Crash Colours

Plastic sugarfronts, car beetle shine. Blue nights and twillight streets. Zombie walk home, long night but good times. Run for the clouds, and expect the sun to strike triviality. Smoke surfaces on our skin, licking. Yet comfort never reached such aspiring heights, neither did the drapes lazily fly in such a beautiful way. I can't begin to forget about life as I emulate Johnny Cash.


CARTOON SHOWTIME: RHCP presents Deep Kick, or as I like to say Crash Colours of other lives.

It started when we were little kids, free spirits but already tormented by our own hands given to us by our parents.
We got together and wrote on desks and slept in laundry rooms near snowy mountains
and slipped through whatever cracks we could find.
Minds altered, we didn't falter in portraying hysterical and tragic characters in a smog filled universe.
We loved the dirty city and the journeys away from it we had not yet been or seen our friends selves chase tails round and round in downward spiral leaving trail of irretrievable vital life juice behind.
Still the brothers blood comrades partner family cuzz was impenetrable and we lived inside it laughing with no clothes and everything experimental 'till death was upon us in our face mortality and lots of things seemed futile then,
But love and music can save us, and did, while the giant grey monster grew more poisoned and volatile around us jaws clamping down and spewing ugly shit around.
Nothing is the same so we keep moving.
We keep moving.

-Red Hot Chili Peppers, Deep Kick

Déçu, je suis

Should've known. Damn it. Gotta start from scratch now.

Word to the wise: Music is much ado about nothing before and after.
Tune in next time,
Cheers and jeers!

WNC

White Ninja Comics: funniest webcomic online.

http://www.whiteninjacomics.com/comics/weight.shtml

Check them all, they're hilarious.

Bleed to Grow to Bleed

There was a man I often talked to in a town I lived in. The village idiot. On most topics of conversation he was a total ignoramus. Couldn't talk crap about anything related to popular interest; that's probably why no one ever bothered to talk to him. We talked in Vic Park once, and he came up with amazing insight on life. He was pessimistic, I agree, but maybe that's why he was able to push his reasoning that far. About love, or true love, he said, "The day you wake up beside your lover and you realize you don't love them anymore, that's the day true love begins." I thought it was real effing smooth, like 'Nice mantra, dumbass.' Then after a few odd relationships, it started being less of a joke and more of a hope.

Then another day, he talked about his glory years, and he looked at me as though his youth was me, I was him. Except I wasn't, and that seemed to piss him off a little. He said, "One day I woke up with like 6 other people. We were all pretty much naked in what looked like a Parisian renaissance apartment. I got up, put some pants on and downed two warm tequilas. I was really messed up. Didn't know what day we were, where I was, or who were the people waking up. I left the apartment, bought the morning paper and never took acid again."

The last time I saw him, before I left town, he said to me: "When you're so messed up by booze, or crack or whatever, you're so messed you don't even know if you belong in this world, and you feel like shit and you want to sleep forever, you remember this. The times in life that make you feel like that are the times you become what we're supposed to be. They're like growing pains, except you can't grow up in the mind without going through a shit-storm of confused ideas and anguish. You have to bleed to grow."

Transitional Exposure to Foreign Chemicals

Foam-eze. Dreaded chemical. It might be the codeine, but I think that getting foam-eze in the eye is the best thing that happened to me in a while. Sorry, let me reconstruct the incident.

I was using the shower-gun, or hose as others call it, and it EXPLODED. It literally erupted in a fountain of burning bubbles. I then proceded, with haste, to the sink where I could make use of the sink and eyewash. The interesting part in all this is that a customer -probably damaged by gonorrhoea and severely beaten many times as a child- laughed all the while.

A short exchange of words, evidently:

>"Hi, I'm looking for Skakerbashes. Ripe ones."
>"Well, you've come to the right place! Let's see here...ah yes, Skakerbashes: great melons of purple hue and delightful texture: aisle 3. Let me guide you."
>"Certainly. Oh, also; do you, perchance, have Woodland Mouyrs? They're wonderful this time of year. "
>"I believe so. Let's go and see, shall we?"

Balgerbough the clerk and Sir Foxsworthson procede through alleys and finally stumble on the grotesque produce section.

>"Ah! Splendid! This will assuredly please the missus! Now, for the Mouyrs, are there any?"
>"I'll ask my friend here. Slopfrop! Woodland Mouyrs: do we have any?"

