With Gusto

Hold It Out For Me To See

As I trotted through mystic vale the other day, I found a record lying on the forest floor. I picked it up and gave it a toss. I waited to hear it land but it didn't. Confused, I continued with my walk.
So what happens when nature presents you with a human tool? It was as though after I tossed the record, which used to play music, then became garbage, a tree caught it and held it out for a grab at attention. I'm not going to guess at what the tree means by holding up a record.
Tools, the apparatus, nature and how we use it to make tools. . . these things have been on my mind, and I've been only thinking of these things as one way, as in, humans take nature and convert it into tools, or convert it into a use that we can understand. Can nature use our tools? Can a tree, or a wave, pick something human out and use it to its use? For whatever reason, which doesn't include the act of reasoning, this tree held onto some garbage that used to play melodies and used it up. The record's use is furthered, the tree has caught it and is presenting an image on the side of a path that for all purposes, serves as a distraction from the pavement just outside.

UVIC Idol, Stage One

Lindsey Froland awaits to give his slice of the evening

Everybody who stands on stage casts his or her shadow into the place where the winner will stand. The first round of the UVic Idol, a tourney put on by the University of Victoria Students' Society, was held yesterday at the campus pub. This style of democratic celebrity making has swept most of the modern world, sort of like kareoke.

There are a total of nearly 50 UVic student competitors who will persuade their peers to vote for them by singing and acting out a song of their choice. Some choice musical decisions: "Faith," by George Michaels, a Hank Williams Sr. cover, two involving Lauren Hill. It was as if the stars were there themselves!

The winners for the first round will be declared on October 8th. The winner of the tournament will win a trip to Europe.

Poll: Do you think UVic Idol is to be taken seriously?

no: 5
yes: 1

Quotes from the evening.

"A trip to Europe is not to be laughed at."

"This is about hosting an event that will draw the kids into coming, getting people interacting and having a good time -- fuck no, I can't take this seriously."

I jammed with a raven (nowt to do with _______)

As I walked through Mystic Vale I had a coffee and heard a bird-noise that sounded like a-ho-ook-kah. It came from unfamiliar trails and I tried to but couldn't find it.
Birds. . .

Heron - killer instinct, a body built for it. I thought they were so rare when I first saw one. These birds ripped me off; they're everywhere.

Crow - would rather spear your heart or take your keys than physically attack. It's a bizarre form of co-habitation, and for some reason it works.

Owl - a sad hoot from beneath branches.

I jammed with a raven today. I saw what I think to be a crow, a raven and an owl sitting opposite from each other, in the form of a triangle. I stopped and made a ratt-ratt-tat-tat-tat with my fingertips on the bottom of my styrofoam cup. The birds looked up and broke their formation. The owl swooped low into some branches and hooted sadly. The raven echoed (albeit poorly) my cup noise, again and again, until I responded with my drum noise. . . we stood there for about two minutes doing this. The owl interrupted a few times, but not even the crow paid it any attention. Then some lady came by with her dog, and I was there with an upside down cup in my hands, staring into the woods, which made me feel stupid, being caught communicating with a bird. On the way out the forest, the raven followed me. Occaisionally I beat the noise on my cup, but the raven only responded as a raven. The cup of coffee was free, which made it cool.

They Respond

Tools in use, romanticized like bats
and dolphins, trees and plumbs --
cute little fuckers pushing onward. We got
five, maybe six, answers for our days; one for the hairs
dragged through the pores of tight blue jeans,
two for pornography (for you cannot smell it),
one for chips and one to gauge sweat floating past holes
home to hairs, noting release by the amount of pinpricks in the air.

After that the spaces between couches
and televisions, neighbors and neighbors
are filled with vacancies. Except when it rains,
like it is now: water ushered back through the gates; and houses,
those temporary roots, peel out from the downpour: a static blip
holding onto one breath, the stucco, a waft from the fireplace.
In response to number six: There are dead hands and fingerprints who
still feel the footsteps of those around them.

__________________________

very rough draft. I may work on it later, or I may just let it exist with the faults it were borned withy.

Hey Ho, I almost lost my troll (nowt to do with Vancouver)

What a bizarre weekend, filled with everything an art students needs -- good times, a weird car, people, BBJs one night, the beach the second night. I'm reading B3L C4NT0 and at times I love it, but at most times I don't. I don't know what it is about it. . . perhaps it's overwritten, but the narrative is great. I can almost skim and forget the overblown descriptions and just ingest what the book is doing with the narrative, which is undoubtedly fascinating. A group of terrorists overtake an important party expecting the President of a small country to be attending. Their plan was to capture the president, but he cancelled and the terrorists ended up with a house full of people from varying countries. The normal plot for a book goes something like (bear with the dots proceeding):

........................../\
........................./ \
......................./ \___________
.................../\/
................./
................/
............/\/
........../
_____/

But this book kinda goes:

................./\_______________________________
.............../
............../
............/
______/

And so sometimes I'm left feeling out of sorts. I'm currently listening to the strangest mix tape of all time. I think it's more of a document of how the person thinks in real time, thoughts slanted onto electrical tape and then played out on a few stereoes. Tomorrow is a day of work, finding it, schooling it. There are many folks out there who believe too much in the educational process.

