A letter home that I'll blog instead.
I'm on the train to Ayr right now, passing through what's known as "The Roman Frontier". It's the home of Hadrian's Wall, where the Roman emperor Hadrian built a wall running the entire breadth of the country to protect his soldiers from the Scots Reivers (of whom I and consequently our children are direct ancestors). There isn't a Scot alive that doesn't know the story of the vanished Roman Legion that disappeared completely from the Borders, only to be found 1000 years later at the bottom of a loch in Scotland.
Sleeping across from me is a sight all too common on the West Coast. A young tough with a nearly shaved head is snoring away peacefully. I say sleeping but he's passed out with a half finished tall boy of skol in front of him and the smell of beer and cologne thick and sweet. He's wearing heavy workboots that have never seen a day of work. Much like me he's wearing them for insurance against confrontation rather than compensation. I come by my paranoia honestly you know. I'm going to try to snap a pic of him.
It's amazing how quickly the train cleared of English people at Carlisle. I'm surrounded by thick glasgow accents, black hair and blue eyes right now. It's a good feeling.
Earlier I passed by a Scottish school that was just letting out. It looked identical to the one I'd attended, and it's cold and wet in Scotland today. It brought back memories, but almost no positive ones. I'm going to work on building some here this time. I owe it to my dad, my kids and myself. I just get a feeling of penultimate sadness driving past all the poor and rundown areas by the tracks. I hope I can reconcile it.
The guy across from me just woke up. He slept through his stop. When he got up we had a nearly unintelligible conversation and then he asked about the accent.
"So you from America?"
"You won't believe me if I tell you where I'm from." I said and I told him Ayr and that I'd been in Canada for 25 years. And then it was all big tough guy barroom warrior handshakes and much love and smiles. Bastards like that turn on you in a second here though so I stayed wary but warm. And that's not me being paranoid. Everyone else on the train seems nice enough however.
I have to change trains at Kilmarnock. My route through Scotland has been Carlisle, gretna green, annan, dumfries, sanquhar, kirkconnel, new cumnock and auchinleck so far, with the next stop being Kilmarnock. Kilmarnock is where my friends and I used to sell the scrap metal we stole from the salvage yard in Ayr. (Just got a picture of the glasgow drunk before he woke up btw.) I've recently found out that the yard we stole it from belonged to a man my dad went to school with. Feel a bit horrible about it now.
Just changed trains at Kilmarnock. I had a few minutes between trains so I walked around a bit looking for a coke. A young guy about 20 was changing trains too, and he came up and said (in a good Glasgow/west coast accent) "Nae bar here?" I said not that I know of and he said "FUCK'S sake!"
ah home.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
england
I am rolling through the countryside of Northern England, headed for my hometown in Scotland. It's a beautiful day, by which I mean the sun is high and warm and bright enough that it ignites the colors of the hills and trees and homes and trains in full spectrum high res. A 1080 HD kind of day.
The train is quiet, a gentle rocking with a white noise whirring hush keeping my state meditative and near transcendent in the moments that I start to nod off. The only other sounds are those of the girl sitting across the table from me, writing in her notebook and humming a soft soprano celtic tune. A stolen glance at the pendant bouncing about a bouncing cleavage reveals a heart shaped locket wrapped in a thistle and I'm proud again to be Scottish.
Ancient walls line the tracks as we pass through the cities and towns, stained black with the centuries old coal smoke of warm hearths and orange lit cobblestone streets.
In the countryside it all opens up though. Trees and rolling hills covered in lush green grasses that seem somehow wetter, thicker, softer and warmer than ours. Faraway cows and faraway sheep are stuck like steak pegs in the hillside, and the high def sun shows 10,000 shades of green, constantly shifting in the shadows of North Atlantic clouds.
The rivers I pass are dark murky and cold, more a grey blue slate than the blue green liquer back home. Still used as highways by lumbering barges and cargo ships, lined with quays and docks older than any family tree I know of, they are dotted with elegant white swans drifting lazy noble and with an English calm on the gentle waves.
It's autumn and occassionally we'll pass freshly fleeced flocks of foolish sheep, standing thin and stupidly vulnerable like newly shorn shih-tzus waiting to go out for a pee.. The term 'sheepish' never more accurate than it is on the face of a plucked poltroon of a sheep lamenting it's lost wooliness.
I have to confess that I hated Britain before this trip. I was here before, in my teens with my parents, who were then approaching 60. I saw nothing of the country except what nostalgic 60 year olds wanted to see. It was all Coronation Street and Marks and Sparks and chippys. I'm seeing a different Britain this time around.
This is a progressive country. More concerned with the environment than the average self righteous Canadian. Walking is a preferred method of commuting here. In the clubs of Newcastle I danced all night, and never once feared for a fight. If while dancing in a drunken stupor I happened to bump into another guy, more often than not we'd wind up in wildy exuberant dance ourselves. There's a palpable enthusiasm and joie de vivre here. The workers that I'm here to train are some of the finest young people I've ever met. So different than the sleepy kids back home that sit drooling with anticipation as you contemplate sending someone home early each night.