Slopfrop groans as his corpulent body rises from a depressed pile of boxes. His face is a river of lard, punctuated by mounds of pus and acne scars.

>"Bah! Haven't seen those in ages! Ever since they cut the Woods east of Notmurshire, it's been a real pain finding them".
>"Oh, too bad. Sorry sir, none left".
>"Oh well, we'll do without".

Sir Foxsworthson leans over towards to Balgerbough and whispers

>"A little on the strong side, is he?"
>"I'm afraid so, ever since his pet hamster died of tyroïd cancer."

But suddenly Sir Foxworthson leans too far and falls! The Mouyr is crushed under his weight and a wrestling match unfolds as an enraged Balgerbough advances! What will happen next? Tune in next time on " A Short Exchange of Words"!

The Sheltering Sky

Stormclouds on a windy morning sky. The seagulls wait patiently for the fishermen's return: the promise of fish-heads and shellfish . Seamus watches the increasing flames on the ocean with his wizened gray gaze. The other -more important- men suspect him of nothing. After all, fishermen have a simple life. Another knave, slave to the jested life of the yuppy, encouraged to rot on the sea and it's capricious code. Whatever life he leads cannot be compared to the empassioned existence of the rich, the noble. Seamus knows. He knows much more than we know. Truest emotions have never been lived, strengh never possessed, love never felt.

This isn't just morality.

He watches the sun make its path, slow emblem of labor and toil. Mysteries to men are solved in a thought's grace in this moment. The fulfillment of the human soul: near the epitome of spiritual maturity. He repairs his net, impervious the world.

Matte Kudasai- K.C.

Still by the window, white as a sheet, she waits in the air. She sleeps, cuddled around a rose bouquet. When was the rain so soft? She waits, cushioned by the dreams living inside her. The slow wind fills the trees with a rampant murmur. A black car shines on the street, outside. She waits.

Lukewarm?

Back from Mtl; very very nice. I went to the latino side and got a few calls, had time to meet some of the folks there. Now I want to go to latin America.

Finding love is like finding a job. Apply to the most places and see who gives you an answer first. If you're satisfied of the conditions, then screw the other places and work full time. You can always have two jobs -heck the pay is great- but it's a matter of time before you have to quit one of them.

Yeah I'm not calling Neroli again. Ever. I ain't know her! Damn. There must be a tall, attractive -and most importantly, normal- blonde somewhere out there. Suddenly I feel VERY, VERY stupid.

Talked to a lesbian couple. Gosh I envy them. They seemed so happy and enamored of each other. Plus they're awesome. We meet regularily at some place on 16th. I wish I'd be gay. Maybe I can act gay, and still be attracted to the opposite sex? Maybe I can just act gay and not be attracted to any sex...wait, that won't work...will it?

Old yeller had it coming.

Love, against

This dreaded love that each we bear-le fardeau de l'âme-, can't it be simpler? Getting old, getting a job, getting a car, getting drunk, getting laid, getting pregnant, getting married, getting a degree, getting a career, getting a kid, getting two kids, getting a retirement, getting older, getting senile, getting dead. Similar has it been for all of us. Is it necessary? Do we all need this? I hope I don't. Falling in love is so passé, why can't we just live without being lived by hype? Why can't we love without playing the tune?

She didn't come, after all.

L'été, son nouveau d'une senteur perdue. L'amazone dans toute son empleur, lueurs piquantes et fleurs époustouflantes. L'hédonisme dans toutes sa variétée. Qu'importe l'amour! Qu'importe l'espoir d'une vie conforme! Séduire la savane perd toute son ampleur quand les lions l'emporte. Je ne suis ni lion, ni gazelle, ni zèbre, ni éléfant. Je suis l'être perdu sans demoiselle­.

Finally

Got a job, finally. Going on a date tonight, finally. Going to get my permit, finally. School's over for the summer, finally. Got some new clothing, finally. A very

succint

moment.

