and the future has become the present

Andrew stopped and took a look at the contents of his toilet bowl. His hand reached for the lever and just rested on it.
Wow. My piss is green.
He withdrew his hand. Theo would flip out when he saw this.

Catherine wasn't quite sure whether she was coming or going. About all she could hold onto right now was the undeniable fact that she had done the impossible this past month. She caressed the bump of the RFID behind her left ear. My get-out-of-jail-free chip. I should call it that in front of Alex! Ha! She'd been told she'd be well-compensated, and this was certainly a welcome reward.

David and Diane were divorced. They hadn't spoken since the end of the legal proceedings. That had been forty-one years ago. And yet even at this late day, if one cared to look, it would be apparent that they were of a certain kind. Of course, no one still alive had ever met both of them.

David wrote policy. David wrote history. David wrote the Truth.

Diane wrote what she knew. Diane wrote what she saw. Diane wrote Lies.

For example, last week she penned a piece that contained this gem:

There had been mass riots ten years earlier, when the truth about 9/11 came out (the old, uncapitalized kind of truth). As a footnote to this world-shaking revelation, approximately half the inmates in every asylum across the Western world stuck their hands up like third-graders about to pee their pants and screamed "See?! I was right! Let me out!"
Long-suffering Kennedy enthusiasts tentatively started to look up, presumably thinking that maybe they'd get the next bit of good news.
They're still waiting, though.

She read it through once and then promptly burned it.

looking out the balcony window on a rainday

this one's for Finnegan, sitting at his patio door

"I saw him one day when he got outside. He didn't know what to do. 'Cold, what's that? What are those noises? It smells different! Everything's so bright!'"

pictures of a city, pt 4

When we first got on the elevator, it went down one floor. It didn't stop, but after that we didn't know where we were; the floor display simply went out. We rode, further and further down, longer than should have been possible. When we finally lurched to a halt, it was no surprise that the door opened on a lobby that bore no resemblance to the one we'd left, or even to the building that we had started to doubt we were still in. We didn't get out, and after a long couple of minutes, the doors closed and we went up again. We stayed in the elevator as it stopped at floor after floor, each one seeming like a completely different building. We knew we'd eventually have to get out, but for then, we watched and waited.

pictures of a city, pt 3

the rest of the city wasn't hidden by the fog. it simply wasn't there. i know not whether it was taken away from us or we from it. for anyone in this place last night, it was as if the universe was pared down to a quiet circle of land, hemmed in by an infinite darkness.

pictures of a city, pt 2

it TURNED.
i've ridden this subway for a coupla years and it's never turned here. the fuck... we just got out of davenport station, and it's s'posed ta be straight down the line.
but we just turned.

pictures of a city, pt 1

After months of hearing about this cool store, I finally bothered to go in. I found a couple of good t-shirts, but the whole place made me feel kind of uneasy. The store and all the people in it (shoppers and especially staff) were brutally hip. I don't think I'll go back soon. If this is all there is to it, why should anyone want to be cool?

somehow they got home: a suburban fairy tale [v2]

Some left the house early, only to get sidetracked and then, once back en route, come across a spectacular accident scene. As two police cruisers blocked one side of the busy intersection, a car was being towed away, its front end crumpled, among glass and debris strewn along at least the next fifty feet of road. Another tow truck waited, but no other car could be seen.
To the left, a large wooden three-posted land development billboard on the corner stood half-demolished -- tire tracks in the grass led from the intersection, past a flock of election signs and one large rock, and through the billboard itself. The other car was at least a hundred feet into the grassy field beyond.
A fire crew was finishing laying down the powder used to soak up anything that leaked from cars onto the pavement. Near the bus stop, next to the ambulance, a small group had gathered. Friends they'd left behind at the house.

travels

drill

Somewhere in this building, someone is drilling. All the way up here, it still sounds powerful. If you take a moment, maybe you can even hear it from where you are. I swear the whole apartment building is vibrating with the sound so loud, so relentless, conducted through the same thick concrete that separates all the units and all the floors. This ash-grey honeycomb vibrates and sets each room going at its own resonant frequency. And we're all so detuned it's starting to scare me. I know the whole building is starting to shake, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. In a few minutes this address is gonna be a pile of rubble on top of a drill that no one's turned off. And I'll still be nineteen floors up, suspended in midair, like in the Looney Tunes cartoons I watched when I was a kid. You don't fall until you realize you've got nothing under you.

we must do this again sometime

Richard's life changed in a moment. That's how he tells it, anyway.
For a while, he was starting to get hung up, bad. His life had changed, but the first few months were spent pondering the countless if-onlys that had led to the change, and without even the least of which, he would never be where he is now. Pondering the if-onlys. For months, which is a bit of a stretch no matter how you cut it.
He could feasably have kept pondering them for the rest of his life. But he didn't. That's another bunch of if-onlys right there.
It doesn't take long to realize why he says his life changed in a moment and just leaves it at that.

the country is more than just the space between cities

rushing headlong but looking sideways
as a dozen colours, maybe hundreds...
yes, ten thousand earthtone palettes per second,
the sum total of all the autumn days you never noticed,
blur horizontally in a naked honesty
that all the neon signs in the world could never hope to match.

and while your gaze stays fixed
where no reference point can exist,
your mind rides that invisible line on the edge of vision
where everything resolves into
six billion leaves, waiting
to fall softly to earth.

into the forest...