The confidence, humor and perseverance I see in the average English kid is inspiring. I can honestly say I no longer harbor resentment towards the English.
That's all that I have for now. I'm writing this on the train and I'll publish it later.
It's time to slip back into that beautiful meditative state. It's a strange and mystic roll through the Roman Frontier for the next little while, travelling through places impossible to say without a Scots accent;
Carlisle, Gretna Green, Annan, Dumfries, Sanquhar, Kirkconnel, New Cumnock, Auchinleck and Kilmarnock.
The train is quiet, a gentle rocking with a white noise whirring hush keeping my state meditative and near transcendent in the moments that I start to nod off. The only other sounds are those of the girl sitting across the table from me, writing in her notebook and humming a soft soprano celtic tune. A stolen glance at the pendant bouncing about a bouncing cleavage reveals a heart shaped locket wrapped in a thistle and I'm proud again to be Scottish.
Ancient walls line the tracks as we pass through the cities and towns, stained black with the centuries old coal smoke of warm hearths and orange lit cobblestone streets.
In the countryside it all opens up though. Trees and rolling hills covered in lush green grasses that seem somehow wetter, thicker, softer and warmer than ours. Faraway cows and faraway sheep are stuck like steak pegs in the hillside, and the high def sun shows 10,000 shades of green, constantly shifting in the shadows of North Atlantic clouds.
The rivers I pass are dark murky and cold, more a grey blue slate than the blue green liquer back home. Still used as highways by lumbering barges and cargo ships, lined with quays and docks older than any family tree I know of, they are dotted with elegant white swans drifting lazy noble and with an English calm on the gentle waves.
It's autumn and occassionally we'll pass freshly fleeced flocks of foolish sheep, standing thin and stupidly vulnerable like newly shorn shih-tzus waiting to go out for a pee.. The term 'sheepish' never more accurate than it is on the face of a plucked poltroon of a sheep lamenting it's lost wooliness.
I have to confess that I hated Britain before this trip. I was here before, in my teens with my parents, who were then approaching 60. I saw nothing of the country except what nostalgic 60 year olds wanted to see. It was all Coronation Street and Marks and Sparks and chippys. I'm seeing a different Britain this time around.
This is a progressive country. More concerned with the environment than the average self righteous Canadian. Walking is a preferred method of commuting here. In the clubs of Newcastle I danced all night, and never once feared for a fight. If while dancing in a drunken stupor I happened to bump into another guy, more often than not we'd wind up in wildy exuberant dance ourselves. There's a palpable enthusiasm and joie de vivre here. The workers that I'm here to train are some of the finest young people I've ever met. So different than the sleepy kids back home that sit drooling with anticipation as you contemplate sending someone home early each night.
The confidence, humor and perseverance I see in the average English kid is inspiring. I can honestly say I no longer harbor resentment towards the English.
That's all that I have for now. I'm writing this on the train and I'll publish it later.
It's time to slip back into that beautiful meditative state. It's a strange and mystic roll through the Roman Frontier for the next little while, travelling through places impossible to say without a Scots accent;
Carlisle, Gretna Green, Annan, Dumfries, Sanquhar, Kirkconnel, New Cumnock, Auchinleck and Kilmarnock.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Into the Mystic.
I had a direction for this post two days ago, but I didn't have time for it. Now I have time for it, but I forget which direction I was going to take. So I'll start rambling and hopefully it comes back to me.
Jung wrote of the 'participation mystique'. Anyone that's ever watched a technicolor sunrise spill orange juice and grenadine over fast retreating darkness will understand this implicitly. In layman's terms the participation mystique refers to the sense of oneness and unity that humanity had with the environment when we were primitive active participants in it. The magic of the universe is somehow more palpable in natural places than it is in our urban islands of insanity. It's why walking to work seems so much more refreshing than biking, why a good thunderstorm is more exciting than the best hollywood blockbuster.
This week I'm disconnecting cable and my land line. I'll be using just the internet and my cell phone for all of my family's communication and entertainment needs. I'd love to say that this comes from some noble motivation like going off grid, or raising less media dependent children. I'd love to say that it's an attempt to reconnect with nature. It's not. It's cheaper, and I can get movies and tv over the net.
That being said, I'm an optimist of the highest order. The big telecom and cable companies are struggling because a lot of people are doing what I'm doing. I like to think of it as a form of evolution. The further integration of humanity and technology. Unlike most hippies, I believe that science and technology won't bring about the destruction of mankind, but that they are our best hope.
I read a fantastic article this week. Organic light is a reality already, with bio-luminous trees a very real possibility in the not too distant future. Imagine a world where instead of streetlights our roads are lined with glowing trees. Instead of lamps you'd read by the light of bio-luminous palm fronds. I see a world where all our devices become hybrid organics, giving back oxygen, taking away greenhouse gasses, and perhaps more importantly, returning our species to a partnership with nature as opposed to a battle against it. Not going to proofread this, because I'm pretty tired right now. Those are the thoughts in a nutshell anyway. Maybe not as coherent or flowing as I'd like, there they are.
