always the last place you look

I was not even halfway through sanding out the first coat of the drywall in the basement when my brain pumped the brakes a couple times n’ squealed and it said “hey what the hell are you doin’ down here, workin’ your balls off on a beauty of a Saturday and who the hell are you doin’ this for anyway?”

But then my soul swung in –on a chandelier made of recycled gun parts, like it’s occasionally known to do- and it said;

“You damn fool! You’re working for you!  You’re on a mission, like everyone else but you haven’t forgotten it yet. Came pretty close though, idiot! Be grateful. Most people work for nothing but money and that’s all they ever get, be it a lot or a little.  You may not make a pant load, but when you’re working to profit the kind of currency that truly makes you happy then all you need is enough tangible cash to buy a ticket to the next destination. “

“Things are changing in a big way again and you my friend, are workin’ for purpose, to fulfill things you’ve always wanted to do, but you may not have always realized. Hard to believe I know, but that’s why I chimed in there, because I’m your fuckin’ SOUL and it’s about time you started utilizing me and my services again. Idiot. Remember when you cut it n’sealed it, for like 4 months on the graveyard shift, out at the Window factory without windows, then you went home, slept for 4 hours and got up to go paint Andrew Parr’s aunt’s house until 8pm, but you didn’t give a shit, no, you ate it up cuz you were workin’ to get to Vancouver. Remember that? That was me baby! Your soul- all cylinders firing! Remember when you arrived out west and you worked at Calhoun’s as a night manager of the damn graveyard shift again, and then you got off at 7AM and went to film school so you could make your first movie? That wasn’t your brain. He helped a little bit, but remember when you had to work at DQ to buy a plane ticket home? That was him. No inspiration, just action. He got the job done but damn, what a strange time- feeding the homeless from a satchel of cheeseburger experiments on the walk home. That contribution was your heart. Everything else epic and memorable was me. Soul, okay…… so don’t make me call you an idiot again.”

 

I figure the brain, the heart and the soul are the three different viable sources within us lucky ones aware of what we got and if you’re reading this than you most likely fit the profile so congratulations to the graduating class. Use these gifts and try not to be an asshole, at least not in public.  It gets too damn easy to fall into the rut of the rat race so check yourself daily. I’m pretty fuckin’ serious. A lot of those early Jack Johnson songs were onto something. I think. Either way, I had to write this piece to give props to my soul, fresh out of doubt rehab and ready to guide the way again. Let’s do this. 

missing out

I never really listened to the Beatles much at all.
I still don't lest I'm baked with nothing to do
and I guess that's just what happened. On Canada day, of all days
why did I choose to stay in?
I blame the music and the crazy effect it can have on a person
in times of up n' down.
On this particular occasion, the suspect is "Dear Prudence."
Do you see the irony?
It took me a while.
Still doesn't explain why I wasn't getting hammed up somewhere.
I stood up for a back stretch and realized I was still in my work clothes
writing this.
My hands, speckled with paint and dirt and half-healed cuts.
I come up with lines like that last one and it feels like
there's another character speaking out from inside me
and he's a better poet.
I've tried poetry before but I tried too hard.
Truth is
tonight I figured out what a writer is...
When you sit down to write and everything hits at once
and you know that you'd be missing out on something
if you went out.
So you stayed in.
And a greater gift than karma prevailed.

untitled

got a friend finding his way out in California

got a friend who found it out in the middle of nowhere, B.C.

got a friend playing in the U.S. Open

got a friend with a successful business

got a friend in heaven who knows all the scores

got a friend workin' his guts off for the next chapter

got a friend holding it all together with heart

got a friend in England, gonna be a great actor one day

got a friend who's strugglin' 

got a friend who's strugglin' more

got a friend who's a DJ

got a friend who's happy where he is

got a friend that doesn't know where he is

got a friend that won't give up on rock n' roll

got a friend who's my cousin

got a friend who's my cousin

got a friend who's a girl

got a friend I haven't met yet

got a friend in more debt than I am

got a friend in Indonesia

got a friend I miss

got a friend in Scotland who's married

got a friend of a friend

got all the people I need to keep me writing, going, laughing, hoping, living....

I was painting a friend's house today when I realized all this and there was the perfect amount of heat outside that sparked something in me. I could have packed up and called it an early day to go find a pool to swim in but I suddenly remembered that I had a tab of "white dog" Ecstasy that a friend had given me the night before. I made myself a small sandwich to chase it down with and cranked up Rod Stewart and the Faces, a serious diamond in the rough of feel good rock n' roll. Then I got into my work. I thought about everyone and everything about them that I dig as I put color to the walls. I didn't need a chemical motivator to do this but I took the little pill because I was already in one of those rare and amazing moments of clarity where you comfortably know that everything in life has a meaning and you feel closer to it all, whatever it all may be.  Hope you understand. 