more and more ideas

taking out the trash at 3am

Rob’s decision to ride a bike for a living seemed perfectly natural to him. To the rest of the world, it marked him as probably insane.
Such is life. It’s such a funny thing, though, isn’t it? It never fails to disappoint whenever you try to plan it out, but somehow I never remember to plan for that part of it.
Those are the kind of thoughts that will pull you through Essential Deliveries on a Sunday night. Until 3 or 4 hours into Monday morning, and on a bike, of course. If the rush from spending a few hours in which you actually have some freedom on the road isn’t enough, the level of ambient radiated insanity from the clientele is high enough to send you into a psychological tailspin for the rest of the night.
This is, of course, half the fun of the job.
Rob was in the process of drifting between existential and absurdist thought when he heard the noise. Physically, just a second… he was just nearing the Little League diamond in North Downs, way the hell out in the ancient suburbs. And it sounded like, maybe, something was getting smashed around in the bleachers. Maybe some poor dude. Maybe…
One quick lesson is that if you can’t see anything because it’s too dark, don’t go looking. Doesn’t matter what you heard. The only downside is that no matter how old and seen-it-all jaded you think you’ve become, you still often wonder what it was for the rest of the night.
This particular sound was all but gone from his mind when he saw, across the parking lot of the gutted mini-mall further down the road from the baseball diamond, a speeding vehicle, careening just barely under control down the otherwise-empty street that intersected his 200 meters ahead. The only thing was, it seemed to be the size of a bus. Scratch that, it was a garbage truck, the kind that picked up dumpsters like the giant robot dinosaurs picked up compact cars on the countless televised demolition derbies he'd watched as a kid. From a fair distance away, he watched as the truck slowed to perhaps half of the legal speed limit, took the corner, somehow avoided tipping over, and began heading further up the street ahead of him.
Now that was a dead giveaway. In a significant percentage of the city, that kind of driving would be likely written off as simply free-spirited unwinding, a tired driver sending out an eloquently irresponsible fuck-you to the world that had made him or her a cog in whatever machine it had chosen based upon aptitude tests administered during early adolescence. If you’re gonna judge me like I’m still that person, fine, then I’ll act that age for you.
But as he passed through the intersection, Rob could clearly see the silver BMW parked on the side street, its hood and roof crushed along two lines spaced the same distance apart as -- wouldn’t you know? -- the slots on the sides of a standard trash dumpster.
Yep… the goddamn poser mafiosos strike again.
No part of the city produced so many coked-up, don’t-mess-with-my-shit-guy Dudes raised on Scarface and Get Rich or Die Tryin’ as North Downs did. The place also seemed to serve as a magnet to the rest of them, those who were unfortunate enough to have been born in more gentrified areas.
Rob knew the cops wouldn’t even show up to check this one out tomorrow. But there would be retribution nonetheless. Just not justice.
He flipped his bike up one gear and sped on towards his destination.

"the thunderstorm children still run free"

even when right and wrong no longer matter
and the idol of perfection lies shattered,
the words, though blurted and broken,
mean so much more than ever.

though the city may raise up
all its skyscrapers and chimneystacks to menace us,
its highways and onramps as fences to our bare feet,
will we stop believing? doubting? singing?
or will we join our grubby hands,
to walk with our beliefs, our doubts, and our songs?
for then the buildings of downtown will part before us
and we will make our way through this madness.

we won't care if they see us
running off to somewhere beyond,
and screaming to them our defiance,
"you'll never take us alive, you bastards!"

where, then...
in that unmapped place,
where we'll wake up
after finally touching down?

we'll walk in the fields and forests
with new things found along the way:
a little loss,
a little melancholy,
a little wisdom...
a little peace.

once again, wishing for a built-in camera

What must we have looked like? This intrepid group of sixteen crazy kids, drifting towards midnight -- vaguely keeping together -- across half-empty main streets, darkened soccer fields, under three giant power lines, through the university's new slapdash mini-suburb, and through the campus proper... finally assembling in the green space around the pond for a marathon game of capture-the-flag. We hassled and babbled about rules, sorted out our teams and sides, improvised flags from pieces of clothing we had on us, and set to work.
Yes, Matty, the pond is neutral.
I remember slipping through the nearly-dry drainage canal with Nick and climbing up the concrete slope on the other side, straight into a tangle of tall grass and weeds. From there on we were separated, and I made my way along the edge of the tall grass and where the university actually mows -- right next to the road. So every few minutes, headlights would flash by -- okay, there's this crazy asshole down on the ground next to the road, and it's midnight, and yeah he probably got shot... oh, okay then. Drive on.
No weapons in our battle. Funny how it's more fun that way.

as long as we keep dreaming there is still hope

Last night as I dreamt more vividly than I'd lived the day, I knew the end of the world was nigh. I was racing around a hilltop in an industrial zone, traintracks atop it -- the world may have been about to end, but at least the trains were running as relentlessly as ever. I remember I was moving around a lot, but I don't think I was actually doing anything, despite all that effort. It was just a kind of treading water, all available energies channelled into physical and mental survival and coming up slightly short -- hope stretched further and further away from the present. Running up and down the hill, dodging trains, ducking into empty warehouses and abandoned factories, just trying to stay out of the reach of... something.
Taking a rest on the hill, I saw a woman walking alongside the track of an onrushing freight. It sounded its horn but slowed not a bit, and blew past her with less than a foot to spare. She didn't even break stride. And... somehow, the train became transparent, whether for real and all or just for me I still cannot say. But through the train I saw her turn slowly to walk across the track, and her eyes widened only a bit, in tired surprise, at the sight of these railcars, speeding inches from her face and blocking her path. Around there, we all knew we had to watch for the trains, and did so automatically, more out of habit than concern. But somehow, I felt then that I had to watch the sky. Where else to look for the end of the world? But maybe, just maybe, I would have seen the right signs and portents, not in the sky, but in the trains and the factories, in our empty streets and blank eyes. Ultimately, I couldn't say how the world ended. I only remember waking up.

signs of the times

the clocks drift hours apart all the time.

people wake after sleeping for a day or more, and feel the same as if they'd slept only a couple of hours.

the phones never stop ringing, and they're all wrong numbers.

the traffic is always gridlocked, and there's an accident every few hours at every intersection.

no matter where you go, you can always hear sirens.

the air here is far heavier than our sense of rightness can support.

Mark Sayles isn't around much, any more

"Well, I'm very proud of him."
- Sayles' father, after his son's disastrous first concert

"Even after that album of his took off, he didn't start living like he was this big-shot. I mean it, he was such a good boy."
- Sayles' stepmother

"Man, I wanted the money. But when I got it, I felt I just had to put all of it back into making something new, something even bigger and more ridiculously insane. And, uh, some drugs."
- Mark Sayles

"Now, I regret not being there for him. Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent his life from, er, coming to all that. But I was young then, and just as foolish as he became."
- Sayles' mother

"If you give a piece of any kind of art a ridiculous title, the general public will give you license to do just about anything. It's great."
- Mark Sayles

dream 2006-05-18

Didn't remember this 'til midday, sitting at lunch in a kitschy restaurant. M'excusez, svp...

