Two kinds of history

1
Sombre men climb aboard
train cars like wrought-iron
linked to a steam engine,
separated from the crowd
of wives and children,
uprooted on the platform,
unsure of when the rain
will push them down the hill.
There is crying and despair;
there are black clouds hanging
above the ink-washed morning.

I know this story of separation
is true, this scene with the
soldiers and their wives
is vivid – somehow – to me.
A memory of black and white
videos of Poland, or somewhere,
comes flooding in with Milosz’
words scored to a sad string
ensemble, moving me like their
pictures were my own.

2
I had friends that left on Via-
Rail trains, setting out, victims to
scholastics and the pursuit of
life. I didn’t see them off from the
platform, so I cannot litter
those occasions with the tears,
or thoughts, or weather.

I wrote long letters to myself
and sent them out to nothing
but maybe the delusion that
those trains had stopped and
they were there, eager to read
my words but just too busy
to write back every so often.

I… did the dishes?

I have reached a new mezzanine in the winding staircase of spiritual development.

After an intense meditation session, I strolled into the kitchen with intentions of cooking me up a delicious omelette variation that my friend Lucy told me how to make. Ignoring the towering pile of dishes, I rustled through the refrigerator acquiring the eggs and vegetables that I would need for the recipe. I then opened the cupboards only to find that I was short the required containers and utensils. I found a relatively clean bowl, rinsed it out, rinsed a fork, and washed the frying pan before continuing on my arduous journey toward culinary fulfillment (I’ll spare you the play-by-play of my every gut-warming bite).

When I returned my spoils to the sink, the kitchen seemed alive and threatening, slanted on oblique angles in a way that made me feel very claustrophobic. Dishes caked and stained with soup, juice and cocoa wounded the counter’s surface, and that which had not been covered bled the sewage green residue of my sister’s protein-fiber shakes. Every surface I looked at seemed to be slashed with this goop. I wished very badly that somebody would do something about it.

Then I thought of my mother, coming home after an 8-hour day to children that compete to see which one can make the bigger mess. My sister weaves a sticky web of honey and health food products across the whole apartment; my books are pathologically abandoned wherever they can go, waiting sometimes weeks before I continue through their body or return them to a shelf. I guess she does the dishes. I can’t be certain; dishes in my day-to-day life are distant and mythological. How they get done and the way it happens is mysterious like the inner-workings of the cosmos. The idea that they are washed daily in some households is more perplexing than understanding the need for a unified theory. Providing my mother is the one responsible for their cleaning, I couldn’t imagine her being charmed with the notion of having to expend the last of her indigo energy competing with a Sisyphusean chore.

Then, somehow, I did them. What gave me the idea that somehow I was qualified to undertake their cleaning I may never know. They were washed in a state of awe and panic, as if by somebody else. My inner-monologue was singularly directed at my doing, like “Hey, I’m doing them! Holy shit! I’m actually doing them! WHAT AM I DOING?!” and at the same time I was worried that my need to comment on it might interfere with my ability to continue like that eager voice in meditation that’s saying “I have to stop thinking about things.”

I can’t give you the specifics, how it happened, how long it took, but for some time I was a white ball of energy anchored to my kitchen. Then the dishes were clean, but not dried.

semantics

periodically, you will find
the restless and the downtrodden
asking questions of everything,
finding no comfort in answers.

answers are a fool’s game.
without asking questions
many accept the reality
handed as an answer,

regarding semantics
as jagged rocks that upset
the wild surfing waves
of tactless circumstance.

though questions seem over-
whelming when young,
watching the rolling breath
of seas without an understanding

the questions are where
the wisdom rests, asking
more and finding more
insulates the mind from rain.

and when those that were
satisfied with answers
have grown old and see
how the tide has changed

they have to start with
the essay question on the final
exam: “what have I been
doing with my life?”

to the restless it seemed
obvious – it may have been
what started that hard
nomadic life of questions,

but their answer is
hardest to accept when
the moon is low and
the sea’s retreating.

Fall, and all his friends. (10 photographs)

1. I have to forgive cars, because frequently they park themselves in places disagreeable to my photographic motives.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6. We met him by the train tracks one night. The name Like Thur Cheshire, the 3rd got bandied about. He followed us several blocks, just sort of chillin’.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Kitchener is as unreal as ever (10 + 3. photographs)

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

10 (+ 1.)

10 (+ 2.)

10 (+ 3.)

Riddle me this: what do Pierre Elliot Trudeau, Lee Harvey Oswald, D.T. Suzuki and me have in common?

