Up Syndrome

I have a blog nemesis. It's revivifying. Just as spring burps a few splutters and false starts, I get an enemy!! Yay!!! As I divined from the oracular MSN, I'm not alone in this feeling. The best part is, this enemy does not even know it. I believe that until Father Ted is fully downloaded, I will glibly write posts pertaining to this person's eminent idiocy. Idiocy just radiates from this overconfident redouche like tapeworms from a puppy. I'd love to get in a verbal exchange with this bloated ball-bag, but that would be instigative. I just have to stew. It shouldn't matter, and that's why it does.

a timed post...

busy day today (at least, by supposition), the time is now 12:55, and i give myself till 1 to blitz this post: woke up fuzzy and maladjusted (yes!) to an irritable cosmos. sought the sound of phantasmic honking and caught a V-wing of perhaps 200 geese like one more of winter's scars. been seeing scars on people since, especially headwounds and children. one such situation arose in the form of a brigade of mothers pushing child-carriages... the carriages actually had brand names of Jeep and Humvee on them. Thought the cast-iron dinosaurs that roam on St. L might claim a few of the little goslings, but apparantly they're only asphaltivores, and don't eat of these creamy skinned little pop-rocks. I have the complexion of homemade yoghurt, and think it would suit me if I weren't so expired. ok dandies, 12:59. gotta pull the chute. laters!

The sixth sense is a-non____...

St. Splatty's and the Self...

I got disasterated this weekend. It was fun to do, but when you vow never ever to drink ever again WHILE you are doing it, it hurts that much more. I met champions and chums, and due to a prolonged period of confidence-incontinence, kept pretty unrowdy and instead served more as a drunkard facilitator (back-patter, oopsy-daisy-picker-back-upper, wallet retriever, 'anyone-know-this-unconscious-guy?' yeller etc.). Er, yah, it was fun to do. The spectator became the spectacle.

Which leads me to the next question.. The concept of the Self is under attack!! Or maybe I've only just noticed it. Either way, I think that's a good thing, considering it is largely a fabrication of the market. I've read various works pertaining to the destruction/realization of the Self, but never from the vantage of an industry (more from an ontological angle) and am salivating at the thought of watching this recently downloaded doc. YAY SELF-SACRIFICE!!

Whomunculus asks: What do you think of the Self?

Just over a year ago...

...Justine and Amy, Julian and I, had posted our vacant, windowless room for rent. These rooms are illegal in Montreal, due to some its-just-a-matter-of-time-till-the-place-catches-fire-and-the-landlord-has-preemtively-sworn-that-they-didn't-do-it permit clause, in which case every room requires an alternate exit (or alternate form of doom). But considering fires need oxygen to burn nobody'd seemed too concerned about the status of this room, and so put up some dry wall to suggest privacy. Of course, as anyone who's familiar with drywall will know, that's like putting up a taut drumskin between two enclosed spaces and then trying to sleep with a pillow over your head while the deafening sound of someone blinking or inconsiderately vacillating their pores permeates your thoughts. So we tried to put a positive spin on it, perhaps called it cozy or womblike or not-claustrophobia-inducing or somesuch. Then we sat back to see who it would bring.

Well, it brought a hungarian girl who reminded me of one of Jabba's guards (sorry, but it's true) half eaten by the Rangor. It brought Armand (an initially shy Frenchman who we loved and eventually raised above our heads in collective triumph). And a few others. But most interestingly it brought Eugene.

Eugene did not come alone. He was a recent emigre/escapee? from Russia and he had a very sobering support system. He had one man on the phone, securing apartment viewing dates for him. He had a PA/translator/field-agent, who escorted him through each viewing. He was the spitting image of Vin Diesel (which, if you know not he, then i'll just say that this is not an image you'll readily spit at) which is like having a few bodyguards. He came in like a bad guy, just nodding and pointing. His translator was very pleasant, but spoke pointedly: "Eugene would like to see your basement" (how the hell did he know that? Eugene had not spoken a word) at which he spent longer looking than his potential bedroom. "The basement is unfinished and, er, not absolutely soundproof. Ha.." we may've stammered back. Again the PA spoke: "How is pressure of water?" Enough to rinse the blood off... Eventually Eugene DID say something, and the translator said: "Eugene will let you know if he will takes it" to which, we being kind of silent and cross-armed, we looked at each other questioning whether they meant the ENTIRE apartment or what and then one of us replied... "Ok, we'll have a little think about it too"... Then: "Eugene must go now, driver is waiting..." Then Eugene smiled. And I breathed.