In a building, concrete walls, dark wooden doors; I walk through networks of halls with no windows. My mind identifies it as Winters res, but the one of these past years of dreams -- recognizeable and very different, all at once. Something is particularly different this time. As I walk, I encounter people I haven't seen in res since first year. For some reason, I'm apparently living in a different room than I remember -- not the room of this whole past year. And yet, my keycard... as I wonder, realization races down the empty hall and hits me: I am dreaming, the first time I know it is so!
So in this dream I live in a different room. What about my card? I try it on the door of my dream room, a theory already in mind. And, yes, it doesn't work! Now to test the rest of it: I rush to my "real" room -- someone else's in the dream -- and my card works there. I haven't actually broken completely free of the dream rules, moving omnipotently through and shaping the world, but I've still achieved a minor miracle, the changing of one small detail. I've created my own personal loophole.
Elsewhere in the halls, I encounter Armour, just like when he lived in res in first year. I'm excitedly telling him about all of it, and he accepts it all -- even the fact that he's just a part of my dream, and not the real Armourtime. He seems genuinely pleased for me that this has happened, but of course that's really my mind giving itself a pat on the back... which I guess is why he takes being told he's not real so well.
One other thought has been with me throughout the dream: it's interesting how this place IS res to me, but when I think about this, it's laid out nothing like the actual place... yet I've dreamed it before and know it well.

three steps

On the way to Downsview Stn., there's this concrete step-like structure built into the side of an artificial hill or berm next to the street. Three steps over a metre tall each. I have no idea what this structure is, as it doesn't have any signs or doors, or any visible machinery on or next to it. There are no buildings near it, either. My strongest memory of this place is seeing it from a passing bus while two girls standing near me spoke critically about an acquaintance of theirs. Today, over two years later, I glanced at those weird stairs, again from a bus, and realized that every time I do, the first thing that comes to mind is that overheard conversation, the details of this person's problems. It's almost as if the bizarre natures of this person and this thing have become one, each a representation of the same fundamental absurdity.

dream 2006-05-13

We hung out until the wee hours, and even they began to grow before sleep came. Only one image remained on waking, and the rest was just an impression.

Don't remember the context, but Armourtime is hanging out with a bunch of us in a place (his place?) that is almost, but not quite, like HomeFree. We're kind of bored, kind of restless, and so he produces a comb out of somewhere (probably nowhere) and combs my hair for maybe two seconds. I'm completely bewildered, and he just laughs. I know it's some kind of kindly joke, but I'm unsure as to the meaning.
We're all gathered in one place, and in the dream that seems strange, some kind of dangerous break from a life on the run. There's something that lurks below the surface in the waking world that has carte blanche in this dream place, and it's a different life altogether. Constant dull menace has replaced constant dull comfort.
We're in an apartment complex, making me think "Soviet Workers' Housing" even more than HomeFree already does. And yet, this tiny room is comfortable, if only because of the company, so I know this is important above all and to be nurtured... of course, right?

dreams 2006-05-06

I'm watching a video feed, overhead real-time bird's eye view of an outlying area of a Middle-Eastern city, most likely somewhere in Iraq. On a dirt road just outside the suburbs, a truck sits by the shoulder, a few armed men gathered around it. As someone, civilian, bicycles past along the otherwise empty road, I hear radio chatter and a missile streaks across the screen, narrowly missing the truck and the cyclist and exploding maybe ten metres away from the road in the desert. The cyclist pedals frantically to escape, but heavy machine-gun fire -- from offscreen, again, but a different direction -- blasts his body off the bike and sends it tumbling across the road. But why has this person been shot, and not the armed men? They had started running as soon as the missile struck, heading off the road towards the suburbs, going from one backyard to the next through gates, over fences and hedgerows. Now the machine-gun tracers follow them, blasting fences to bits, tearing gaping holes in anything they hit. And I realize that this is no Iraqi suburb any more; they're now running through the North American Suburb of Myth, the land of soccer and SUVs. I can tell the machine-gun fire must be coming from low-flying helicopters, and these people might as well be sheep for all those flying metal tanks may care... I see bodies getting ripped apart and tossed across backyards when struck by these rounds -- those guns are designed to take out light armoured vehicles, this I know! my God, my God... In one backyard, I swear I see a gunman run past a kid just playing, oblivious and happy, but then the tracers come -- no, how can this be? -- and both just ragdoll under the impact. Then I see one of the choppers fly overhead and hover -- it's an Apache, I think mechanically: 24 missiles to unleash the very fire of hell, and a 30mm automatic cannon besides. The gunner looks around, the gun automatically pointing wherever the gear on his helmet faces; just look, press button, slaughter. Two people try to hide under a picnic table; he just looks down, gun swivels, brrrraap, they're gone.
Now the video feed is coming from a camera on the ground; marines are charging down the streets, bursting into house after house, this horrible pursuit now being taken to the next stage. It's madness and death everywhere, and I can't even believe I'm still watching.
But then the video stops and I'm sitting and talking with an Arab guy my age; he's weary and sad, but hasn't totally given up on the world yet -- he's trying to get through to me, at any rate, but I'm just reeling after all of this. "Everyone's raised to think that their people are the good guys," is all I manage to say. His expression is moral pity, but not any sympathy for me -- I should still know what's right, he seems to be telling me...

dreams 2006-05-04

The southern shores of the now-wide, clear, sparkling, free-of-pollution Ottawa River near my house, boasting a stretch of well-used beach, a sunny summer tourist playground. And it's not Ottawa, or somehow we're bordering France; I can walk across the border from where I stand watching, a dozen or so metres from the shore -- and my heart full of fear, for I have in my hands a secret list of a half-dozen nations that France plans to invade imminently, and sure enough Canada is on it. However can we stop this expansion of a New French Empire?
Now turning away from the water and looking uphill, I'm walking away from the familiar Camp Opemikon Beach, and there's the dining hall at the top of the slope. My mother is here, organizing something, giving orders, and I'm totally out of the loop. Then a grey military twin-engine propellor plane flies over, shit, that was low. My mom is talking on radio to the pilot, telling him to come around for another pass, but lower this time. I'm getting nervous, more nervous every second, as the plane banks tightly and rustles the top branches of the forest around the camp. Again, lower! "That's too dangerous," I'm yelling but she won't listen to me, and now it's too late as the plane is flying over, too low, its wings clip the tops of trees and get sheared off by the trunks, then the fuselage ploughs through the forest and into the ground not even 100 metres away, a tangle of metal shards and wooden splinters. I'm shocked, horrified, they must all be dead, I think. I rage at my mother, who doesn't seem bothered. Then I see one figure in a messy flight suit struggle, hurt, out of the crashed plane. I run over to meet him and end up walking with him up the hill to the dining hall basement entrance 'round back. I'm still furious at my mom, talking wildly while the airman limps in silence, but before going inside he turns to me and says angrily, "Don't expect me to help you with this."