Jung wrote of the 'participation mystique'. Anyone that's ever watched a technicolor sunrise spill orange juice and grenadine over fast retreating darkness will understand this implicitly. In layman's terms the participation mystique refers to the sense of oneness and unity that humanity had with the environment when we were primitive active participants in it. The magic of the universe is somehow more palpable in natural places than it is in our urban islands of insanity. It's why walking to work seems so much more refreshing than biking, why a good thunderstorm is more exciting than the best hollywood blockbuster.
This week I'm disconnecting cable and my land line. I'll be using just the internet and my cell phone for all of my family's communication and entertainment needs. I'd love to say that this comes from some noble motivation like going off grid, or raising less media dependent children. I'd love to say that it's an attempt to reconnect with nature. It's not. It's cheaper, and I can get movies and tv over the net.
That being said, I'm an optimist of the highest order. The big telecom and cable companies are struggling because a lot of people are doing what I'm doing. I like to think of it as a form of evolution. The further integration of humanity and technology. Unlike most hippies, I believe that science and technology won't bring about the destruction of mankind, but that they are our best hope.
I read a fantastic article this week. Organic light is a reality already, with bio-luminous trees a very real possibility in the not too distant future. Imagine a world where instead of streetlights our roads are lined with glowing trees. Instead of lamps you'd read by the light of bio-luminous palm fronds. I see a world where all our devices become hybrid organics, giving back oxygen, taking away greenhouse gasses, and perhaps more importantly, returning our species to a partnership with nature as opposed to a battle against it. Not going to proofread this, because I'm pretty tired right now. Those are the thoughts in a nutshell anyway. Maybe not as coherent or flowing as I'd like, there they are.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
One Flew East, One Flew West.
I have had a difficult time over the years, due primarily to the efforts of my worst enemy. The enemy in this case being myself. I've had a delightful condition called bipolar mood disorder that I've loved with a passion despite the damage it's done me. In 40 years I've rarely held a job more than a year. I leave jobs for myriad reasons, but I've come to realize over the past year that it's all related back to my brain chemistry. There has been the odd time I found the world so bleak that getting out of bed and going to work was simply too much to ask for. Getting dressed, walking out the door, at some point having to talk to another human being...more than I could face, and another job bites the dust. There have been other times on a manic upswing, compelled by a higher calling I'd leave the menial and meaningless tasks of whatever 'job' I had, convinced that the only path to a creative life would necessitate the burning of all bridges behind me.
By far the most common reason I've left jobs however would be a combination of high anxiety and low bullshit tolerance. There's a period somewhere in between the highs and the lows where an all encompassing loathing and irritability permeates every aspect of every relationship, task, thought, feeling. At times the anxiety peaks into a near paranoia. The fear of losing a job, combined with the anxiety of trying to read everyone's motivations drives me to quit, just to ease my mind. Or the grave insult of being talked down to becomes an unforgivable slight that only a fool or a wimp would tolerate.
That's the way things were. I've since started on an anti-depressant, and I've been on and off of it for the better part of a year now. On it I'm complacent, conformist,calm, collected, conservative and practical. Well, more so than at other times anyway. I've held my job for more than 3 years, and it's a stressful and demanding job with more than it's fair share of bullshit. Twice since starting the meds I've weaned myself off of them. Both times I saw the promised exacerbation of symptoms. Once I exacerbated up, once into that horrible fucking gray area of permanent dystopian aggravation.
I realized that as a provider for my family it's pretty imperative that I stay on these pills.
Today has me a bit nostalgic for the brilliant madness again however. I've just recovered from some pretty painful throat surgery, and today was really the first day that I felt good in long time. I got a good amount of sleep last night after a 20km run on my longboard, and I woke up enervated and optimistic. At work I had a coffee and the caffeine went straight to my bloodstream, which is something I haven't felt in a long time either. I decided I would get 'jacked' on caffeine and I had a couple more pints of coffee. Soon I was rolling in a state bordering on hypomania. I had racing creative thoughts, I was meeting strangers and hitting hard and fast banter that brought huge smiles and that mixed look of bewilderment and amazement that inspired rambling tends to elicit from normies.
I miss that. I miss being able to energize a whole room. I miss having a mainline to the divine where puns and poetic turns and prosaic prolific ideas come at you warp 9 and gaining. So fast, so brilliant, so many ideas and all of them setting off a pyrotechnic cerebro magnificent firestorm in the brain that leaves me amazed I have such thought processes.
I miss it. But I know where it leads too. It leads to explosions of rage at any attempt to control or harness my energy. It leads to dangerous obsessions with ridiculous things or people, to sleepless nights and exhausted family members sick of trying to keep up with me. It leads to flirtations s(without consummations) that risk my entire family's well being and harmony.