A Photo for an Experiment

wee

The edges fade, public blamed.

The public can never be blamed, because they are always the public, whenever time, whenever society. Even when the public gets smarter, it's the public, and they usually take the credit for themselves. And it's the public who have become "they" and "they" always blame "they". Which brings me to hating the public. And I blame them for. . . .

Was at a party with Joy, a house-warming party for some peeps who used to come to the writing thang. Good times. Pretty casual. It was, in a sense, a public good time. I don't know what it is, but I've switched thinking about some things, and these two things that I've switched thinking about have fallen into the exact place which the other held! One is: drinking. When I woke up hungover, feeling empty, it was as though a little layer inside had been wiped away. The other is: when I went into public, the city was open and kind. Though seeing "booze" as "open and kind" is a stretch, as I think booze is a kinda dumb thing to fall into considering. It's okay to fall into it on a side-line, but there's been enough people just falling into it. The booze heap is well filled, and doesn't exactly need any others extending their entry into it.

So what's "side-line". All I can say is that booze is something to keep you effortless in times of stress, and those times come and go.

I'm at work; I'm a worker

The semi-colon. Only assholes know how to use it properly. Student loan came in today.

Don't expect: pretty sunsets: fluffy little kittens: pictures of your mamma: and other "photo-albumiums".

I plan to reshape this place soon. I'm buying a digital camera this week and I want to have a very tight focus on non-fiction, my camera, my eye. Don't expect: pretty sunsets: fluffy little kittens: pictures of your mamma: and other "photo-albumiums".
Now I know where I'm not going, but what does that mean? My focus will certainly not be on what isn't. A double negative theme sounds too, Shakerasperium. But what ____.
I've always had a soft-spot for non-fiction writing, now being the time and place of where we are, I'm fascinated with documenting it. Though it'll probably be event based, and based on community, and it'll take place in the margins. . . any other modern cliches I can use? Oh, yeah, most importantly, it'll be of the heart. Right in your fucking face.
I'm also buying another cymbal. I'm not sure if I want a new ride, or a new crash. My reason for fumbling with the issue is that the bell on my ride is a little tricky. If I'm alternating beats on the bell, the sound can be inconsistant, and I find it hard to be accurate on this particular bell, it's small. Other than that, the ride is great. . . the perfect amount of brightness when it needs to be, and I can also beat the fuck out of it and get a big wall of noise out of it. I definitely need a new crash. Mine is a very thin AA 18inch Sabian crash. It was great using it in a folk band, but rock music needs more. This crash fades out too quickly, so it's a constant quipped exclamation mark. I'd like to have a very big, wet sounding crash, one that carries through like a wave, supporting everything on top of it. One that'll carry the other sounds in the room to where they need to be, without getting in the way.

New CDs -- New Booze -- New Books

Shopping. Some money came in today, and my life of poordom is officially over for awhile. Right now I'm drinking a bourbon and coke and listening to Big Joe Williams. So mint. It's my new ambition to have midnight backyard parties in the rurals where people play simple, acoustic blues on a stage with candles (in teacups) and people chillin out, or being rowdy. The rowdies never last long. Everyone's welcome. As long as you can play the blues, son. My other new CD is a Thelonious Monk. . . "criss-crossed" or something. I think Monk is my favourite piano player, of any time or place. Big Joe Williams is my new favourite blues musician. He played a nine-string guitar, three strings were piano wire. Apparantly he didn't like other people playing his guitar, so he made it impossible for anyone to play except him. If you shook his guitar, notes, money, garbage, bus tickets and other junk would fall out of it.
The new books I purchased are a Lorna Crozier book of poetry and a Thomas King novel. Can't remember the names right now. I need time for that sort of thing. I'm the person who'll just skip the introduction, skip the person's name, the book's name, and get right to the words. The rest can come later. If it's worth it. Unless there's an essay included with a CD. I love the mixture of music in the air and words about it on the page.
"Criss-Cross" is the name of the Monk album, which makes me think of another coupla of black dudes.
The night shall be filled with a flask filled with bourbon, and a shitty patio with shitty waitstaff. That's right, I'm going to the campus pub. I'll check in with the devil at midnight. Since I'm not religious, I'll be an independant third-party. Maybe I'll walk in on Saddam giving Beezlebub the ol' chocolate starfish. Right in the fucking mouth.