Elsewhere, a militiaman, rebellion fighter, war-weary sniper is setting up in a highrise, hunkered down and virtually invisible from outside in his abandoned apartment perch.
Then I'm in a military helicopter, flying over the city, watching a grinning, don't-give-a-shit maniac soldier traversing his heavy machine gun pointed out the side door, across the city, and letting off bursts of fearsomely powerful belt-fed rounds, rattling their way out of a giant military-green ammo crate, across the chopper floor, and into his monstrous weapon. Two loud clangs of high-velocity metal impact, two holes invisibly punched in the crate, smoke trailing out -- it's the sniper! It's gonna explode, I think, and apparently he does too, as he lets go of the murder weapon and rushes to the ammo crate, fumbling with it. What the hell is he doing? I wonder, then I see four giant bolts on the corners are now unfastened and, heave, he dumps it out the side door. It lands on a main road, skidding, sparking, into an intersection. I look on expectantly, waiting for the explosion I'm sure will come. The gunner seems unconcerned. A beaten-up bus has shuddered to a stop practically on top of the crate and I fear tragedy, but it doesn't blow and we fly beyond view.

Somewhere in the wilderness, in the merging of the Ottawa Valley and the Canadian Shield, I'm climbing a narrow path up the side of a valley. As I reach the forest at the top, there lies stretched out before me the river inlet at the valley's bottom, then at one end the lake that spreads further, into the distance. A crowd has gathered on the rocky peninsula on the far side, and the sun glitters on river and lake. This is no deserted wilderness, people dot either side of the valley -- I passed many on my way up here, and here I want to stay...

Even earlier, a vague dream forgotten til mid-afternoon: I start out in a York-CIA architechtural mash-up... in the maintenance tunnels I remember from otherwise-forgotten dreams, not York tunnels, but something totally other. Still dark and possibly dangerous, but more MY tunnels than Theo's at York, strangely (but familiar I guess because I've dreamed these several times). I'm in there with a friend, don't remember who, we're exploring when we hear people behind us talking -- we're caught, it's maintenance/security/doesn't-matter cause we're screwed. We book it and try a side door to hide or get above...
Then not long after, we're rushing through the tunnels once more, when we hear the voices again and it's too late, they're upon us, but we see them up close and it's just two random dudes, explorers like us; we nod in greeting and move on.
Later, I'm above, on my own, in and out of the buildings and grounds of the complex at nighttime. There's some kind of event going on, perhaps a gala -- I'm near the fringes of the activities. I encounter several well-dressed middle-aged folks, People With Credentials no doubt, but they're all pretty inebriated by this point. After speaking with a pair of them I come into posession of 16mm film canisters containing footage that would be utterly, undeniably damning to the current government should it be made public. My civic, moral duty is clear, but I know I'm in grave danger from ruthless power-mad officials and their conscience-less agents. I try to figure out some way to hide this thing, keep it safe, stay free, and get the truth out...

dreams 2006-05-03

I'm taken out of my age-context, transplanted into high school library dreams. First, exploration of the unfinished building: high up in the metal roof beams, and no false ceiling to hide me. I don't feel alone or afraid; I'm sure that if I look around or call out, brilliant mad Theo will appear, eyes alight with the thrill of unsanctioned discovery.
--later, brief snippets of leafing through someone's forgotten CD slipcase binders, lots of selection... somewhere in the reference section...
Then, inside the finished library, discussing the pros and cons of the multimedia section with Rachel B. and the Doctor; "they're always scratched, every time," I complain, meaning the CDs (and really dreamthinking of SMIL). As Rachel speaks, I see it on a table, this book I didn't know existed. And how can this be? The Silver Mt. Zion Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band have written a book! A young music fan's primer to religio-political conspiracies (mysterious, morally ambiguous, long-dead popes and cabals of the power-hungry), all told through a musician's lens, complete with photos -- PHOTOS! I look to see if I can find a picture of the mysterious Efrim. The Doctor and I are enthralled; he's raving about their new album that's coming out soon in the dreamworld, and I suggest pooling our resources of rare music, and even Rachel is interested by this book -- apparently she's heard of them...
Earlier, vague memories of hangouts in a row of student-ghetto houses along a quiet midtown street, journeys back and forth between the different buildings along the sidewalk or through the backyard, it doesn't matter which. Another wishful hipster community dream.

the yellow corvette

It's strange, the kind of things we believe when we're young. We come up with some interesting notions, seemingly out of nowhere -- at least, to an adult. They seem like the best answers at the time, however. Sometimes, we believe them for years. It wasn't until she began driving lessons that my mom realized that a painted "X" on a road doesn't, in fact, mark where someone was killed. However, she could forgive herself, as her father had told her that story when she was young and impressionable.
I didn't have the excuse of a mischievous parent.
Perhaps it was a strange coincidence in my home town, but something struck me as odd as I sat on the toilet one day many years ago (this was where I did most of my deep thinking and, coincidentally, most of my trying of my mother's patience). I thought to myself, why didn't I see any yellow cars on the street? Oh sure, there was the occasional car or truck owned by the city or the newspaper or some other company, but I couldn't recall ever seeing privately-owned yellow cars driving around. I surmised (and this seemed to make the best sense out of a confusing situation) that yellow cars weren't legal on the road, except when operated by a properly-licensed organization. This was a regulation that I didn't understand, but the only reason I could think of to explain this confusing problem. And besides, I had just begun public school, and inexplicable rules had become the order of the day.
There was this one problem with my theory, though. This one guy on the other end of my street had a yellow car. A Corvette. It was his baby: he took exceptionally good care of it, kept it in the garage in the winter, under a sheet in the summer, and drove another car, besides. The yellow Corvette stayed at the back of his driveway all summer, covered and withdrawn from casual view. But every once in a while, he'd roll it closer to the front door, work on it for a day or two, and drive it around for a few hours. I couldn't help but be stunned by his boldness. I was a little worried, partly for him, and partly for the rest of us who knew about his illicit drives (for no-one talked about either him or his car).
One day, I worked up the nerve to ask my parents about this yellow car mystery. They told me that it was perfectly legal to own a yellow car. When I asked them why there were virtually none, they said that it was probably because it just wasn't popular. This made sense in a mundane sort of way, but from then on I felt as if the mysterious owner of the yellow Corvette had somehow let me down by not being the dangerous rebel that I'd thought he was.

dreams: 2006-04-18

Large-scale cast of thousands dreams, new epic stories with almost biblical feeling.