Born in the bottom of a wishing well

The very first point to take notice of was the faintly evident sound of shoes being worn without socks. There’s a certain kind of low squeak to it, and by now you know it well, because you, yourself never wear socks with shoes in the summer time-sometimes no shoes at all. Just like this guy….

He didn’t walk with distinction or confidence. He definitely didn’t saunter. He cruised as if he didn’t have a care in the world, which in this day n’ age is pretty much a bullshit term. But the sound of his feet moving in and out of rhythm meant he was skipping the odd cracks. The sound of the small stones and dust meant he was on the fringe of the road, not the sidewalk. He must have had a song or a girl in his head, or both. It was impossible to tell if he was on his way to or from something purely divine.

Hopefully that last paragraph drew a descriptive scene in your head.  A scene put together by your ears and your brain. You wouldn’t be able to realize all this by looking at the young dude because you’re blind. Not metaphorically either. It’s for real this time. In this story YOU ARE blind.

Don’t waste your time wondering how or why- you’re out on the street without anyone else, it’s a sweet, warm day, and the sun is shining so hard on your shoulders that you must be wearing a black t-shirt. You feel free. You picked up a hell of a good vibe off the young dude that went walking by and now it’s about time for your own  strut. You don’t have a seeing eye dog either. It hasn’t been born yet.  It’s just you, with heightened sense of sound, smell, touch and happiness. 

When you see a blind person do you ever wonder how happy they really are? Of course not, you’re blind too, remember, you don’t see shit. But you know that you’re happy. What choice do you have? You’ve got other choices instead. You don’t have to worry about half the worthless distractions that the rest of us must face on a daily basis. We can’t escape what you can’t understand. Don’t sweat the self-esteem either ‘cause you never have to look at yourself. In fact take all the time that us visual fuck-ups waste going nowhere and do something meaningful with it. It’s a success story no matter how you slice it. There’s so much more than seeing.  Music is all that is life so learn it and preach it. Touch everything n’ everyone. They’ll understand. Move in close for the “scent of a woman”. If she doesn’t let it happen, she’ll never be a blind man’s baby. Walk on.

Back on the street you’re literally aimless as you feel a perfectly cool breeze and then moments later it begins to down pour with the rays of the sun still present on your skin. Forget about rainbows and everybody else. You’re so money and you don’t even know it. Find yourself a nice long stick and utilize it like never before.  You won’t need much money or distance to have fun.  The neighborhood is a universe when the lights are always off.  Just try n’ stay on the sidewalk.

 

Note: This piece was not at all inspired by that movie “Blindness,” which was a god-awful film by the way. 

Discovering Alcohol (a flashback)

It started as a joke,

the way most long stories begin.

This one is really no different and it still has not come to an end. I doubt it ever will, however one day it might be best.

I'm 26 now. Back then me and my droogs were in Grade 7, which would make us uh, 13 years old. The whole lot of us young pups, trying out cigarettes and stealin' bases on our way to the top of the public school food chain. 

With only a few days remaining 'till summer vacation, Jordie Preston pulled out three piss warm bottles of brew from his back pack and we all celebrated and passed em' around after school. Not the best memory of a first taste, but it triggered something. Serious interest in how and why this foul juice somehow led to a level of fun we couldn't imagine. 

It was during the first week of that summer, of course that we collectively organized a mass drinking party to be held at the most epic location we knew of. A place that was big and open and felt far enough away from anyone that could bring the hammer down on our experiment. In Byron, at that time, there was only one place; the London Ski club's HILL 2000. After all the lame projects we had to complete in Grade 7, we finally had one we were proud to put our names on.  It had three phases:

1) Steal booze from parents without getting caught.

2) Make it to Hill 2000 without any questions asked.

3) Drink without regard.

It seemed like the entire grade showed up. Nobody in their right mind wanted to miss this historical event, and surely it was to those that were there. 

There isn't much to go into detail about. We drank. We felt our blood temperature rise and our voices become louder as the sun began to sink lower beyond our vantage point. We acted  out merely every recollection of the cliched drunken scenes that we'd absorbed from T.V. and movies. And why the hell not? Every character I ever wanted to be like was a fun lovin' substance abuser. But there didn't seem to be anything "abusive" about this. 

There is no real discovery to be made with alcohol ( I was drunk when I came up with that title). For the grand majority of North Americans, drinking is just another step on the path of growing up. I believe we can learn a lot from inebriation.  Alongside my mates, my introduction was both lucky and memorable. I got loose. Everyone had brought something different, and I tried it all. Wine, beer, the hard stuff, I drank it down. The party in my belly was raving n' drooling, but it met no comparison to what was happening on the highest plateau of Hill 2000.

