Thursday, August 26, 2010

I saw a man about a horse

Lake Placid scooped outta me some much needed light-hearted fun. A part of my spirit I tend to ignore lately. My beautiful best friend Ashley Dawn and I broke in my new car, Bonnie, with a road trip. It was grand. When we arrived in Saranac we went straight to the rugby park to see the team kick some serious booty. Then we headed to the traditional dwelling of all the rugby boys and men at Schulte's, or however you spell the place. Later in the night Ashley and I got into a bit of a verbal fight with some police men. We'd been bar hopping and dancing and needed a cab. Ashley, the smooth talker she is (especially with members of the opposite sex), asked the police if they may be so inclined to call us a cab. It became swiftly apparent to us that these officials in uniform wanted nothing to do with chivalry. Ashley noticed the cop's oversized SUV idling while he chatted up some drunk locals on the sidewalk. "Why is your car running?" she boldly inquires.

"So it's warm when I get back in it," the ignorant official informs us.

"That's illegal in Canada," I say, with confidence.

"Well, we're not in Canada, are we?" He replies.

"No, that's too bad."

Clearly, the do-gooders Ms. Dawn and I are, we are completely baffled by this. We cross the street in hopes of finding a cab. After several minutes of waiting in our barely clothed selves, we decided we are just too damn cold. We cross the street again to join our favourite men in uniform. It appears our Earth-hating enemy has gathered with some more police men, who also seem to ignore the fact that the SUV has been idling for over 20 minutes now.

"Excuse me," Ashley interrupts their conversation, "is there a reason your buddy's car is still running?"

"Yeah, it's so everything is charged, so our stuff is charged, you know in case there's an emergency of sorts."

"Right, so are you alright with this decision? Do you live with your decisions or are you tormented at night when you try to sleep?"

I'm quite certain that our drunken attempt at protesting this man's blatent display of neglect to take responsibility for his share of emmissions did fuck all but make the cops resent us. But hey, as long as we spoke on behalf of mother nature, we can rest assured we've done more than they have.

Another night Ashley and my momma got a little boozie, and snuggly too, as you can see in the photo below.

And of course, the besties shared a smooch too.

Ashley's arms, tat and accessories included!

And I, the aloof little one.

Alright, moving on to my birthday.

Ashley took me out for a swaggy dinner chez Oz Kafe. It just so happened that an old friend Merrill was working and she brought me a lovely little surprise: desert! I was very grateful. See the gratitude in my face?

Alright, so then a few of us headed to celebrate. Daly had many faces that night. Ashley spilled beer all over herself. And Dustin, being the knight he is, was as tall and large as ever, as shown below.

And then there was this guy, who, despite calling the street his home, has not given up his day job of funny face making and hockey fanatic rituals.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

your honor, I object

There must be a word, a term, outside of my own vocabulary, to describe the precise feeling of a dream bleeding into life. Not knowing when it began and if it ended. There must be some medical diagnosis for this feeling of detachment from one's own body, one's own life. Feeling vivid asleep and clouded awake must be an illness because this can't be living. And to look at everything with resentment and objection. To be a monumental objector in this world is a curse. Always writing everything off. Always pushing everyone away. An objector gets creative in pushing loved ones away. Smother smother... or to be distant. Or even to be cold. At times cruel. Others irrational, crazy, mad. But how does an objector gain any control if nothing remains within reach? How can an objector survive this way? Does the objector care even? There's no sense of attachment to the real world, why care?

And yet, the objector feels so much at all times. Objectors cry and scream. It's as though they are constantly living in a state of grieving. Constantly living in a place of consequences and rarely in a place of experience. Ah, experience. The very thing that depressives yearn for. The privilege of experience does not relish within the depressed or the objector. And it is once the depressed and the objector collide that salvation seems absurd. Salvation: too main stream and logical for the objector, and too tiring and impractical for the depressed.

Pain becomes the only thing real. The only thing strong enough to penetrate the shield of self loathing and animosity built around them. Pain, it seems, becomes excitement. Pain as a compass. Pain as a landmark to the waking life. And yet, pain exists in the dream world under pseudo-circumstance and hyper reality as perceptibly as anywhere. It lingers throughout the day, like a residue sticking to a mood and fluctuation of occurrences. How can the depressed objector escape anguish? Perhaps through lucid dreams. Perhaps that is the only way to gain control.

Or perhaps the depressed objector needs to drop the existential crisis that is his life and realize that life can only mean something if he wants it to. That all these objections he carries around everyday and all the depression is a hand bag full of daily drudgery and simple problems. That it is easily dispersed through a tunnel of release, like a drain sent to sewage... and one day he can be free of it if he can just ignore his narcissistic tendencies--if he can look past the desolate nature of the world and accept the colours of the flowers and scent of freshly cut grass. All the simple things that one should admire, the depressed objector should too. Perhaps that is the remedy for us all. Perhaps is all there is. Perhaps as possibility, as never-ending paradox. Perhaps-- that is all I know, for nothing in life is as certain as the sun rising and setting.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010