Sunday, April 20, 2014

SELFIE, 2.348c




     

self-portrait, yet again, as always



This notion has become a comic sense, becoming what a whip of the word is to only become an industrialized society.

I live the life of a 12-inch solver, only by my feet. The records of career ump tempts careered upon as inevitable and collapsing.

 Some times I want to fuck and sometimes I don’t.

And the times between them are littered with mothers and friends and frank conversations about toast.

I like my toast, toasted, with avocado and big flakes of sea salt, strewn like little children clothes, all over the edible.

I am an asshole.

(That is a persona I present, from time to time.)

I am a loveable bear.

(That is a personal I present, from time to time, depending.)

I am what you want me to be.

(That is, when you want me to be something I can do; something that is disrupted when what you ask is something you want me to be and I have to say, no, I cannot be that which you want me to me.)





This thing called self:  such a wonderful waste of an image altogether.











Tuesday, April 15, 2014

4,200,000 (Or, The Story of the Numbers)





a speculative fiction & parable




Yellow Cab is committed to providing the highest standard of Halifax cab service to all our patrons.
                        

- yellowcabltd.ca





I was used to using cabs to get around. Where I lived, they were reliable and always available, any time, day or night. They were a quiet place to look out the window and think about where I was coming from and where I was going, all the while seeing everything pass before me, somewhere outside.

I moved to Halifax in July. I was used to cold, but not this kind of cold.

Especially in November.

I was out with some new friends, friends who I couldn’t exactly call friends to myself, but would call them that to other people I knew, knowing full well that eventually I would be able to call them friends to even myself, because we were getting along so well and they liked me and I liked them.

But, not having had many friends growing up, I felt a certain urge to keep myself from being hurt, while also presenting to the world that I wasn’t one so sensitive as to be hurt, because, look, I had friends!

I had had too much to drink, along with my new friends, and we were at a loss as to how to get home to the various places where we all lived.

We all lived within the same city, but in varying parts of the same city. Public transportation had shut down for the evening, and with only one of us with a vehicle (and none of us properly functioning to legally drive said vehicle) I proposed what I had proposed to multiple other friends and myself.

“What’s the best cab option here?”

The response was nearly unanimous:

“Yellow Cab!”

I pulled out my phone, asking for the number.

“I think it’s 420-…” one friend said while spilling her drink on her new dress and interrupting herself with a “fuck”.

“It’s 420-0000,” another friend said, dressed in bland khakis and, by that point, mostly unbuttoned button-down.

I called, and they were quick to answer. They asked me my location, and I had to ask my friends for where, exactly, we were.

Someone had ordered more shots, and I never felt more alone, speaking to a man I could barely hear, trying to plot out what our plan was in a way that didn’t sound completely insane to someone outside of the situation.

“I think he said it would be a 20 minute ETA,” I said, shot in hand.

We did our shots and laughed. That’s what friends do, I thought to myself.

20 minutes, and 3 shots later, we paid our tab and went outside in the freezing air.

I had only brought a light jacket, not figuring that anything more would be necessary, but a recent blast of cold air had left the streets feeling desolate and barren, like we were in a highly industrialized part of town, even though there were spots of neon around us.

“Fucka, it’s cold,” one friend, the one in khakis, said blatantly to the night, our perhaps to us, as his friends, beginning to re-button his button-up.

We huddled around as a group, passing the one cigarette one of us still had left, thinking that the lit end might somehow keep us warm.

After about 9 minutes of this, our cab arrived. Upon stopping, he looked at the group of us, a huddled bunch of 7 or 8, and we could see him shake his head, wordlessly saying “no way” and then driving off.

My khaki friend, still holding the cigarette, ran after the cab screaming something I don’t quite remember.

What I remember is that he threw the cigarette at the cab in a pointless act of defiance.

“You just got rid of our last hope for warmth!” a friend, whose name I can no longer recall, so she couldn’t really have been considered much of a friend after all, said.

I closed my eyes and asked if there were any other cab options in the city, trying to remain calm and still friendly.

No one could come up with one.

We all ended up walking home, alone, each in our own different directions.

When I got home, I dreamt about numbers and points where we went wrong; about how we could have done things better; about the cold and how stupid cold was, I never liked the cold, and why did it have to happen in the first place it’s so cold and stupid?

What my friends dreamt about, I don’t know.

I never asked.














Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Man, The River






Like the river he was,
roiling like two stupid
in-bred laws,
he only saw the river

for a simpleton, or,
something that he liked
to make fun of and, thus,
render better, poured down.

Did you begin the other day?
Did you discover the space,
where desire was the whisper,
passing by, moving, like the air,

the river, right, itself?





Thursday, April 10, 2014

Saskatchewan (Postal: SK)


John Martin Crawford, serial killer







I was told, at work today, that I sounded like a  serial killer.

This was a statement that came from my boss.

And without any hint of irony or humor.



                                                *                      *                      *



The origin of this response was in a casual conversation where myself and a co-worker commented, with compliment, on how well she wears the color orange.

Orange being a very difficult color to pull off on most skin-tones.

She egged on the conversation with comments about how easily she tans/burns; how she frequently shelters her children from the sun to prevent their burning fleshing being a marked memory of unpleasantness with regards to the sun.

I offered up a minor, Proustian memory of sunburns and my childhood:

I remember all the times spent at the beach, where my grandparents lived, and laying about in the sun, or the waves, without suntan lotion (it was the 80s) and almost enjoying being burned, if only to enjoy the innocent pleasure of the feel of the burn, combined with the lotion, combined with the cold Oregon sheets of my grandma’s bed.

It was something that relaxed me. It was a pain that I found to be comforting, in the effort to combat it.

And it was reliable.



                                                *                      *                      *



The woman in question (my boss) responded, with a confused look on her face, with the following:

“That sounds like something a serial killer would say…”

She quickly retreated from the conversation, leaving my co-worker and I with only our own subjective opinions on the topic left us:

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah. That seemed really inappropriate. Even if she thought that, she shouldn’t have said it.”



                                                *                      *                      *



My co-worker and I decided upon, as an inside joke, to refer to me as “SK” (or, “serial killer”).

We made a rush of jokes regarding the topic, putting the phrase into normal conversation:

“You just described a detailed account of why what happened was wrong. That was some real “SK” behavior!”

“You know you just exhibited some perfect “SK”…”

We did this for the remainder of the day. Something private, something special; shared and understood.



                                               *                      *                      *



JOHN MARTIN CRAWFORD- Crawford committed his first murder in 1981 two days before Christmas after meeting a woman at the bar. He was convicted of that murder and was sentenced to jail until 1989 after being paroled. Only 3 years after being released John Crawford went on to kill 3 more Aboriginal women in Saskatchewan. He was finally caught and convicted in 1996 of the 3 murders and got 3 concurrent life sentences and is serving his time in Saskatchewan Penitentiary. His trial was at the same time as the "BERNARDO" trial. John Crawford is also suspected of 3 other murders that happened in Saskatoon.











Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Choices (an experiment in the trite)









Choices pass over us everyday,
the present becoming a
resonant something else:

Places where some come
to visit, some to stay,
some to merely observe

and, then, walk away.