We’re all in this government complex, on the monorail ride through and under the grounds, into and through secret buildings, dimly-lit boarding platforms glimpsed only for a moment. Good thing we’re strapped in, I think as we corkscrew through this dark tunnel, pressed into our seats -- I’ve found myself on Shock and Awe: The Ride. When we arrive at the end of the line, we’re suddenly let loose in the dark, empty bowels of the military-industrial complex. We fan out in boundless excitement and start to explore the tunnels...

Later, I find myself with the whole crowd of the past several years; we’re in the great Valhalla Mall of the gods, acting out a day of great events that will all be forgotten tomorrow, an end-of-days party so intense that it can never be remembered. And we all know that this is so, more to our advantage as it turns out. We’re running gloriously amok, throwing ourselves against the giants of the status quo in futile duels, cruising down the main streets in ocean liners while some moon the rest of the world over the side. Then, after the last mad rush of the night, we make our ways home from the mall, alone or in small groups. As I reach the far end of the Mall, I come across a girl my age sitting bright and alert in the pool of water surrounding a fountain. After some small talk I sit there with her and we wait for morning.

At last, the largest-scale event yet: I’m part of a giant cast putting on a space opera stage production. We come out of the audience, then blast through the outer hull of a spacecraft that fills the stage, tearing down this fourth wall and exposing the crew spaces within. Ships and people fly over the audience like an insane rock concert, as high drama is acted out in space suits and helmets. I have a small part, a spacewalking saboteur. It’s chaos, all of us trying to be coordinated with everyone and everything else while still getting the play’s meaning across; we’re all so overwhelmed by this spectacle we’ve created -- our collective production is now this machine just using us like replaceable parts, wearing us instead of enlisting us, but what else can a production this large be?

onward

There stretches out in all directions a seemingly infinite desert plain. Someone is crossing, a figure dragging behind themselves a tube that is almost as wide as they themselves are tall. The tube stretches back in a straight line, its origin far beyond the reach of sight. The figure drags it onward, no destination in view.

Now see the broad rank of figures, all roughly abreast, dragging their parallel tubes. What could have started something like this, and to what end could this pilgrimage be going?

'Round and 'Round

Somewhere between his eighth and ninth drink, Alan lost it. Mind you, he was not incoherent. He was in perfect control of his body -- at least, as perfect as it got during this long time that he had been drunk more often than sober.
You could get anything you wanted.
It probably wasn’t even the alcohol that got to him in the end. The thing that did probably didn’t even have a name. That’s the way it goes.
The eighth drink was finished, and put down. Then it, as well as half-empty ninth, the still-full tenth, and the table itself, went flying.
Alan stormed out, scattering other partiers like flimsy sailboats in his wake. Sheep. Fucking pussies.
Well, they’d learn not to fuck with him. All of them.

You could get anything you wanted.

No one knew how it happened. Maybe some of them saw the bits of broken glass, the spilled alcohol, when they got to the dance floor. Not even a tenth of those that did notice even wondered what caused this minor inconvenience. They had more important things to do.
The place was definitely getting hot, with more and more pieces of clothing being left on empty chairs or with zoned-out friends in the booths. The progressively less-clad dancers seized the vibe with both hands and refused to slacken their grip.
No one saw anything. Maybe they couldn’t remember, maybe they didn’t want to. Maybe some of them would admit to hearing the seven especially loud beats, all of which were in time with the music.
No one could deny, however, the empty seven-round clip found by the door, or the seven bodies found on the dance floor after the song ended.
For a while, there was shock, outrage, horror. What kind of person would do this? Why? That could be me lying dead, shot and trampled in the confusion.
The matter of who it was that got killed proved to be difficult. No one could seem to recognize any of the bodies. That’s not to say that they had been injured beyond recognition. No one could put a name to any of the faces. None of them could dance, drink, or fuck any more, so what was the use for a name anyway?

By mutual agreement, the dance floor was deserted before long, and the partiers embarked on a migratory mass bender. By the time the hangovers and burnout had faded enough, many found it within themselves to return, partly out of curiosity and partly out of habit.

The dance floor was empty, sparkling, and new.
And everyone marvelled at the changes. And everyone that could do so got up to dance. And everyone began to have a good time again.

After the first few songs, it was like they’d never been interrupted at all.

After Dark

Going over his photos during a moment of relative quiet and indefinite (but definitely too short) duration, Robin noticed that nearly all of the people in them could pass for movie stars. He wasn’t sure of the last movie he’d seen, couldn’t think of any he wanted to watch, even. But the movie-star look was unmistakable, no matter where, when, or how many drinks into the evening. It was something in the eyes, he surmised. Or maybe -- yes, perhaps this was closer to truth -- something absent from them.
Not that anyone else cared for such mental diversions, here. In a world where nothing holds up to close scrutiny, you learn how to avert your eyes and suppress your musings without even being told.
Robin had long felt that no one else would care for his photos. Maybe because mine all look different, but theirs all seem the same. Flipping to the next photo, he could hear Lily’s voice as clear as her face that grinned out at him. Elitism doesn’t become you, Rob.
He couldn’t help smiling back.

They’d met a long while ago; there had been a sort of interest on his part, a bit of infatuation -- the usual for around here. Then, as nothing came of it, he couldn’t recall seeing her for a very long time. They’d both gotten swept up in the flow, and as the pace of the party picked up, neither bothered to look back for people long gone.
Lily had later called it “the longest blackout you could imagine.”
And neither of them had realized until they met again, perhaps a thousand years -- or maybe the blink of an eye -- later.

