wise men tell you lies
look, it's not like i say to him, 'you can't go out'. it's not a prohibition. i just know better than he does. how can he know the danger of our surroundings?
you know what fucked it up?
what?
that night with the bus.
exactly.
...
you know, it's too bad you can't write like you talk.
yeah.
because you're such a good talker.
you know what fucked it up?
what?
that night with the bus.
exactly.
...
you know, it's too bad you can't write like you talk.
yeah.
because you're such a good talker.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
no shortage of knockouts
'You're different everytime i see you.'
'So are you.'
She didn't mean it.
'What's your plan for the future then, you think you can sell forever?'
'Why the fuck are you so interested anyway? '
'I care about you.'
'you care about yourself. when are you finally going to grow up?' she smoked her cigarette upwards. A guy walked over and she turned to him, cutting me out and they both ignored me. I tried to turn away towards something , but i didn't know anyone else at the party.
'So are you.'
She didn't mean it.
'What's your plan for the future then, you think you can sell forever?'
'Why the fuck are you so interested anyway? '
'I care about you.'
'you care about yourself. when are you finally going to grow up?' she smoked her cigarette upwards. A guy walked over and she turned to him, cutting me out and they both ignored me. I tried to turn away towards something , but i didn't know anyone else at the party.
Friday, August 10, 2007
chapter three: regret the tone
'first, do no harm', is how it was put to Benny by Dread Cardinal Allin during basic training. First principles. you do not want to fuck someone else up. That is the premise that ought to guide us, he thought. Another way he heard it was, 'we make our own monsters'. But what words can defuse our need for revenge? When the worst has been done to us... or anything that hurts. Who sees themself as a monster anyway? Doesn't everyone have a story? Isn't it, in the end, what you can live with? Would you want me dead if it meant solace from devastation?
What can you hope for? What fucking principle tells us anything we can actually fucking use? Yet, today -- he understood like a man should understand -- it was his turn to pay. With each slug of whiskey this became more apparent. Until he had decided that it was practically incumbent upon him to seek out fucking actual, tangible judgement. Passions rule. Plain and simple.
Luckily, he passed out in the ditch before he agented these mortal impusles. For all of us there is doubt and a pure fucking moment when we percieve everything we'll never have. And you can blame your lover, or your position, or your time. And who'd blame you if you fucking snap and freak the fuck out? All those fucking scientific laws of attraction and gravity and never any fucking mention of what it feels like to get fucked for real.
What can you hope for? What fucking principle tells us anything we can actually fucking use? Yet, today -- he understood like a man should understand -- it was his turn to pay. With each slug of whiskey this became more apparent. Until he had decided that it was practically incumbent upon him to seek out fucking actual, tangible judgement. Passions rule. Plain and simple.
Luckily, he passed out in the ditch before he agented these mortal impusles. For all of us there is doubt and a pure fucking moment when we percieve everything we'll never have. And you can blame your lover, or your position, or your time. And who'd blame you if you fucking snap and freak the fuck out? All those fucking scientific laws of attraction and gravity and never any fucking mention of what it feels like to get fucked for real.
Monday, August 06, 2007
pinball
i'm not stupid,
but i don't always think so.
if you don't know
what you want to do,
you better fake it.
or you won't get anywhere.
but i don't always think so.
if you don't know
what you want to do,
you better fake it.
or you won't get anywhere.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
chapter two: the roughriders
I’m not sure how long I’d been KIA. Not long enough though. Because every single second of my resurrection was a living, burning hell. The Re-Gen injection dangled from my chest like a stupid arrow. Amazed, I focused downwards on a ponderous bead of blood, sliding down the silver needle. So mesmerized by the oddity of the syringe protruding from my heart, for a merciful moment, the unholy stench of my immolation didn’t even register. Only after the searing hammer of pain slammed me into total awareness did I inhale the putrefied taste of burned human flesh.
Regenesis, as I later learned, often kills again. The accompanying pain is so intense, the recipient’s heart perforates from the pressure. Encore la morte. Within 48 hours, of the 3% revival rate, half again expire due to catastrophic stress. And even when the dead live, they’re often blacked out; so depressed they’re useless for life.
The day of my resurrection I knew none of that. Just the cauterizing agony of my life regenerating one searing cell at a time. But inside all of this, beyond my physical torment, there was a cold awareness of something else. An inarticulate, malevolent presence; a moray coiling in some dark subconscious fissure. Like a guilt, or a shame lurking inside your guts, washing up against you in the middle of the night. An incrimination. A taunt.
Then it was gone.
An armoured hand appeared around the syringe and unceremoniously jerked it out. I coughed and vomited.
“He’s back, sir.”
“Fine. Now, let’s get moving. Roughriders, mount up!”
