| Babe's
writing Babe has a bit of skill with the written word. On this page you will find pieces by him that were published by the literary journal Fait Accomplit and by the indie zine Brushstroke Earth. Under the wily pseudonyms "Dave Lloyd" and "David Warren Lloyd", Babe also writes editorial columns and wrote a Master of Arts thesis on new heavy metal music for the University of Alberta. You can check those out at his webfolio.
"hey, watch it" published spring 2005 this guy at the store invited me to an industry-only opening-night party at a new studio, like a month before the party. he approached me by name. i didn't know him, but he had seen my work & he had read my stuff. he told me about the studio. it sounded incredible. i was included cuz i'm in the biz. ha. but, he said, there's also the party your publication is having that night. fuck, no one told me about that. the weeks went by, & i heard nothing of the party. the most senior guy there, somehow left me off the list. this has always been the case. i'm the guy who didn't get a t-shirt. yep. so i go into the office on the day of the party, to pitch a work-a profile/preview of some hard dudes they know are friends of mine, i bet they wont even run it--& suggest a deal with the store. i hear the party mentioned, & ask if there was a reason i was left off the list. no. so here i am. i don't know anyone who likes me. i walked in the winter cold, so i'm wearing crappy cords & a crappy shakerknit sweater. yep. i walk in. a guy recognizes me from the office today. i gotta work on my memory. he grabs me to tell me a name-tag gets me drink tickets. he gives me four. thanks man. i stash my gear & wander. i find the mini-buffet, fill a plate shamelessly, sit by myself. i go to the bar and wait. a guy asks me about the meaning of the position, CONTRIBUTOR, written on my name-tag. i tell him "writer". oh yeah, he says, so it's not like The Writer. no. he buys that. i turn the other way & see a guy i met a year ago. some snappy-dressing loser who gets the chicks but doesn't get it. he used to get drunk & and cut me up. i made short work of him most of the time. you're wrong, buddy; it would take FOUR of me to take you. still, he drove me home. he was friends with the friend of a girl i was hard for. so there he is, a girl between us again, this time at the bar. his roaming gaze lingers on me for that nano-second. i say classlessly hey! i know you! he looks. Babe! shitty small talk ensues, a question about the girl i wanted, who ended up stabbing me in the back in my own home. what am i doing? he asks. Working. Paying Debts. he's with some company that does videos & animations. right on, man. he's enjoying it. it probably paid for that ribbed sweater. animations. wow. related to his post-secondary education. great. i bail out, saying i'm waiting for a drink. a well-formed bartenderess, shorter than me, curvy, great glasses, hears me. she tells me that she thought i was just chilling out there. yeah, i think, with ribbed-sweater-animation-boy. i laugh, ask if i can get a scotch with a ticket. she thinks. "a house scotch." bring it forth with most haste. she turns to get the scotch, i get a phone call. it's from my friends who are connected but not quite THERE, just like me. i want to get them into tonight's industry party at the studio. they say they'll come. we'll see what strings can be pulled. another gorgeous bartender girl approaches me while i'm talking on my yup-phone. i gesture that i'm okay. yep. a-ok, that's me. fuck. then my bartenderess comes back while i'm still on the phone. yeehaw. what a dork. she tells me she made me a double because i had to wait. she wants me. i had to yell WHAT?! cuz i couldn't hear her. well, she wanted me. i sit with my scotch, eat a radish slice, some celery. i gather up my celery & abandon my whole plate. i have no appetite. damn. i wander around, see name-tags from other organizations. i'm confused. i meet a girl my age who i grew up with, off & on. she was boyish, then a dirty hippie, now she's gorgeous & hard & sports the only tattoo i've ever liked. dark-skinned girl. the real deal. fuck the man. long tattoo all the way around her arm. i'm a grubby pedestrian poseur. fuck. she talks with me, laughs, leaves. she's working. i go to the front of the bar, ask about the nature of the event. it's a party for everyone who matters to the publication. i matter, i am told, since i was invited. thanks. damn this city. while i am writing, this cutsie hot blonde with short hair keeps eyeing me from beside her boyfriend. or from beside the guy who has her hand on his back. he makes her laugh a little with his antics. done it. old. she knows. she can smell the scotch on my breath, all the way from her table, she squirms under it as it burns away her hair product, her make-up, her respect for herself for having a guy who can get her into parties. she knows what's under the pills on my sweater, the mop on my head. the worst thing is that she can't ditch cutie boy & talk to me. fucking E-town chicks. so stuck. damn. where does that leave me? i was told this is the bar's opening night. i didn't know that. i would have known that, a year or two ago. now i'm just not plugged in. are these people plugged in? does handling the advertising for a publication like this plug you in? there's one guy here who has been on the scene FOREVER. man, when i first blipped onto the scene's periphery, he tried to edge me out with brutal & obvious hate-mail. good try. i don't know what the fuck he does in this town, but he's always ratting around at music events, etc. he edged in on my own mag, then on my paper. once i was training at a campus radio station, on the air, & he shows up & edges me out. at least he wasn't totally rude. to me. anyway, he's here, & he knows a ton of people. there are some beautiful little ladies here. how many of them are hooked up? have men? i bet a lot of them are dying for a fuck. a hard one. i could lay it on them, but i'm not good enough. fuck, this town just kills me. kryptonite, man. in any other town i could clean up. well, probably. so many people trying to feel important. i'm gonna go back to the bar & use all my little drink tickets. that's right, honey, i write for this thing. no one likes me, but i write, & i'm here to drink your doubles, write, & leave. i