I've just taken my little white pill again, before writing this. I'm wired and I can feel HAARP style bolts of neuro-electric blasts rising in tempo and temperament and I know that I could be taken somewhere simultaneously magnificent and horrible if I just let it ride. The temptation is there, even knowing the seriousness of the consequences. It's there because this ordinary life, when I'm not somatized into domesticity is stifling. So I'll take the soma for now. And in a few days I won't miss this anymore. I won't want it. I won't want much of anything, because I'll have a carefully metered contentment that turns me into a well behaved ordinary citizen.
By far the most common reason I've left jobs however would be a combination of high anxiety and low bullshit tolerance. There's a period somewhere in between the highs and the lows where an all encompassing loathing and irritability permeates every aspect of every relationship, task, thought, feeling. At times the anxiety peaks into a near paranoia. The fear of losing a job, combined with the anxiety of trying to read everyone's motivations drives me to quit, just to ease my mind. Or the grave insult of being talked down to becomes an unforgivable slight that only a fool or a wimp would tolerate.
That's the way things were. I've since started on an anti-depressant, and I've been on and off of it for the better part of a year now. On it I'm complacent, conformist,calm, collected, conservative and practical. Well, more so than at other times anyway. I've held my job for more than 3 years, and it's a stressful and demanding job with more than it's fair share of bullshit. Twice since starting the meds I've weaned myself off of them. Both times I saw the promised exacerbation of symptoms. Once I exacerbated up, once into that horrible fucking gray area of permanent dystopian aggravation.
I realized that as a provider for my family it's pretty imperative that I stay on these pills.
Today has me a bit nostalgic for the brilliant madness again however. I've just recovered from some pretty painful throat surgery, and today was really the first day that I felt good in long time. I got a good amount of sleep last night after a 20km run on my longboard, and I woke up enervated and optimistic. At work I had a coffee and the caffeine went straight to my bloodstream, which is something I haven't felt in a long time either. I decided I would get 'jacked' on caffeine and I had a couple more pints of coffee. Soon I was rolling in a state bordering on hypomania. I had racing creative thoughts, I was meeting strangers and hitting hard and fast banter that brought huge smiles and that mixed look of bewilderment and amazement that inspired rambling tends to elicit from normies.
I miss that. I miss being able to energize a whole room. I miss having a mainline to the divine where puns and poetic turns and prosaic prolific ideas come at you warp 9 and gaining. So fast, so brilliant, so many ideas and all of them setting off a pyrotechnic cerebro magnificent firestorm in the brain that leaves me amazed I have such thought processes.
I miss it. But I know where it leads too. It leads to explosions of rage at any attempt to control or harness my energy. It leads to dangerous obsessions with ridiculous things or people, to sleepless nights and exhausted family members sick of trying to keep up with me. It leads to flirtations s(without consummations) that risk my entire family's well being and harmony.
I've just taken my little white pill again, before writing this. I'm wired and I can feel HAARP style bolts of neuro-electric blasts rising in tempo and temperament and I know that I could be taken somewhere simultaneously magnificent and horrible if I just let it ride. The temptation is there, even knowing the seriousness of the consequences. It's there because this ordinary life, when I'm not somatized into domesticity is stifling. So I'll take the soma for now. And in a few days I won't miss this anymore. I won't want it. I won't want much of anything, because I'll have a carefully metered contentment that turns me into a well behaved ordinary citizen.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Manny! Look at dat pelican fly! C'maaaan Pelican!
Moments of sheer and utter bliss have been lacking this year I'm sad to say. An early spring led to a pretty crappy June and my summer rush was delayed. Followed that up with tonsil surgery and 2 weeks of unbelievable pain. It's kept me down a bit and I think today may finally have been the first day of feeling really great again. This was evidenced by a zen moment along the river again today. Gotta love that river.
A major winding section of road is currently closed down due to the threat of rising water levels. The water hasn't hit the road yet, but it has cleared all traffic off of 4 lanes of pristine asphalt on one of the most scenic parts of the riverbank.
I was boarding this stretch as part of my base building for the 100k board session I have planned 3 weeks from now. There was a beautiful stretch of downhill, into a light wind. I love long stretches of downhill. As you hit your maximum velocity you get motion without energy, and there is a sense that you are detached and free from the Earth for the duration of the bomb. It was while coasting effortlessly along that I looked up and caught sight of a pelican doing precisely the same thing. It had spread it's wings, caught an air current and was just gliding along in perfect effortlessness. In that moment I felt what the bird felt. Not a power over anything as one might think, but an independence from everything. A freedom that only pelicans, seagulls and longboarders know.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Instant Gratification.
I'm all about instant gratification. I say this and people say to me "I can relate" and they generally reference a shopping purchase. I'm far beyond that. I need instant gratification on everything, even negatives.
When I was a kid if there was a big kid that wanted to beat me up I could not stand the anxiety of waiting and would seek him out. In high school if someone told me they were going to beat the shit out of me after school I'd challenge him to do it that very moment because I had stuff to do after school. Again, it was because of the horrors of waiting.
When I have a band aid that I know is going to hurt to tear off I do it at the earliest opportunity.