Robin wasn’t having such a great time. It had come to that damnable dilemma: down some more drinks, or make his retreat -- where to, it didn’t matter. He cursed his indecision -- anyone else in his position would already have gotten a couple of shots by now, he figured. So why do I hesitate?
“I just don’t really want to,” a vaguely familiar girl’s voice just next to him was saying to her friend. He looked over that way. “Not now.”
“Lily--” her friend said from behind a bottle.
Lily… wow, it’s been ages.
“Don’t worry about me.” The girl took a step away, cast a quick look at Robin, then turned and headed for the washroom. His gaze rested on her for a moment. Did she recognize me? There was something about her that was different, he knew, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.
The other girl had noticed the object of Lily’s gaze. “Hey, you’re kinda cute,” she said. “Want a drink?”
What a jerk, she thought as she watched his retreating back and finished the drink herself.

He wasn’t sure how he’d found this hallway. He wasn’t even sure if hallway was the right word for it. He couldn’t see a roof -- the walls stretched ten feet up, and above that was only blank darkness. He was colder than he remembered being in a long time, but that was just fine with him. This chill did wonders for his head.
Robin contented himself with sitting halfway between the two walls, looking down the pathway that stretched on seemingly infinitely. The walls were blank gray and unmarked, with just a few doors breaking the monotony. The one just to his left was open, spilling some warm light into the otherwise monochromatic corridor. And just beside it, the only evidence that he wasn’t the first person to have discovered this space, was a message scratched into the wall: Matte Kudasai. He had no idea what it meant, but he appreciated the effect.
Then another point of light appeared a hundred feet in the distance, and a figure was silhouetted in front of it. The figure paused, then started towards him.
“Hello?” Lily’s voice rang through the empty space between them.

She’d had no more idea where they were than he did. But he could sense the same curious fascination that it held for him was just as strong in her, witnessed in the fact that neither of them had made any attempt to relocate somewhere else. Also in the fact that neither of them had propositioned any drinking, drugs, or sexual experimentation. Come to think of it, he thought, we’ve been talking for a very long time. And that fact nurtured a kind of excitement he felt he vaguely remembered. A nervous excitement, but one totally without fear.
“Look up there,” Lily said. “What would everyone else think of that?”
“I dunno, but do you think we can really tell them?”
They both laughed and grinned. “Nah.”
Lily pulled out a camera and snapped his picture before he could even pose out of instinct. “Gotcha.”
“Hey, wait a second, I wasn’t ready.”
She just looked at him, her lips twisting upward a fraction of an inch. Right. That’s the point.
“Oh my God, a distraction!” he exclaimed, and grabbed the camera out of her hands.
She scowled with just as much menace as if she’d smiled. “Jerk.”
A picture spat out of the camera. Without looking at it, he snapped one of her. After the flash, he caught a glimpse of motion through the viewfinder as he lowered the camera.
Her fist caught him right in the nose.

They’d stayed in that strange hall until the cold finally became too much. Sitting in a fairly busy stairwell later on, they examined the photos.
“What the shit is that?” Lily said, upon seeing the one she’d taken of him.
“What?”
“Look at the top. Those look like… you know.”
Stars. He flipped to the next. Her picture too. I haven’t seen the stars since…
“Lily, what the hell are we doing here?”

Neither of them had an answer, but once those thoughts started, the party couldn’t force them out of their minds. Robin found he was spending less and less time taking part in the party than ever, and when he was there, it was always with Lily, but they never stuck around for long. Neither of them ever so much as suggested leaving, but it just always ended up happening. So instead they spent their time with exploration and discussion.
But no matter how long they walked, no matter how far they went, no matter how many empty rooms and eternally-forgotten dark corridors they explored, they never found that roofless hallway ever again, and they ended up stumbling upon the party every time.

They walked into the dance floor, refreshed and contented enough that Robin turned to Lily with a smile that didn’t fit in with the sweat and thump of bass.
“Wanna dance?”
She put on a mock scowl. “To this?”
“Nah, just however we feel like. And if we bump into people…”
“They won’t even notice.”
They laughed and moved through the jostling crowd, limbs flailing, fingers snapping, making up words to sing along with.
And then the music changed.
The bass, the synth drums, the screeching, all gone -- replaced by the sound of a single piano. The crowd about them muttered in confusion and annoyance, but soon even that faded to a murmur.
Lily and Robin locked gazes, stepped closer together. Realization began to dawn.
As they took each others’ hands, they became aware that the very world around them had changed somehow. They weren’t the only people who had started to think. Everyone around them began to echo through the room.

My God, what time is it?
I never even knew his name…
Mom will be wondering where I am…
I shouldn’t have done that.
Fuck, I’m so wasted… I need to get away from these people…
They were aware of all of it. The wide eyes all about them told of the same. But something was different with them.

For less than a second, everyone stopped talking. For less than a second, the light seemed less harsh. For less than a second, everyone actually listened to the music.
For less than a second, there was clarity.
Then, with the scratch of a needle and the thud of a new beat, the coalesced vapour of thought dissipated in the indoor twilight.
And no one noticed the empty space that had appeared in the middle of the crowd, for it was soon filled again.

writing exercise: going somewhere?

EXT. ROADSIDE - DAY.

The wind howls and snow flies through the air, as the city is in the grips of a brutal blizzard. MARK, 22, disheveled, haggard, and bundled up, struggles under the hood of his car, which sits immobile on the shoulder of this road near the edge of town. He gets up, bangs his head, and then stumbles out from under the hood, which slams down. He pulls out his cellphone and dials a number, but it doesn't work.

As he wanders too close to the road, a passing transport truck HONKS and drenches him with splashed road muck.

MARK

Dammit!

He tries to wipe himself off, but is completely soaked. A car approaches, and he flags it down. The car pulls over and the driver, DIANE, rolls down her window.

DIANE

That your car? Need a boost?

MARK
(frantic)

Yes, no, uh... It's my car, yes, but I
think I'm out of gas. I need to get to
the set-- I'm on a movie shoot, see?
Could I get a lift to a bus station?

DIANE

I suppose... What about your car?

MARK

I can always get it later. Please, I need
to go, this is my career on the line.

DIANE

All right, hop in.

MARK

Okay, just let me...