Armand, I'm so glad you moved in mate!
Some potential other conversations we may've had:
"Screaming is fun, no?"
"You like Mercedes?"
"Price of cage high in Canada."
"The P in RPG means 'propelled'? Huh, Eugene thought it mean Plutonium."
"Eugene say he can tell you cry a a lot. You make good money for Eugene."
"You heard him. Kidney. Now."
"Leather lasts longer than love."

S'Mat! make S'Mat! Smash!

Tricky little devils
Complacency Swiftens
Trailing Lilliputians
Like a sticky-nosed 4 year old
Trails shoelaces
Mouth grasping like a fist
Hero we go again
Kinder to hate
Kindling to relate
And there go the chimes
Lancing the ears
With her dazzling tines
And all becomes reflection:
No armistice for loved ones
The boundaries fucking fart
Humour falls, a pall
I, Sade
Ribs from dangled pirates
And there's a fingernail in the sky
You picked me clean
And shat on my carcass
Your arrogance asked me to
Thank you
Stare a little harder at those waters, my dear
They become stiller yet

rambles through the brambles

flicking the crumbs off my chest-mounted anti-grav unit from another sci-fi gorging here. it was a filler thriller though. mcdevitt's written better. astoundingly, he flummoxed the opportunity to hit the aria in the space-opera, garrulously garbled any pointed xeno/anthro juxtaposition he'd meant to and flounced even his characters' relationships to the "cosmic calamity". oh, the pressures. i don't mean to jettison him completely, a few of his books have been thoroughly enjoyable... but this. stopping space pollution starts at home, people. and this one's an assteroid. so, do not read OMEGA. read A TALENT FOR WAR instead, now THAT is good.

speaking of garblage, i'm gargling it. so to eradicate a mean bout of consciousnesstipation, i'll keep this inculpably vague. i could talk about my dreams (as proselytized by a taxi-driver while being chased by some heavies, i 'cleaned' a candy-store, bought some leather articles and then joined a besieged sect of the mafia. eventually, i moved to sicily to husband animals... this is a strange dream for a celt/saxon with the skin tone of mashed potatoes prepared in a basement).

music has erupted through the pores again. pirated, it has smeared my lipstick, broken a pump, put me in a kappa jogging suit (tearaways) and left me without bus-money, but also given me the goose skin of another sort of dream. the day-dream. the day-dream. the day-dream. diurnal oneirism is a practice, one i've been foolish to ignore. it's more than just guided projection of selfscape, it's a habit-bomb and the decommissioning of rigidity. it flexes our ethical sense, fills routine with poetic levity, and makes a bricolage of your self-imagery. it is necessary (but obviously not sufficient) for our joining of the higher purpose. it is the space between our vertebrae. it is the notebook of ideal, the photonegative of our real-life, the vacant seats in the orchestra pit, the bloodbank for the roadkill, the pillows lashed to our heads all day long, our senses of humour and our humour of senses... i kept scraping around for the transitional vocabulary that conducts the abstract to action. i'd forgotten that day-dreaming is it.

musica! i listen to now: amon tobin (missed the exhilarating part of his friday collaborative, so i stole him), of montreal (been a fan for a while but missed their show yester), !!! (bouncybouncy, i'd been given an EP of theirs a few years ago, but the rave review in the mirror settled it. i'd no idea they were linked to Out Hud...), venetian snares (Rossz Csillag: drum n bass with violin, like a diamond commercial for safe-crackers), 4hero (very good) and menomena (not quite sold on these guys yet, kinda like a meaty Architecture in Helsinki in terms of group construction, except good. i'm thinking Gomez, Radiohead and Super Furry Animals. try Air Aid to get the hook). AND AS ALWAYS, PLAID.

*airlocks sealing - retrothrusters primed for disembark - AMPLIFIER THROBBING *

10 Things About Me That Might Qualify Me as ODD...

I picked up a themememe from Heather of itsallgreytome... so, i'm game, but like removing a burr from a kilt, i may have to bare a bit more than my tweed here...