Election day in Canada

As some of you might know, yesterday was election day in Canada. I wasn’t planning on voting — you need 2 pieces of valid I.D. and proof of your address, like official mail, to vote. When you’re a student you can either vote in your home riding or your current address. I missed all the dates to mail-in vote in my home riding, Kitchener Centre, where the Liberal MP lost to the Conservatives this time around. And I haven’t received any mail where I currently live, in the Laurier-Sainte-Marie riding of Montreal. It didn’t matter too much anyway, this is Gilles Duceppe’s riding — as the leader of the Bloc Quebecois it meant he was pretty much guaranteed a huge lead and that I live in powerful separatist territory. If I was going to vote, I was going to vote for Francois “Yo” Gourd, leader of NeoRhino, the party that wants to get rid of the Canadian government and promises weekly orgasms for all Canadians.

I got home last night at 21.15. The polls closed at 21.30. My roommate, who didn’t have any piece of mail yet either, told me he used the lease on our apartment.

Of course! The lease! And the nearest polling station was only 3 blocks away! I could make it! I could do my civic duty and cast my vote for the very first time in my 19 year-old life.

But I had to take a shit. And if I dropped trou now I’d be toilet-bound for at least my 15-minute time frame. This was one of those rumbling-around-come-and-go-all-day shits that had just been waiting for my cold bare butt cheeks to kiss the porcelain.

I asked my roommate if voting for NeoRhino was basically like shitting on the Canadian political system. He agreed that it was. I spent the next 15 minutes on matters scatological.

From now on, everytime I take a dump, I’ll excuse myself to go “cast my ballot.”

Yours from Montreal,

strych9

A Hero Of War

Hero of War

So, the new Rise Against album is out now…I found an early leak of it on the internet (don’t worry, I am buying the album…i’ve already got it pre-ordered on iTunes), and one of the songs that really jumped out at me on my first listen through was track 10, entitled “Hero of War.” I don’t really want to explain it much, I figure it’s just best if I post the lyrics to it and let you guys see it. I was originally going to post a link to the song too, but as I write this i’m not at home. However, I plan on writing another blog post or maybe making a bulletin when I get home, so for now the lyrics will have to suffice.

He said, “Son,
Have you see the world?
Well, what would you say
If I said that you could?
Just carry this gun and you’ll even get paid.”
I said, “That sounds pretty good.”

Black leather boots
Spit-shined so bright
They cut off my hair but it looked alright
We marched and we sang
We all became friends
As we learned how to fight

A hero of war
Yeah that’s what I’ll be
And when I come home
They’ll be damn proud of me
I’ll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
Because it’s flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

I kicked in the door
I yelled my commands
The children, they cried
But I got my man
We took him away
A bag over his face
From his family and his friends

They took off his clothes
They pissed in his hands
I told them to stop
But then I joined in
We beat him with guns
And batons not just once
But again and again

A hero of war
Yeah that’s what I’ll be
And when I come home
They’ll be damn proud of me
I’ll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
Because it’s flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

She walked through bullets and haze
I asked her to stop
I begged her to stay
But she pressed on
So I lifted my gun
And I fired away

The shells jumped through the smoke
And into the sand
That the blood now had soaked
She collapsed with a flag in her hand
A flag white as snow

A hero of war
Is that what the see
Just medals and scars
So damn proud of me
And I brought home that flag
Now it gathers dust
But it’s a flag that I love
It’s the only flag I trust

He said, “Son, have you seen the world?
Well what would you say, if I said that you could?”

I don’t know exactly what it was about this song, but the first time I heard it, I almost started to cry. I can’t really say why, but the song really affected me, and I hope it can have a similar effect for others.

Bullshizzle

Bull Dookie!

Let me preface this post by first saying that when it comes to politics, I know damn near next to nothing. What little I do know comes from the Daily Show, so obviously i’m going to be slightly slanted in my view, but it’s my limited view, and I do the best I can with it. But please, if you feel i’m wrong or uninformed, don’t hesitate to let me know, but I beg of you to do it in a polite fashion. With that said…

I was at work today, standing at the front counter, while my friend Louie was helping a customer next to me. They were talking about the Vice Presidential debates, and the customer mentioned Proposition 8. Now, for those that don’t know, Prop 8 is the proposition that would, if it passes, would ban gay marriage in California. Now, this is one of the issues that I feel very passionate about, one of the few to be honest, and in my personal opinion I just can’t wrap my head around anyone who would want to not allow gay/lesbian couples to get married if they wanted. Yes, I know marriage is considered a religious institution, but I don’t feel that a person’s religious beliefs should enter into it. If two people, whether they be a man and a woman, two women, or two men, love each other enough to want to get married, then they should be allowed to. I don’t believe it’s anyone’s business what these couples do with their lives. All they are asking is to be treated as fairly as a heterosexual couple would be, and I don’t think that’s unreasonable. Sure there’s civil unions (I don’t know if that’s the exact term, however), but I don’t feel it’s the same.