But by far the greatest example of my need for instant gratification is my compulsive news checking. I check the news about 30 times a day. Compulsive is perhaps the wrong word. I've never dropped out of doing something in order to check the news, I haven't a need to check the news, but I do check it a lot. What I'm looking for is a disaster, war, assassination, tragedy of such proportions that I will be able to clear my schedule for the day and just do what I want to do.
I secretly hope for a massive B.C. earthquake or the outbreak of the third world war, just so I will be able to stay home from work for the day. I don't think beyond that to the suffering that will follow, to the feelings of those who have suffered losses. I just want some time off and a clearing of responsibility for a while. It's with this hope that I check the news 30 times a day. Isn't that awful?
When I was a kid if there was a big kid that wanted to beat me up I could not stand the anxiety of waiting and would seek him out. In high school if someone told me they were going to beat the shit out of me after school I'd challenge him to do it that very moment because I had stuff to do after school. Again, it was because of the horrors of waiting.
When I have a band aid that I know is going to hurt to tear off I do it at the earliest opportunity.
But by far the greatest example of my need for instant gratification is my compulsive news checking. I check the news about 30 times a day. Compulsive is perhaps the wrong word. I've never dropped out of doing something in order to check the news, I haven't a need to check the news, but I do check it a lot. What I'm looking for is a disaster, war, assassination, tragedy of such proportions that I will be able to clear my schedule for the day and just do what I want to do.
I secretly hope for a massive B.C. earthquake or the outbreak of the third world war, just so I will be able to stay home from work for the day. I don't think beyond that to the suffering that will follow, to the feelings of those who have suffered losses. I just want some time off and a clearing of responsibility for a while. It's with this hope that I check the news 30 times a day. Isn't that awful?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
High Volume Resonance
Maybe I should change the name of my blog to Resonance. That seems to be what it's most often about.
I'm in Vancouver today, sitting in on the ops of one of our company kitchens. It always makes me smile stepping into another kitchen. There are constants that you find in every one. A strung out chef with a thousand yard stare, a collection of miscreants and ne'er do wells with a burgeoning passion for food and the quintessential walmart stereo blasting out either heavy metal or hardcore punk or the resident DJ's latest mix of beats. Even among the inevitable iconoclasts you'll find the iconoclast's iconoclast.
The first question I got today was from 'Token'. Token's real name is Terrance but they call him Token because he is the only black guy in the kitchen...so the Chef intro'd him. The Chef assigned me some prep to do so I set up beside Token and went to work.
"What kind of music do you like?" he asked me over the blaring guitars on the blaster.
"80s soft rock like Hall and Oates or Air Supply...really gets me pumped up" I said.
He raised an eyebrow, not sure if I was kidding or not, and I wasn't. "Well it's mainly metal around here, if you didn't notice already." he informed me.
"Same everywhere." I smiled.
Later I was working with Campbell. He was the iconoclast's iconoclast of this kitchen.
"I like jazz, I play bass in a quartet and I sing a bit." he said
I grinned. "Man I'd love to get a little trio together and do some old style croonin'".
Campbell looked at me with the utmost uber-seriousness and sincerity and said "DO IT."
This is all old to me. It's a new kitchen, but it's all old to me. But good old, y'know, like your favorite old hoody or watching the Usual Suspects again. It's an old that resonates with me. I interviewed a kid not so long ago. He'd left the culinary biz for the big bucks in construction and found out that the well didn't taste so sweet. He was desperate to cook again.
"Why do you want to come back to this shit if you can make more working less there?" I asked him.
His answer? "I know who I am on the line."
Amen brother.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Sucked.
My own opinion of course. I'm not going to justify myself or write a book review, just sayin'.
I mention it because there is one concept from that book that stuck with me, or more correctly, that I bastardized with my own interpretation because Pirsig's was gibberish.
Pirsig's idea was that things are imbued with 'quality', a vague term for a mystical property that...y'know I don't understand his bullshit concept.
My personal interpretation is that certain things have a mystical property that sets them apart from the majority of like things. It's something undefinable really, and usually when I reference it I'm thinking of creative works, like art or music or film or lit.
For something to have quality as it pertains to my personal lexicon (I can't begin to tell you how much I love the word 'lexicon'), it needs to fit some basic criteria. It has to be transcendent for starters. Not a work about the subject of transcendence, not hallucinatory, just...transcendent. Something that traverses boundaries of genre, image, class to strike a chord within the very spirit. It can be as a simple as a line from a song that gives you a chill or a thrill, a particular twang or vibrato in a vocal, a snippet of brilliant imagery from a poem or story (Walt Whitman for example, rambles on endlessly, almost incoherently and then you'll come across an incredible turn of a phrase that seems to define your very being), it can be as complex as the chaotic cacophanies of a tchaikovsky concerto. The thing is that it must resonate with your universe, if you can dig that. It's catalytic in that the initial sequence of neurons it sets of starts a massive synaptic reaction exploding like fireworks in the base of the brain. From there it becomes a psychic/physic harmonic, a slight buzzing that you can feel from your bone marrow to your split ends and cuticles. I don't think that quality is a homogenous property, easily quantified or measured. It's subjective, with the individual as node resonating in accordance to the frequency of their spirit or soul or chakra, resonating with the essence of their is-ness. And I think that perhaps it has a purpose, like a homing signal of sorts, a beacon towards peace maybe. It's intrinsic, looped into the underlying fabric of time/space/infinite is, a way for the symbiote souls and organisms of the universe to bind. At its utmost it binds binary stars together in a pseudo-eternal cosmic tango. It assembles galaxies and nebulae. At its smallest it's the magic that draws particles together into unbreakable bonds. On the human level it connects kindred spirits through harmonics synchronicity serendipity intuition inhibitions on exhibition neuroses firing interhuman synapses through the unified field. Beyond the illusion of human strivings it connects the the soul to the cosmos and to the infinite, lifts the curtain on the illusion for moments of enlightenment and heightened awareness. You know what's funny?