Captain Roland Forty-Four rose fifteen feet into the air on the back of the largest cat I’d ever seen.
“Welcome back sonny.” I heard my father say. And then I blacked out.
Regenesis, as I later learned, often kills again. The accompanying pain is so intense, the recipient’s heart perforates from the pressure. Encore la morte. Within 48 hours, of the 3% revival rate, half again expire due to catastrophic stress. And even when the dead live, they’re often blacked out; so depressed they’re useless for life.
The day of my resurrection I knew none of that. Just the cauterizing agony of my life regenerating one searing cell at a time. But inside all of this, beyond my physical torment, there was a cold awareness of something else. An inarticulate, malevolent presence; a moray coiling in some dark subconscious fissure. Like a guilt, or a shame lurking inside your guts, washing up against you in the middle of the night. An incrimination. A taunt.
Then it was gone.
An armoured hand appeared around the syringe and unceremoniously jerked it out. I coughed and vomited.
“He’s back, sir.”
“Fine. Now, let’s get moving. Roughriders, mount up!”
Captain Roland Forty-Four rose fifteen feet into the air on the back of the largest cat I’d ever seen.
“Welcome back sonny.” I heard my father say. And then I blacked out.
Friday, August 03, 2007
chapter one: hangfire position
Beans yanked the garage rope down and shut out the blazing sun with a metallic clang. He turned to face us, shifting his Tigers cap up on his head. We were all sweating and breathing hard, arranged in a semicircle opposite him. A week before the invasion, climate authorities had been claiming it as the hottest July in the last fifty years. Everyone was talking water conservation. Radio News instructed old folks to stay indoors. That was six days ago. Now the radio was silent.
Inside the stifling garage, the five of us set down our packs, adjusting to the shadows. Any movement caused puffs of choking dust to swirl, so we kept as still as we could. Beans hunkered and wet his finger, then started to lay out lines on the sooty concrete floor. He pointed:
“Ok, we’re here. This is Royal York. This is the park. Here’s Pop’s. Benny, your dad’s truck is for sure out back?" He flicked his eyes over to Benny.
“That’s right Beans.” Benny crowded forward and licked his own finger. He drew a couple lines on the garage floor, adding to Beans’ map. “But they’ve got the school. The car lot....”
From the get-go, the plan to make the run out of town was a longshot. The Concern had us all tagged. Chicken’s leg was broken and both Benny and Bobby were going grey from the Afflict. Professor Niehl’s jam charge was about 15 minutes from spent. Things were gonna have to happen fast.
“We all agree, we can’t make it through the park, right?” Nods. “So, it’s the alleys then.”
I leaned in to situate myself on the diagram. Across from him, it took a second to reverse the plan, but then I figured out where he wanted us to head. It took another second to realize what it meant.
The rest of the guys had seen it too. Cigarettes appeared and Chicken looked down at her busted shin.
“Comments?”
He’d meant it for me. I knew saying nothing was the only way to keep panic at bay. He knew it too. It wasn't like, at fourteen, any of us had given much thought to death, til now. We shared steady eye contact and instead I methodically checked down my arsenal.
“Five capsules, double-sixes are stocked. Regen pack stocked. Let’s take the fucking alleys.“
Maybe the rest took a heartbeat, but the guys sounded off in good order, one after the other. Beans’ eyes cast the Eagle at us.“Alright guys. The alleys. Let’s do it.”
All told we were pretty well-armed. But travelling that way, through the alleys, we’d be naked. Any airborne, or if our jam wore off, we’d be begging to get husked. The Concern were bringing in the heavies now. No need for cloak-and-dagger stuff. It was raw power. Total destruction. But at least we could see what we were up against. Better than the terror of not knowing who was real,and who’d been replicated.
Me and Benny took one arm each, supporting Chick. Bobby leaned up against the backdoor of the garage and filled up with breath. Beans was in the back and he looked at each of us in turn. We were ready. Steady.
“Go!”
The first meta-slugs took Bobby in the chest, pulverizing him into red mist. Somehow Benny propelled himself and Chicken forward out the doorway. Spinning away from them to the right, I fired wildly into the sun. Monstrous shapes closed in. They had us surrounded. In that first blast of white light and heat, all I could perceive was the crackling of slugs zipping past my head; then feeling Chicken crumple down and then Benny’s truncated scream. Behind me enormous bodies pummeled the garage; huge, paralysing concussions. Burning chips of wood and metal stung my face and hands. I was on fire. Through the warble and hiss, i jerked back towards Beans but there was nothing left. No garage. No Beans. Nothing. The downsplash from the rotors of the heli above blasted the flames. Almost a balm. It was over in seconds.