I was under the impression that there’s supposed to be a separation of church and state, which is one of the reasons the founding fathers left Britain to form their own country…but it wouldn’t surprise me if more than 50% of the people voting yes on that proposition were devoutly religious, trying to cling on to their outdated notions about how relationships should work. I believe it was Tom Leykis who said something along the lines of, “if two men or two women want to get married, I say let them. Let them be as miserable as the rest of us.” Now, I know not everyone’s miserable in their marriages, but I think that pretty much sums up how I feel about the whole issue.

So, back to the customer. As he mentioned how he wanted the proposition to pass, I got really upset. I didn’t say anything, but inside I was fuming, because as I said, I don’t believe it should be up to the government who can and can’t get married. It should be up to the individual church/pastor/etc. I almost wanted to jump over the counter and punch the guy, but: a) I would never do that, b) even if I would, I still wouldn’t because I wouldn’t want to lose my job, and c) I still wouldn’t because I wouldn’t want to go to jail. But that’s just an example of how passionate I am about this issue, and how strongly I believe that it should never pass.

I had more of a point when I started writing this, but I think as it went on, I kinda lost what I was trying to get at or say with this whole thing, but it’s out there now.

Karma (One million Hail Marys)

People haven’t any idea of what to do with their clumsy existence and they respect very little. It’s evident in how gracelessly they come and what they choose to leave behind. I wipe tables down, tables cluttered with crumpled napkins and overturned coffee cups. They talk loudly of the things they’ve done, how they proved another wrong, how intelligent they are, and when the door glides closed they become to me only the sum of their wake.

A conversation with an Octoberfest drunk went something like this.

“Hey, can I ask your name? I see you around everywhere – you know me, right? Do you know from where?”

“Here, I think. I’m Michael.”

“Aren’t night shifts fun? I used to work here.”

“I only have to put up with it for one more week. I gave my notice last Monday.”

“Why?”

“I feel bad working here.”

“Because the job sucks. It’s such bullshit.”

“I’ve gone through hundreds of non-recyclable cups, double-cups, and tossed a forest in the waste-bin alongside petroleum plastic lids, pouring out every twenty minutes a middle-aged Columbian’s slave-wage tears to keep an arbitrary standard of freshness for roaming bands of spoiled and likely fat North Americans who aspire to mediocrity, that won’t notice the difference in the coffee’s age because they pump it so full of child-harvested sugar and bovine growth hormone that it bares only a mute resemblance to what is commonly known as ‘coffee.’ When I’m not doing that, I’m throwing out food products that could survive nuclear disaster but are granted only a six hour shelf-life. Any amount of time here is too long, and I don’t want to do it anymore – it’s wrong.”

“Um, wow. You’re really smart. How come you started working here in the first place?”

“Because I’m also a whore.”

“No, man. You’re more like a fucking saint.”

“Thanks, but I’m not even close. Listen to me though, when I say that sainthood is the only thing worth aspiring to in this life.”

“Ha. The only thing?”

“Yes, the only thing.”

“Hmm… you’re probably fuckin’ right. Give me a large double-double.”

By 7 AM I’ve poured thousands of pain-wrought hours down the sink, and I’ve satisfied mirages in an all-night paradise that will never close.

…

What is a saint? A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is the caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shape of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love.

- L. Cohen, Beautiful Losers (1966)

Vodka Sauce

I tried Vodka Sauce last night with some various cheese tortellini.  It’s the first sauce I’ve tasted that really hits the back of your mouth.  I’m not sure if I liked it, but I’m making the leftovers for myself again now.  There was something very potent and memorable about it, though.

I’m in that loopy mood where I’m telling myself I don’t want to leave, all while excitedly playing out how Arizona is going to look to me when I enter it soon…  I’m not sure why I do this, some kind of perpetual longing for something different, I guess.  I make a home somewhere and begin to dislike it, but upon leaving I begin thinking of all of the aspects of it that I never took advantage of.  Then I leave and don’t think about it anymore.

The road’s going to be dirty I think.