Gotta keep with the beat

Strengh. So long little man, I'm off. Later Gator. All I need is myself, my own body, my mind. With those things I can figure out everything, where I'm going. Right? I'm not so sure, but that's what understand so far. Yeah I know things aren't so simple...but why not?

the implacable sadness of growing up and screwing up

If I could've kept it up, maybe I would've made it. I can hear them: "Fucked up pretty badly didn'tcha? So sad, so sad. Oh well, off with the fuck-ups like the lot of 'em". Hell, maybe I had no chance from the start. Maybe I was meant to be a fuck-up. I'm not completely fucked, I still have a couple of things that are useful. Maybe I can just die. That'd be awesome:"Hello Mr. Power, bad news first? You have a tumor in the left side of your brain. Yes... that explains the acute pain. Doesn't explain your lack of skill, though. Good news is that you still retain most of your motor skills; I guess we got ourselves a new janitor!"

i'm sorry to have let you down...

OK so I haven't called you since I got your number. Sorry. You just didn't seem that interested. We were supposed to go on a date? Somehow, you changed. Gotta keep with the beat, love...if we're going 6/8, can't have you working on 4/4, eh? We're live baby, keep the beat...heartbeat, lifebeat, lovebeat.

inexistence is very tempting

Caught myself thinking for the first time: Gosh, wouldn't it be nice not to exist? I used to scared shitless of what I perceived pre-existence, a black void. The first time I actually stopped to think about life and death, existence, I thought about death without an afterlife. At death, our body returns to dust, and our soul -our conscience- goes to the black void of inexistence. Kinda weird eh? Endlessly swimming in a void of anti-existence. Even as a child, I questionned that inexistence. Anybody figure out why God doesn't exist? Between Him, my conscience and the void, I was a little perplexed as to why people are infatuated with the idea of not having a soul, not believing in God or life after death. Now I think I understand a little: people like the void because it's so damn comforting.

I went to get a pack of cigs for my bro this morning. I was walking near some old traintracks, and there were weeds growing all over the place. Forgotten, this traintrack is the remnant of old prosperity. As I looked at the sea-gulls, fat ones who probably didn't give a crap if they ever saw the ocean.

Canari

It started slowly. Like the light drumming of a summer rain on a low ceiling, a reassuring caress. A whole new meaning to be feelin' lucky. What words we say will never change us, mon amour and kissing you is breathing new life in my heart; I can't stop . I die with your eyes, entwined in an eternal vine of lust.

"Do you like canaries?"
"The little yellow birds? They're the honey of lost isles."
"Sing, then."

What love we may have will never change us, my love, et t'embrasser me rempli d'une peine délicieuse. Delicious pain, le plaisir langoureux de ta présence.

Chante, charmante traîtresse des îles perdues.

Hey hun

Rain, falling slowly on the spring grass. Its' yellow strands bravely claim the renewed rays of sunshine, and seem to gain color with each passing second. Comme la fin d'une mauvaise grippe, la terre embrasse la vie nouvelle qui s'anime autour d'elle. My face feels sympathy, because my cachot forbade me to leave. The hope of a new life is kindled, and laughter once again rules the day. The winter speaks no more.

So I haven't written on this excuse of a blog in a long time. Really, I am my only visitor, so I may indulge. Second session almost over; I look forward to this summer and the precious moments it brings...if only Neroli knew.

The nature of Love

I never really knew what love was, not that my parents -or any person of significant relation- never showed me affection, but love never seems to appear clearly in my mind, in any circumstance.

I don't believe I'm uncaring, or cold: I can recognize hate, lust, jealousy, compassion and every other human feeling in a clear manner. Love is something I never felt directly, if there is any such way.

Even when I went out with a girlfriend, the love never showed itself. I felt attraction, but my conception of love never materialized itself during the relationship. That's maybe why the relationships never lasted very long, hehe.

Maybe love is like that for everyone, but who knows. The emotions that jazz instills me is the closest thing that I can relate to love: the feeling of detachment to anything except the moment, the color of the music, the notes that intertwine each other until they become one flowing feeling of another conception of time.

Maybe the only thing I ever loved was the Conception of Jazz, and if so, I guess I'm screwed as far as the idea of starting a family is concerned.

Guilt, regret, trust and forgiveness.

Got healthy again a couple of days ago, had a weird combination of viruses, a double-hit. Didn't last very long. Back to reading.

Guilt and regret, what do they imply? Regret implies you question an action, to the point of wishing you hadn't done it. In the instance someone does wrong to you, up to when are they guilty ? Guilt in the sense of punishment, not in someone's own feeling of guilt. What kind of actions need punishment as retribution? The legislation believes punishment should ensue if a human being does an action that is detrimental to another human being while the guilty party is fully aware of what they're doing, i.e. Murder vs Manslaughter. But, do criminals question themselves about their behaviour after their actions? Maybe that's why some criminals never regret an action, because they never questionned themselves, due to various reasons, most of which I will never understand in this world.