Inside the stifling garage, the five of us set down our packs, adjusting to the shadows. Any movement caused puffs of choking dust to swirl, so we kept as still as we could. Beans hunkered and wet his finger, then started to lay out lines on the sooty concrete floor. He pointed:
“Ok, we’re here. This is Royal York. This is the park. Here’s Pop’s. Benny, your dad’s truck is for sure out back?" He flicked his eyes over to Benny.
“That’s right Beans.” Benny crowded forward and licked his own finger. He drew a couple lines on the garage floor, adding to Beans’ map. “But they’ve got the school. The car lot....”
From the get-go, the plan to make the run out of town was a longshot. The Concern had us all tagged. Chicken’s leg was broken and both Benny and Bobby were going grey from the Afflict. Professor Niehl’s jam charge was about 15 minutes from spent. Things were gonna have to happen fast.
“We all agree, we can’t make it through the park, right?” Nods. “So, it’s the alleys then.”
I leaned in to situate myself on the diagram. Across from him, it took a second to reverse the plan, but then I figured out where he wanted us to head. It took another second to realize what it meant.
The rest of the guys had seen it too. Cigarettes appeared and Chicken looked down at her busted shin.
“Comments?”
He’d meant it for me. I knew saying nothing was the only way to keep panic at bay. He knew it too. It wasn't like, at fourteen, any of us had given much thought to death, til now. We shared steady eye contact and instead I methodically checked down my arsenal.
“Five capsules, double-sixes are stocked. Regen pack stocked. Let’s take the fucking alleys.“
Maybe the rest took a heartbeat, but the guys sounded off in good order, one after the other. Beans’ eyes cast the Eagle at us.“Alright guys. The alleys. Let’s do it.”
All told we were pretty well-armed. But travelling that way, through the alleys, we’d be naked. Any airborne, or if our jam wore off, we’d be begging to get husked. The Concern were bringing in the heavies now. No need for cloak-and-dagger stuff. It was raw power. Total destruction. But at least we could see what we were up against. Better than the terror of not knowing who was real,and who’d been replicated.
Me and Benny took one arm each, supporting Chick. Bobby leaned up against the backdoor of the garage and filled up with breath. Beans was in the back and he looked at each of us in turn. We were ready. Steady.
“Go!”
The first meta-slugs took Bobby in the chest, pulverizing him into red mist. Somehow Benny propelled himself and Chicken forward out the doorway. Spinning away from them to the right, I fired wildly into the sun. Monstrous shapes closed in. They had us surrounded. In that first blast of white light and heat, all I could perceive was the crackling of slugs zipping past my head; then feeling Chicken crumple down and then Benny’s truncated scream. Behind me enormous bodies pummeled the garage; huge, paralysing concussions. Burning chips of wood and metal stung my face and hands. I was on fire. Through the warble and hiss, i jerked back towards Beans but there was nothing left. No garage. No Beans. Nothing. The downsplash from the rotors of the heli above blasted the flames. Almost a balm. It was over in seconds.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
(civil society)
Ok, explain Temperance.
The explanation was that it was for civil society. Because who would farm if you could drink? 'We gave you the land to make a country.' Etc. And what would the women and kids do?
Exactly. A drunk husband. All I’m saying is the other argument is, you know, don’t tell me what to do. I don’t need your help. I’m straight.
I know. But you’ll make a case for anything.
Well, suicide then. I mean... Altho, there are the failed suicides. Is it really just a cry for help? Legislate against incompetence, a hedge against expense?
I knew a failed suicide.
Yeah?
At the hospital when I worked on the elevator.
Oh yeah. Who?
She was 18, she jumped off a building
how many floors?
Not high enough. 8th floor.
8 isn’t enough?
Ha. Apparently not. There was this other guy who shot himself. Permanent wheelchair, para. He’d offer to let me touch the entrance and exit holes, little soft spots on his head.
Wow. What caliber was the gun?
Why?
Small bullets’ll spin around inside your skull and pop out the other side.
That’s what he said.
So, would he say he was more inclined than ever? “In the mouth next time” ?
You’d think. No, I asked him once, ‘what do you think now?’ And he said, ‘Well, now I think I was a fucking idiot.’
Like, ‘I’ve got to get my shit together.’?
That’s what he was like. There were others. The ones who were speeding and crashed.
Right, they’re like, why me?
This one guy was driving his sports car and he was leaning out the side window to talk to someone and he hit his head.
Oh my god.
Quadriplegic. He was angry everyday.
The explanation was that it was for civil society. Because who would farm if you could drink? 'We gave you the land to make a country.' Etc. And what would the women and kids do?
Exactly. A drunk husband. All I’m saying is the other argument is, you know, don’t tell me what to do. I don’t need your help. I’m straight.
I know. But you’ll make a case for anything.
Well, suicide then. I mean... Altho, there are the failed suicides. Is it really just a cry for help? Legislate against incompetence, a hedge against expense?