The fun, attractive girls were experiencing a new kind of freedom and sharing it with everyone by throwing off their shirts and running around giggling, almost floating, while others manifested into instant drama queens, freaking out about things as insignificant as chicken feed. The boys shouted Chris Farley quotes out at the view of the suburban sprawl, each line more louder than the next, until we were all on the ground, laughing and sweating and encouraging the girls in their topless antics. 

I felt like I was everywhere at once, with eyes in the back of my head and enough pure energy to light a sports field. We stayed long, and drank and loafed all over the monumental hill grounds until there was not a drop of alcohol left. It was our first big -time bonding experience as a group of small town kids who left the night feeling and knowing that there was a whole lot more in life to discover. There always will be. 

While walkin' through Mount Pleasant C n' C

…. On separate occasions I’ve seen the ghost of a fire man, I heard children laughing, and I smelled the distinct aroma of birthday candles. It wasn’t the body burning in the crematorium with the door open, but  I saw that too. Different kind of smell.  But it’s all relative and pretty self=explanatory. It’s a cemetery, where dead people are buried. Some of em’ are at rest and glad to be there, while others are still pissed off about something they forgot to do.  Some, I think, just want to be seen. Why should things be any different on the other side, apart from all the pain-free amazing-ness.

The squirrels in the cemetery are above average on all fronts. They make up a very elite and intelligent mafia and nobody touches them, because nobody knows anything. This might sound like a conspiracy and I wish I could prove more but all I can really disclose is that they know how to read. They hide their stash of nuts and other paraphernalia at the base of certain tombstones and then they remember the names written on them.  I’ve seen it. It’s astonishing. They got that place monopolized. Don’t underestimate them.

Discovering weird shit like this makes me hungry for new life, the way I used to be in Vancouver. I keep walking, looking for side roads I’ve never been down. I haven't been this glad to lack the use of a car before. And now I go out more than ever.

I’ve been taking the streets a lot these days. It’s a combination of the weather mixed with the fact that I know I likely won’t enjoy a true Canadian summer for a few years to come, so with that in mind, I’ll walk anywhere, I’ll hoof it through a storm, like last Saturday, as long as I’ve got music on my side. I’ll say “yes” to those innocent offerings from people that I’m not sure if they mean it. I’ll roll with whatever’s happening, rather than dwell on what else is goin’ on elsewhere. I’ll make sure the empty spaces on the calendar from April to August are filled with something worth reading. Then I’ll keep it going further. And further.

“one day I just started workin’ hard and I forgot to stop”         - Shad

Fights... and my role in them.

Tyler Durden said something that has always stuck with me and caused me to look within myself a bit. And every time I find myself in that situation where I know that a fight is about to go down, a strange feeling washes over me and I hear his words; " How much do you really know about yourself if you haven't been in a fight?" 

I'm looking at the age of 27 coming 'round the bend this year and I'm still wondering and waiting for a one on one, hay-makers to the face, full out fight! I've never learned what I can deliver and what I can take from another dude in the heat of battle.  And this makes me a strange kind of curious. I'm not lookin' to start shit for nothing because I know one day I'll get into a serious tussle for a good reason. I'll have the fuel inside to drive me to inflict pain without regard. 

Wow, I wonder what your thinkin' about me now? I never said I was a pacifist. 

I've been in a few brawls over the years. The kind that begin with a one on one tilt, or more typically, a dirty jumping at a bar, where all hell breaks loose and everyone else jumps in to even it out or break it up. I'm a "break it up" kinda guy. The problem is there's these other clowns that ask questions last and go straight for the break it up guy. Only makes things worse. In my experience I've been fairly untouched because I'm a decently big dude that knows how to make an effective crazy face. But when the all out brawl out gets underway, I'm what the British would call a "tosser." I grab anyone I don't know by the scruff and throw em' with everything I got. I keep an eye out on the main fighters (usually Flanny or Darling in my group) and I make sure they're winning with no dummies on their backs. 

In almost every brawl I can remember being in, we've been outnumbered and I've thrown a lot of dirty bastards off my buddies. But I've never thrown a solid punch. At least not one I can recall. The instinct doesn't seem to be there. Yet when I grab the son of a bitch and toss his ass to the ground, he doesn't come back because I tend to stare at em' with a fucked up face like I'm gonna eat em'. They stay out of it. 

I threw a guy into an oncoming car during one memorable scrap on Halloween, up in St. Catherine's. It was one of Flanny's bouts with quite a few of us involved. The whole thing stopped instantly when the dude smacked onto the car. What was even better was the fact that we were all dressed up in costumes. I was Ron Burgundy.