He rushes to his car, pulls out boxes marked "PROPS MASTER", and hauls them over. Halfway there, one of them pops open, and dozens of guns spill out.

MARK

Shit!

DIANE

Oh my God!

She speeds off, leaving a furious Mark in her wake. He is frozen for a few seconds, then, seeing another approaching car, he grabs a gun, runs into its path, and flags it down. He runs up to the driver's side, pointing the gun at the terrified driver, BEN.

MARK

Out of the car, motherfucker!

launch (2nd take on an idea)

Port Sector was wreathed in a perpetual fog. You couldn't see most of the sector itself from outside. For that matter, you couldn't see more than 100 feet if you were inside it. The whole enveloping cloud was intermittently lit by the sporadic shuttle engine flares inside it, and the sector always rumbled as if from distant thunder. If you lived inside the fog- and soot-shrouded neighbourhood, you just got used to it. Or you left.

It wasn't a regular flight. Joel had caught only a glimpse through the haze, which had been enough for his trained eyes to notice the underslung weapons pod, hugging the shuttle's fuselage close but not quite close enough. Still, armed irregular flights were more the norm than an exception around here. Besides that, he'd just got a delivery to make, and oh yeah, the boss wanted it done yesterday.

dream 2006-03-12

A group of us are chilling in some kind of res building or apartment or hotel. Just some good hangouts in a few rooms. Casually, I’m looking outside and I see a giant llama in the chain-link-fenced parking lot of a nearby building. We gather at the window to watch. It climbs on a parked car and looks like it is about to go over the fence. Then it backs away and wanders around some more. Maybe 15 metres away, we notice another llama, almost as big, and also in that parking lot. Suddenly, they both vault the fence and are loose.

Up in the room, we’re freaking out -- this is too cool, man. Crazy giant llamas roaming around, who knows what kind of havoc will ensue?

Some of us make our way outside, where it is now nighttime. We find a large-scale hunt under way. A perimeter has been established, the street blocked off with fire engines, lights flashing about us.

Man, now those llamas must be freaking out.

A group of people go in behind a dark storefront to the rear parking lot. I don’t even know if the llamas are back there, but everyone seems certain.

Then, the branches of the couple of silhouetted trees in front of the store start to move, curling and uncurling. The building itself seems to grow, stretch upwards -- and I realize that those aren’t branches, and that’s not the building that’s growing, it’s a giant elephant that was asleep on the shadowy roof.

I don’t know how they’ll deal with this one.

I'm in your picture... in it.

Earlier tonight, I went for a walk. I ended up sitting drinking a bottle of Mountain Dew (yes, the kind with the mad amount of caffeine) under a tree in the middle of that rarest of things here this week: a dry grassy field. As I just sat and took in the view, I noticed someone walking along the nearest path, a good 30 metres away. He seemed to be holding a camera to his eye, pointed at me. Or was he lighting a cigarette? There did seem to be an intermittent glow playing on his face.

He started walking again, going along the path into the parking lot beyond. Then, in profile, I saw him raise a digital camera, pointed at the base of a lamppost, and check the image using the colour viewfinder.

Not long after, as I walked back to residence, I glanced back and realized that I had been completely in shadow the whole time, as the tree I was sitting under was surrounded by near-absolute blackness -- or so it seemed from under the lamps that lit the path. I made it into his picture and he'll never even know anyone was there.

the road to montreal

Panorama of the bus, early early on friday morning.

I shot a roll of film on that bus trip. No more photographs taken on the rest of the weekend, though; I wrote instead.

As a side note, we went to Foufounes Electriques that night, and I just a couple of days ago discovered a Nirvana bootleg from a show they played there in 1990. I'm stoked.















Aidan had a pretty good time at Foufs, too. Sort of kind of.

I think we all have stories to tell. I'm seriously thinking we should assemble something for a podcast episode on this.















Bear sure had some good times in Montreal. More material for storytimes (if he remembers it).

Adil, as well as Aidan and basically all of the amazingly talented musicians I know, will be playing at a sweet show at the Underground on Tuesday the 14th. Hopefully I'll be able to get a stereo patch from the soundboard to a DAT recorder that I need anyway for film sound effect gathering for a couple of productions I'm on. They gave me the equipment for almost a week; I'm pleasantly surprised at this. Hopefully more recording (for film, sound effects library, music, or the podcast) will be happening.















Are we there yet?

i missed the first bus but caught this instead

there, standing inside the bus shelter and looking into the dark window-scape in front of me, i could see two people together -- a man, sitting, and a woman, standing close, in contact. he seemed to be nuzzled against her stomach, his head leaning against her -- warmth and comfort, before my eyes. and then i noticed how their oneness was more than just my reading of this scene, how their forms blurred, merged below the waist. i shifted on my feet slightly, then saw that as she stood, solid, on the sidewalk outside, he didn't. i looked over my shoulder and saw him in the flesh, seated alone on a bench inside.

so much for the tender scene. should i have then been disappointed?

looking back to the window as the bus arrived and the people around me began to move, i saw her hand stroke his hair before she turned away.

2006-01-15

I was in a midtown street scene. A well-known street, but small, the kind that usually has more foot traffic than cars; lined with small but busy storefronts. Amalgam of the Byward Market and Bloor Street. This time, the crowds dominated everything. I was with someone, maybe family, and we seemed to have to go with this crowd. At least I thought so. As I made my way down, I realized that--
with everyone moving the same way,
with no cars driving,
with groups of people running about the middle of the street to some hard purpose,
with most of the shops boarded up,
and most of all, with those demolition charges,
danger was upon us; this was some kind of evacuation, being played out by its own twisted rules.

We found ourselves in a line for something. Once we got near the front, we saw that it led to some guy in front of a store that he and his buddies had seemingly broken into; they were selling cigarettes, but just a few at a time. I sheepishly shrugged when I got to the front and he offered me a couple out of a pack. My companion and I both declined; neither of us smoked. He looked ready to swear up and down and rail against our obvious stupidity, but thankfully no one on this street had time for any unnecessary words.

Further down, some kind of home-made tower of demolition charges was being set up near a storefront. I gathered that it would be to block the street with rubble once everyone had got past this point, or once there was simply no time left -- what were we running from, anyway? -- but the people setting up these demo charges weren’t soldiers or people in uniform -- come to think of it, I hadn’t even seen any cops.