I knew a failed suicide.
Yeah?
At the hospital when I worked on the elevator.
Oh yeah. Who?
She was 18, she jumped off a building
how many floors?
Not high enough. 8th floor.
8 isn’t enough?
Ha. Apparently not. There was this other guy who shot himself. Permanent wheelchair, para. He’d offer to let me touch the entrance and exit holes, little soft spots on his head.
Wow. What caliber was the gun?
Why?
Small bullets’ll spin around inside your skull and pop out the other side.
That’s what he said.
So, would he say he was more inclined than ever? “In the mouth next time” ?
You’d think. No, I asked him once, ‘what do you think now?’ And he said, ‘Well, now I think I was a fucking idiot.’
Like, ‘I’ve got to get my shit together.’?
That’s what he was like. There were others. The ones who were speeding and crashed.
Right, they’re like, why me?
This one guy was driving his sports car and he was leaning out the side window to talk to someone and he hit his head.
Oh my god.
Quadriplegic. He was angry everyday.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
ultimate ensemble
parsimony
stiegl
bix
cecil taylor
ego
WoW
txting
method
milch
middle school
facebook
gallic wars
gemmell
chandler (raymond)
acid western
weight
lob wedges
lies
rotary telephones
big pushes for disaster
the incredulous stare
elric
tegmark
stiegl
bix
cecil taylor
ego
WoW
txting
method
milch
middle school
gallic wars
gemmell
chandler (raymond)
acid western
weight
lob wedges
lies
rotary telephones
big pushes for disaster
the incredulous stare
elric
tegmark
Saturday, June 30, 2007
half off nothing
seriously, let's congratulate ourselves on our snack food innovation. the choices are endless and ever evolving. it's wonderful. honestly, all snack food wants is for you to love it. it could be chips, or maybe flavoured jerky or some traditional confectionary product. is pop a snack? maybe you like blueberries. it doesn't matter. we have snacks covered.
wow. what an awesome evaluation. is that just the beginning of what you learned tonight?
fuck you.
typical. that's exactly the response half the world would have typed.
yeah? half the whole world, or half the english typing world?
whatever you fucking idiot.
yeah. you say.
ok i'm getting the air.
i'll come.
fine.
...
...
wow. what an awesome evaluation. is that just the beginning of what you learned tonight?
fuck you.
typical. that's exactly the response half the world would have typed.
yeah? half the whole world, or half the english typing world?
whatever you fucking idiot.
yeah. you say.
ok i'm getting the air.
i'll come.
fine.
...
...
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
deus ex machina
in 1998, when most of my friends weren't yet separated and i had a career trajectory, my distant teenaged cousin came to toronto to visit. things were really happening then. albums were coming out, novels were being published. we had invitations to events. sometimes, we were featured. then and now, i can't remember what it was like to be 18. how heavy it was.
anyway, my distant cousin comes to visit. she's on a pass from an institution in guelph, but she glosses over this. i abdicate any adult evaluation; fronting it's cool to let them be. kids. you want so bad to be on their side; but they are insane and unafraid. anyway, we got a pulse. the next day, as she boarded the bus back to the institute, she cheerfully hoped to avoid the urine test.
just the other day, she found me again. we hadn't communicated since that weekend. but i have thought of it often. i got a letter from her. she included a couple photos. in one, she's standing next to a Triumph, in a gravel parking lot full of motorcycles. she's got goggles up on her army helmet and she's giving a look to the camera that registers right on with me. i recognized her immediately. she's my side of the family.
anyway, my distant cousin comes to visit. she's on a pass from an institution in guelph, but she glosses over this. i abdicate any adult evaluation; fronting it's cool to let them be. kids. you want so bad to be on their side; but they are insane and unafraid. anyway, we got a pulse. the next day, as she boarded the bus back to the institute, she cheerfully hoped to avoid the urine test.
just the other day, she found me again. we hadn't communicated since that weekend. but i have thought of it often. i got a letter from her. she included a couple photos. in one, she's standing next to a Triumph, in a gravel parking lot full of motorcycles. she's got goggles up on her army helmet and she's giving a look to the camera that registers right on with me. i recognized her immediately. she's my side of the family.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
broke neck hoople
"i am not the fine man you take me for, no no.
i come in april to sell a string of horses
and try my luck in the stream.
what i got for the stock
i lost at the wheel,
and the flake i washed up
i drank the fuck away.
i sold my boots
and owe nine dollars to a whore.
i don't know if i'll make it home at all."
i come in april to sell a string of horses
and try my luck in the stream.
what i got for the stock
i lost at the wheel,
and the flake i washed up
i drank the fuck away.
i sold my boots
and owe nine dollars to a whore.
i don't know if i'll make it home at all."
Saturday, June 02, 2007
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