I can find quality in Stranded at the Drive In by John Travolta. True story.
I mention it because there is one concept from that book that stuck with me, or more correctly, that I bastardized with my own interpretation because Pirsig's was gibberish.
Pirsig's idea was that things are imbued with 'quality', a vague term for a mystical property that...y'know I don't understand his bullshit concept.
My personal interpretation is that certain things have a mystical property that sets them apart from the majority of like things. It's something undefinable really, and usually when I reference it I'm thinking of creative works, like art or music or film or lit.
For something to have quality as it pertains to my personal lexicon (I can't begin to tell you how much I love the word 'lexicon'), it needs to fit some basic criteria. It has to be transcendent for starters. Not a work about the subject of transcendence, not hallucinatory, just...transcendent. Something that traverses boundaries of genre, image, class to strike a chord within the very spirit. It can be as a simple as a line from a song that gives you a chill or a thrill, a particular twang or vibrato in a vocal, a snippet of brilliant imagery from a poem or story (Walt Whitman for example, rambles on endlessly, almost incoherently and then you'll come across an incredible turn of a phrase that seems to define your very being), it can be as complex as the chaotic cacophanies of a tchaikovsky concerto. The thing is that it must resonate with your universe, if you can dig that. It's catalytic in that the initial sequence of neurons it sets of starts a massive synaptic reaction exploding like fireworks in the base of the brain. From there it becomes a psychic/physic harmonic, a slight buzzing that you can feel from your bone marrow to your split ends and cuticles. I don't think that quality is a homogenous property, easily quantified or measured. It's subjective, with the individual as node resonating in accordance to the frequency of their spirit or soul or chakra, resonating with the essence of their is-ness. And I think that perhaps it has a purpose, like a homing signal of sorts, a beacon towards peace maybe. It's intrinsic, looped into the underlying fabric of time/space/infinite is, a way for the symbiote souls and organisms of the universe to bind. At its utmost it binds binary stars together in a pseudo-eternal cosmic tango. It assembles galaxies and nebulae. At its smallest it's the magic that draws particles together into unbreakable bonds. On the human level it connects kindred spirits through harmonics synchronicity serendipity intuition inhibitions on exhibition neuroses firing interhuman synapses through the unified field. Beyond the illusion of human strivings it connects the the soul to the cosmos and to the infinite, lifts the curtain on the illusion for moments of enlightenment and heightened awareness. You know what's funny?
I can find quality in Stranded at the Drive In by John Travolta. True story.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
twenty year old dreamin
I am nearly double the age of my avg employee. It's one of the things that i love about my job. It grants me a sort of immortality. There is a beauty and a strength and a resilience to the 20 year old mindset. They still thrive on their dreams. I'd say that the percentage of my staff that have uncrushable dreams of rock, pop or hipohop stardom easily exceeds fifty.
There's a contagious energy working with young people. People are always commenting on my energy level, consistently making comments like 'You're just a big kid aren't you?'
To be completely honest I have no idea how a person my age should act. I can't relate to people my age. Don't trust anyone over 30 is my mantra still. For twenty years now I have been watching these fiery would-be rockstars coming up. It's sometimes sad to see them grudgingly let go of their dreams, get'serious' about life. Inevitably and irrevocably it"s the giving up on their dreams that does it to them. They lose their joie de vivre when they give up.
It's at about that time that I just can't maintain the friendship. Bitterness and ennui roll off of them in a toxic cloud.
I'm 40 years old. I have dreams that no one can steal. Last week I enjoyed yet another guest spot on a college talk show. This week there is talk of me fronting a Poison cover band. I've written a novel of proportions so epic it will take another century before the global mind can handle it. I've got 2 more novels on the go and aspirations to revisit mad poem writing. I haven't given up and consequently my vitality shows it.
I'm sitting at the airport right now, waiting to fly out on business trip. I'm typing on my phone so forgive any typos. I've got some time on my hands as I came here early anticipating some bullshit. I was right. They gave me a big hassle about trying to bring my skateboard on. Fuck the Man anyway. Skate death!