Right in front of us, a couple of people were setting up a smaller column of demo charges. This seemed to be some kind of paper/cardboard box structure, with I-guess-explosives inside somewhere. It was leaning up against another building. The person lit the bottom of this paper structure. It caught fast, but no one in the little crowd seemed ready to move away. I yelled at my companion, who got too close, seemingly unconcerned. I got her further away, then it blew. Kind of anticlimactic, really -- it didn’t even damage the storefront, but it knocked over a lamppost -- and the way it fell, it almost hit me. So much for my concern for safety.

dream last night

I’m with a group of friends; we’re all flaked out around a couple of picnic tables behind this building on the top of a fairly large hill overlooking the city, kind of like the Wormhole picked up and deposited in this high place. Most of the people are just like the Wormhole crowd, but Kiera is there, too. She’s never met them before, and I’m so glad to be introducing her to this gang.

A large swarm of hot-air balloons is coming in our direction from the city. They’re moving pretty fast, too. Reminds me of that balloon festival in Ottawa, but these are a strange sort of balloons -- smaller, faster -- racing hot-air balloons, not the large lethargic ones. One of them comes down towards us and lands on a raised platform at the edge of the summit just beyond the trees. As it nears, all of us recognize the two people inside -- intrepid adventurer friends, sometimes with us, mostly gone out into the wide world beyond the horizons. They land and come over to talk with us.

As we all talk and hang out, just exchanging pleasantries, Kiera and I look at the balloon. It is a small, extremely functional affair, the balloon itself round and completely transparent. Kiera makes a few remarks to the ballooners that demonstrate more than a layman’s knowledge of their machine. Then she goes into the building behind us. I follow, finding myself in some kind of restaurant or lounge. She is talking with a bunch of her Ottawa friends inside. I don’t feel like I fit in with this group at all, so I go back outside to my friends at the tables.

I sit down and start listening. The ballooners say that they’ve come here to offer their services to the people that run the place behind us -- they say it’s a prison and that’s just the way it is, I guess. They want to offer day trips over the city or something. Why prisoners would be allowed on those, I don’t know. In any case, we all see through that explanation and know they’ve come to break someone out. This is understood across the board and our conversation turns to prison breaks that we know of. The one that comes up is the story of a guy who just came into this very place incognito and walked out with a prisoner. I wonder who they’ve come to break out of here. For that matter, I don’t know whether or not we ourselves are inmates here.

I think this would have made more sense if it was a dream

Yesterday, I was walking along the path north from Winters. A few feet into the field to my right was a line of trees. On the ground below them I saw three squirrels. Normally, this would be strange for a January afternoon, but we have no snow here any more (as I write this it is warm enough to walk around outside without a coat). I've been noticing a lot of squirrels around campus lately, and they've been acting in a manner that suggests ownership of this space. We're all so busy fighting Lorna Marsden for this same area, calling it our 'Student Space,' that we've forgotten about the squirrels. They don't have to live by anyone's rules, least of all President Marsden's. These three were acting exceptionally strange. Considering that York is home to the weirdest, most aggressive squirrels out of any place I've been, these particular ones were the most fucked-up squirrels I've ever seen in my life.

One of them was gnawing all the bark off the broken branch. I stopped to watch, as this creature tore into its task, much as hyenas do to a carcass. After a few seconds it noticed me, and turned towards me a gaze that was less of a situational evaluation than an outright threat. 'That's right. I'm chewing through a branch. Get lost, because your flesh is a lot softer.'

After several harrowing seconds I remembered the size difference involved, and moved my attention to the next squirrel. This one was intent on getting into an overhanging tree. Instead of climbing up the trunk, which was about eight feet away, it seemed insistent on jumping a foot or two into the air to claw at a small, unsteady, swaying branch. The first time, it ended up hanging by its forepaws, swinging back and forth from the end of a branch that could not remain stable while supporting any animal larger than a mouse. Eventually, the squirrel had to let go. It tried and failed about four more times, and never did end up trying the trunk, probably because--

At that moment, a male voice cut through the quiet outdoor ambience, coming from somewhere up in McLaughlin residence, directly behind me.

'Hey Squirrel Boy! Get a room!'

What the eff.

tuesday, wake-up

I'm in that curious non-York again. North of Winters, the pathway leads to that mysterious (to me) other building and goes either around it or through that courtyard area that stretches under a part of it, to where the two rejoin again. I want to visit all our half-remembered nooks and great spots over there again.
Then I'm on a bus with some friends. We're heading south on the huge road that passes the campus -- it's not Keele, though -- and it's really interesting just to look out the windows. There were some really nice shops and restaurants, a very nice, alive -- ALIVE! -- part of town, and not the edge of nowhere at all.
Then various scenes; I don't know if they're in this other York or not, but I find myself in a world that I've been a part of for a long time already. Matty H. is talking to Raymi on the internet, and she's actually talking with him, too. It's far more mundane than her blog, though -- is that good or bad?
Walking along an east-west thoroughfare, it's dusk-turning-to-night. Now we're all gathered by some strange outdoor machinery apparatus, all high-tech but with an air of Rube Goldberg whimsy. Coach is talking about this guy, Mexican (I think), "Bambino" -- I only know him by reputation -- not sure if he's dead or just gone away, but Coach sure misses him. Apparently, he was one-of-a-kind.
I suppose we all are, just not the kind that matter to the Coaches of the world.

dreams from friday 20th, written following sunday

Back to yesterday, I remember being back at that amazing Ope, this time overrun by only those aspects of it that I don't remember fondly. This place that I explain to Winters folk as my Winters-before-Winters is now revisited in its most bureaucratic form. A large meeting of Staff and Administration and Desk People, in a building like the new Accolades. I wonder why I've come back this summer. Kiera and Tyler and Roy and Sean and Lisa and Rob and everyone, every single amazing person I'd worked with weren't there. Why was I?
The senior people present ended up speaking in no uncertain terms about god, or God as they envision it. Some younger staff member in the audience rose up in opposition, kind of showing off, though, and then the whole thing just went to hell.
I ended up, completely frustrated at another ruined thing, at home. But then Ben from Winters, and Warren from Ope, who have never met, are visiting for a while and sleeping over at my house, and amazingly enough, getting along great with my parents.