1. One of the few NY resolutions that I've managed to triumph was refraining from showing others my earhair when drunk. For whatever reason, I was compelled to bring them in close for a thorough inspection. It's the cute kind of earhair, like kitten fluff or a yoda-ish mark of wisdom or that remarkable downy cilia that anorexics paste down with makeup for their prom. Since I've stopped trying to get others to marvel at it, it has actually disappeared. My conclusion: the cranium is no longer anorexic.
2. I view Marmite as one of the greatest culinary pleasures to've ever graced ever. Plop it in a broth, and it'll give it edge. Slather it on toast, and nothing else'll do. It is my tub of ChocoChunkCookieDoughFudgePralineScalped-By-Sheer-Yumminess Ice Cream. Because of its NA stigma, I'm basically at the behind-the-dumpster level of indulgence. Marmite for the mighty! (Vegemite, however, is bootpolish. Kraft bought 'em out.)
3. I find insects and arachnids completely enthralling. Roaches... fine. Silverfish... cool. Hornets, earwigs, tarantulas... all tolerable. However, I LOATH centipedes. They're vicious little aliens, and deserve to perish.
4. BASE WARNING: One of the most satisfying pleasures I incurred last year emerged from one of the most embarrasing: One time, I was caught outside at 5am in the morning with the irrepressible urge to shit. Everyone's felt that compunction to function, so I allow myself only a modicum of shame relating this. I dropped my bags, and sprinted down a snow-encrusted alley, found a convenient stabilizer and dropped trou. FAST FORWARD. When the urgency abated, I was presented with the next obvious dilemma: fishing through my jacket, I came up with inadequate means until, like a golden chalice of poetic justice, out came a crumpled Telus Bill. The rest, as they say, is shitstory. HAHAHAHAHA. Telus: 47 - S'Mat!: roughly 3 (but heroically in one sitting).
5. I raised myself on Techno, one of the most hotly debated forms of music there is. I would contend that it has been the gateway to all other forms of music that ever existed (for me). I taught myself to dance alone in my room with industrial, British New Wave and proto-Grrl bands, taking breaks only to smoke on my roof. But the Techno dominates all, and I actually sometimes experience symphonic and sublimely complex Techno melodies as I sleep.
6. Recently, I experienced a strange and disturbing and uncontrollable psychic phenomenon of doing arts and crafts IN MY HEAD. The most prevalent one was this one I learnt in kindergarten: take two 6-inch diameter cardboard doughnut cutouts (the inner hole as wide as the band, so 2"), place them on top of each other and then wrap them with a thick gauge wool (multicoloured is best) through the hole and round the band. Continue until you cannot possibly get the wool through the hole anymore. Now, carefully, cut the wool around the circumference and separate the two cardboard doughnuts a smidgeon. And then tie a piece of wool orbitally, so the wool cinches in the middle of the doughnuts tightly. Now, remove the cardboard, you should have a wool ball, somewhat resembling a Fry-Guy or a cozy-looking sea-urchin. Now it is an important step to remonstrate yourself for producing the most useless A&C article ever. So, yes, in my head, I pumped these wool-balls out like I was somehow assisting the Japanese war effort. It got so bad, that I had to create a ricketty old cowboy (for some reason named Classy) to pull his six-shooters threateningly everytime my mind started wasting wool. One time he even hollered: "You'd better be dropping them there doughnuts or else I'll be filling you fuller've holes'n a 4-star hotel's jacuzzi". Somehow, it worked and I've since relinquished the wool.
7. I miss being part of a choir more than any other gregarious activity. Though I miss acting almost as much.
8. When I was young, I think I actually spoke dog before I spoke english. My best friend was our dog, Jackson, and we were inseparable. However, this meant that many people, adults, teachers, parents etc. considered me near-feral and maladjusted. This persists now as somewhat of a point of pride.
9. I once held my breath for over 2 minutes. I've been electrocuted 3 times. I've bled from the head more than I know (I'd better check, even now). I've suffered a few concussions (but never told anybody). I used to pass out in the shower. I have excruciating hamstring cramps after I swim or dance. I was a breech baby, with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, and extricated by way of the section C. I LIKE hanging out at the chess cafe, Pi. All this points to some sort of persisting oxygen-deficient lifestyle and has made me terrified that I am brain damaged. Or just lazy (on a cellular level).
10. I am currently deeply in love.

Ok. HARHARHAR, it's my turn to tag some fellow blogular globulars: Indiana, Sadia, Eve, Lindz and Sparky... who's down with ODD?

Allegory of the Cavelove - I, Glaucon