There's a contagious energy working with young people. People are always commenting on my energy level, consistently making comments like 'You're just a big kid aren't you?'
To be completely honest I have no idea how a person my age should act. I can't relate to people my age. Don't trust anyone over 30 is my mantra still. For twenty years now I have been watching these fiery would-be rockstars coming up. It's sometimes sad to see them grudgingly let go of their dreams, get'serious' about life. Inevitably and irrevocably it"s the giving up on their dreams that does it to them. They lose their joie de vivre when they give up.
It's at about that time that I just can't maintain the friendship. Bitterness and ennui roll off of them in a toxic cloud.
I'm 40 years old. I have dreams that no one can steal. Last week I enjoyed yet another guest spot on a college talk show. This week there is talk of me fronting a Poison cover band. I've written a novel of proportions so epic it will take another century before the global mind can handle it. I've got 2 more novels on the go and aspirations to revisit mad poem writing. I haven't given up and consequently my vitality shows it.
I'm sitting at the airport right now, waiting to fly out on business trip. I'm typing on my phone so forgive any typos. I've got some time on my hands as I came here early anticipating some bullshit. I was right. They gave me a big hassle about trying to bring my skateboard on. Fuck the Man anyway. Skate death!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Ramblin'
I've been all over the place tonight. Scattered and windblown, mind perched on the edge of something, but God knows what.
So, we'll go one at a time.
I've been reading a lot of Jung lately. Tonight I was reading about his early years, and how he came across the idea of a collective unconscious hearing ghost stories from the countryside. It occurred to him that where ever in the world one might find a ghost story, there were elements that were unchanging. He noted that while the afterlife tended to be the domain of the religious, there were no religious texts describing the sorts of experiences the living were having with their hauntings. A few examples were cited, and one of them was the example of clocks in the deceased's house stopping at the moment of death. This gave me chills to read because it's exactly what happened when my mother passed away. There was a clock that had been given to my parents by the Commissionaires for their years of service, and it stopped dead on the time she died. I looked it up on the net and found that this is a pretty common occurrence.
I took some comfort initially from the idea that my mother's spirit had effected a change on some real world item to send us the message that there was something more.
But tonight I looked at it from a different perspective. Perhaps it's selfish of us to view this communication from beyond the grave as some sort of reassurance or message of love from the deceased. What if instead of this, they are trying to pass on information about the fundamental functioning of the universe, of life and death?
What if the constant interference with clocks by the dead is a continuing commentary on the nature of time? Could it be that they're trying to tell us it's all non-linear, insignificant? Rather than waving a simple goodbye, isn't it more likely that the crossing of dimensional barriers might be more of an attempt at mapping the way for us? Or perhaps it's a warning, who knows? I just think that there might be value in digging a little deeper into phenomenon from beyond the grave into what it could mean in another context.
Okay, next thing. I called this post rambling because my thoughts have been jumping tracks bullet trains tonight. So much so that I've got concerns I might be about to go into an elevated state of being. (I don't like the word manic, but this kind of jumping from thought to thought and tying together coincidences is sometimes an indicator of that very thing). There are a lot of things that I don't feel comfortable discussing with just anybody, a lot of things that I would prefer the anonymity of internet forums to discuss. There are things I worry about that would worry other people in my life were I to share them. I decided tonight that I would start a second, anonymous blog to lay down the kind of crap that gets my head spinning without causing anyone any concern. It's like a secret diary that anyone on the internet can read and comment on yet never know that it's me writing it.
There was a lot of other neuro-surfing going on tonight, but that's all I have for now. Peace.
So, we'll go one at a time.
I've been reading a lot of Jung lately. Tonight I was reading about his early years, and how he came across the idea of a collective unconscious hearing ghost stories from the countryside. It occurred to him that where ever in the world one might find a ghost story, there were elements that were unchanging. He noted that while the afterlife tended to be the domain of the religious, there were no religious texts describing the sorts of experiences the living were having with their hauntings. A few examples were cited, and one of them was the example of clocks in the deceased's house stopping at the moment of death. This gave me chills to read because it's exactly what happened when my mother passed away. There was a clock that had been given to my parents by the Commissionaires for their years of service, and it stopped dead on the time she died. I looked it up on the net and found that this is a pretty common occurrence.
I took some comfort initially from the idea that my mother's spirit had effected a change on some real world item to send us the message that there was something more.
But tonight I looked at it from a different perspective. Perhaps it's selfish of us to view this communication from beyond the grave as some sort of reassurance or message of love from the deceased. What if instead of this, they are trying to pass on information about the fundamental functioning of the universe, of life and death?
What if the constant interference with clocks by the dead is a continuing commentary on the nature of time? Could it be that they're trying to tell us it's all non-linear, insignificant? Rather than waving a simple goodbye, isn't it more likely that the crossing of dimensional barriers might be more of an attempt at mapping the way for us? Or perhaps it's a warning, who knows? I just think that there might be value in digging a little deeper into phenomenon from beyond the grave into what it could mean in another context.