And what about lesser wrongdoings? If a person I was briefly aquainted to hurts me, in whatever way hurt can be perceived, does it have the same weight compared to a close family member, or a spouse? Then maybe we have to introduce the whole aspect of trust in this. We trust someone until it is broken, and when it is broken, the perpetrator and the victim (used loosely) are distanced, for a while, until they meet and exchange. That is inevitable if progression is to be made for both parties. Trust is a valuable essence, one we play with and toy around because we can. Until trust is broken, it never shines its true colors. That is maybe why family members trust each other; because their trust has been tested many times.

The relationshipes we wish to keep are the strongest ones: we work to make them work. But sometimes it is very hard to rekindle trust, or simply love, in a relationship. Then comes another human essence, forgiveness. To a stranger that looks at us the wrong way, we walk away, but to a spouse that hits us every time he hits the bottle, or whatever God-damned reason someone might let themselves be illusionned with, we effortlessly try to make everything alright again. There are relationships that will not work, and some that will never stop growing, but the words of my best friend Martin has always been true, in my estimation and understanding:

The meaning of forgiveness is not necessarily to forget about another person's
misdeeds, or to ignore something, to rationalize. It means to forget about
another tomorrow, a tomorrow that might've been, a better tomorrow.

We have to swallow it, and let it go. It's hella hard, but if we keep onto something, it'll never leave.

Death and burial

Stephen King writes in the beginning of one of his bestsellers:

"Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things:

John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolph Hitler.Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr.X.

Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or books, telling what He did and why–at least to a degree–He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person...or, more properly, as a Person.

Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did...and what they saw:

The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed–badly, most undertakers say–Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. Then man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs.

Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret."

First session KO

Alright so I'm done with the first session. Yay.

Been working on the basement for a while, drywalling and suspended ceiling and whatnot. Yesterday was Christmas, had a bunch of relatives come over and ate a lot. Great, I got to talk a lot about everything AND I pigged out on turkey. Reading Lord Jim and Dispatch, two great books.

The sun still shines.

Sleep.

End of session rush...Zzz...

Back Home

Back home, where the early sun shines through soft mist, where the sea smiles with wind and sand, where rain gently laps over emerald leaves, where small animals whisper hidden words to each other, where the waiting dog pensively smells the air, colors, smells and sounds are reborn. What was once color becomes evermore colorful, mocking it's predecessor, and every sense tingles with newfound love. The cat, slit for eyes, purrs on the chair, while birds call out outside for one another. Mice slip by hawks, and fate is suspended. The unescapable sleeps while life takes a leap; the silky valleys, aglow in morning sunrise, awake gently. Men and Women lie in bed, the soft steel-gray moment is stolen away into the innermost fold of Humanity's soul. For a moment, life is a perfect harmony of senses but not even Jealousy, the worst counsel and the most seductive temptress , can disrupt it.

The Sound of Laughter

Funny how laughing really kicks you up a notch. I was talking with Neroli today, and I felt so happy I couldn't help myself from laughing. I was having a pretty bad week, what with end of session rushing...She's pretty nice, but I don't know how I'll handle it with the Tunisian girl and the Brunette. I mean, last time I was dancing with three girls (which was not a long time ago...do men ever learn?) it didn't work. Of course, by dancing, I mean nothing close to commitment. I'm all for commitment, but not with three different women at the same time. I mean, think of the jeweller's bill! Egads! Last time I spent something on my girlfriend, it ended up costing me a sizeable fortune (for a teenager) in one night, (including an eighteen carat gold necklace...), not that I care about money.

The mist falls on Quebec city, the French valley. It sprays a fine blue tint on the buildings downtown. People look, as I look, at the painting etched on the dying day's face. Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches come to mind; life takes a break. A few people linger on their doorsteps, watching the sun burn a trace on the naked trees. On the balconies, high up, young women look through gentle glass, with pensive eyes, at the coming calm. Young men, their jest stolen, stand with hands in their pockets; eyes with a grin at the future. For once, people are happy. Some even smile. The departed once again become dear. Babies make small soft laughs in their parents' arms; the birds of Autumn glisten in love and adoration of the musical northern winds .

The cigarettes burn themselves off, slowly, in their owner's hands. Then suddenly, twillight, and no more.