Okay, next thing. I called this post rambling because my thoughts have been jumping tracks bullet trains tonight. So much so that I've got concerns I might be about to go into an elevated state of being. (I don't like the word manic, but this kind of jumping from thought to thought and tying together coincidences is sometimes an indicator of that very thing). There are a lot of things that I don't feel comfortable discussing with just anybody, a lot of things that I would prefer the anonymity of internet forums to discuss. There are things I worry about that would worry other people in my life were I to share them. I decided tonight that I would start a second, anonymous blog to lay down the kind of crap that gets my head spinning without causing anyone any concern. It's like a secret diary that anyone on the internet can read and comment on yet never know that it's me writing it.
There was a lot of other neuro-surfing going on tonight, but that's all I have for now. Peace.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Days to Remember
I really don't get much happier than I am right now. As I write this I'm parked in a busy mall parking lot waiting for the family to finish their shopping. The sun is shining ski resort bright and bouncing blinding white off of the screaming snow. It's above zero today and the chill is gone and I'm free free from your spell old winter and all I can do is wish you well.
I've parked Black Thunder paralell to the sun, taking all the photons she can give me broadside. The side door is propped open and I'm sitting in my old teak surfboard chair. Eased back, jacket off, soaking up rays while typing this out on my phone.
My T-shirt's cooking and the graphic is melting and I know my hard winter squint is being baked into new old man lines on my face but I don't care. This is where it's at. I'm getting eyeballed by all the passing drivers and they're looking at ME like I'M the crazy one. I'm savoring each solariffic moment of this with a relish and a cosmic satisfaction known only to junkies and die hard pony players. Admittedly my choice of location might be a little whacked, but I am where I am in a big absolute superseding conventional physics kind of way. You know?
Monday, February 7, 2011
Mexican Vacation.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow. According to the forecast it's going to 'feel like' -37 in the morning. I prefer the feel like temperature as opposed to the actual temperature. I have a difficult time being objective at the best of time, but the weather is one area that I view with skewed perception more so than others.
So why so happy about a normally hideous weather outlook? I have the day off tomorrow, and I discovered Saskatoon's best kept secret a few weeks ago. The Lakewood Civic Center swimming pool bills itself as housing a 'spacious tropical pool'. What it keeps on the D.L. however is the fact that it has a wall of windows along it's entire Southern exposure. Poolside there are big sun loungers, all facing the pool for relaxing parents. I discovered a few weeks ago that you can turn the chairs towards the windows in the afternoon and lay back in the sun for hours in the middle of winter, eyes closed, brain basking in the hot red glow of sun on eyelids. My first time there a man about my age pulled up a seat beside me and said "Feels great doesn't it?" He then proceeded to tell me that it was possible to get a sunburn in the space of an hour if you weren't careful. It was a ritual of his to make it there once or twice a week.
So ever since booking this day off I've been praying that tomorrow will be sunny and freezing, and now it looks like I'll get my wish.
I've been joking with the guys at work that I'll sneak in half a dozen Coronas with me.
When the lifeguard comes up to harass me I'll ask what the hell a Saskatoon Leisure Services employee is doing in Puerto Vallarta? Then I will demand 'mas cervezas' and when they protest I'll snap a quick "Vamos, andale!" at them.
The plan is this: shades, Jimmy Buffet, headphones and a slurpee.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Goodbye Blue Mondays
and Tuesdays and Wednesdays etc ad nauseum.
It's been a long time since I've blogged. Here's the reason. I couldn't really give 2 shits about anything.
I have this little mood disorder thing, where I lose my will to live in the winter time, and consequently I lash out at everyone and everything in my life for several months of winter. This year I took some prescribed anti-depressant type drugs so that I wouldn't jeopardize my job, marriage, house family, etc. ad nauseum.
They worked I suppose. The usual paranoia, exhaustion, irrepressible urge to move somewhere, loathing of all demands on my time as subversive attempts to infringe upon my freedoms were absent. So were all of the fun parts of being a whack job however.
The racing thoughts, the all-consuming creative obsessions, the desire to work out and stay fit, the urge to write and sex drive etc. ad nauseum all vanished.
With the onset of spring I've decided to wean off of the Soma. I think I'm out of the woods now until next winter. The days are getting longer, I'm driving home in the soothing orange glow of returning sunsets and I've heard runoff in the storm drains a few times this year already. I'm counting the days until the vernal equinox, gearing up for the first days of dry pavement, days off in the warm sun and asphalt surfing once again.
And with the decreasing amounts of neuro-toxins in my bloodstream I'm feeling human sensations again. Crazy little rushes of awe and wonder punctuated by syrupy sentimental sessions of joyful blubbery. I'm talking to myself in the car more and the work week doesn't stretch out in front of me like Mont Ventoux from the wrong end of the peloton. I'm also making obscure references to sports I don't give a rat's ass about :)
I'm looking forward to summer. And before I poison the minds of anyone considering treatment for mood disorders, I have to confess; this was the easiest winter I've ever had. But that could easily have been the long johns and the toque doing that too, haven't dressed for the weather since I was about 11.
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