used to be soooo good at these damn things. i get a scotch, i hover around Alvin. Alvin is a funny man. sharp as a razor too. he's talking to various people about various things. the blondie girl comes and talks to him. she's from that clothing store. the very store that is contributing to the corruption, strangulation, & putrefaction of our ave. i chat her up. Cherie. i'm on a roll. i have her laughing a good one. no antics, just straight-faced quips. she asks me what i contribute to. i say the downfall of society. or does Alvin say that? i say mostly music, some sex, since i got some this year. i'm just a general guy. infantry. she nods. i blew that one. she thinks. laughs. "infantry! ha!" ok. point. yeah, i tired to get them to write FUCKER UP OF SHIT on my name-tag, but they wouldn't. she digs that. ya see? she could smell the scotch from her table. soooo… you're from that store, eh? so THAT's why you're dressed so well. another point. i too usually dress well… why didn't i tonight? oh yes, that's right, because IT'S SO GODDAMN COLD! "yeah, i wore this and a coat, i was like fuck! fuck! fuck! the whole way here." i love girls who do all that for my sake. it's great, you freeze, i get the treat. it's all good. "hey, watch it. That's my dad." Alvin. damn. hey, i got nothing to hide. but i'm still gonna go drink myself to sleep now. another point, but it coulda been better. i was wondering what a pretty girl like you was doing talking to a this old man. she smiles. "well, i'm gonna go get a beer and say hi to Ted." okay, Cherie, i'm gonna go get a scotch &… uh… hang out. the same bartender woman who gave me my last scotch gives me this one. "Where are you getting your tickets?" uh, the publication. "k, cuz you were only supposed to get two." well, someone didn't want theirs. (YES.) "how many did they give you at the door?" two. (well done.) that first bartenderess? no glasses. just hot. a good amount there. style. a favourite Beck song hits the p.a. a slow, trippy one. suddenly i'm the centre of a music video, Brit-rock style. everyone faking around me, & i'm alone at a little table in front of a half-filled page and a half-emptied scotch. & a shitty sweater. for three-and-a-half minutes. all this circular sexual movement, all sorts of antics & movements all for sex, & i'm the centre, the eye, untouched, uninvolved, unfucked. this all feels like the parties five years ago, but corrupt now. tainted. sour. where is my Katherine? it's terrifying to think that i have gone nowhere since then. so i think it. she's married now, i'm alone with a pen & a scotch & a shitty sweater, in a place where i would have taken her five years ago, & i would have been so proud. people would have said is THAT your girlfriend? yep. you bet. damn. fifty at twenty-four. what happened, Babe? i don't know, you tell me. it's all tits and cash these days. sad. i don't even try anymore. i don't throw my hat in the ring. there is no hat. the only time you notice that you're trying is when you fail. things just aren't the same. of course they aren't the same you sappy sad fuck. it only matters when they aren't the same as a time that was a hell of a lot better than now. stay healthy so you can really feel the world's shit fall on your head. i put on my coat, my scarves, my gloves. i went out into the burning blade wind, walked down the ave to the next party. then back to my basement. [top] "To Crack an Egg" published spring 2005 Food is a wonderful thing. The way it feels on the tongue, the flavour of it filling the mind, the glowing post-meal satisfaction are all ample reward for the rigours of being gourmand. One particularly good food is the egg. A curious food. The mark of evolution, our consumption of eggs must confuse the hen. I coupled, I laid, but where my offspring? Thank you, hen. We do so enjoy the sleek, perfect curvature of your offering, the pure, flawless whiteness of its surface concealing that sinfully indulgent yolk. That yolk which must be broken. It can be nice simply to consume the whites, but to truly do the egg justice, the yolk must be broken. Yet there is still another more critical breakage to be incurred before the egg can experience the world and its destiny. The shell must be broken. The eggs must be exposed to the world to see the universe's blinding light in all its fury and passion. It is a very elegant and subtle skill, to break an egg's shell perfectly. If one does not do it properly, it does not flatter the egg. One's ensuing involvement with the egg can become messy if one breaks the shell too violently or quickly. The egg has been known to mix its true inner essence with bits of its shell when broken carelessly, and picking out the splinters of the egg's broken defenses can be taxing and degrading for both the enjoyer of the egg and the egg itself. Some of the egg's inner self can also be spilled onto the landscape surrounding the egg's new home in the pan, and the egg can lose parts of itself which then dry up and are swept away by particularly avid cleaners or future users of the stove. The egg, then, is no longer whole. One must be gentle when opening an egg. A thing of such beauty as an egg possesses deserves care, attention, respect. This any reasonable lover of food's pleasure can see, gourmand or otherwise. It helps to caress the egg one intends to enjoy, to stroke it, to know the feel of it, its shape. But one must not insult the egg. It must treated as what it is. It is not an aesthetic object, nor is it a trophy. To simply admire the egg's beauty is to deny its function, its place in the world of action and event. One must not deny that the egg is to be enjoyed. If one is too gentle, too tentative and ginger, the egg can become confused regarding one's intention towards it. It may become hurt, feel neglected, and its sense of its own capacity to fill its eggly role can be damaged. This can result in a souring of the egg. No, the egg must not be held aloft too long, must not be patronized with too drawn out an adulation. The egg must be allowed to speak. When one breaks the egg's shell one must not be too violent, nor must one be too cautious. If one is not firm and direct with the egg, the egg may not respect one, may not consider one worthy of its treasures. In this case, breaking the shell too slowly can become tedious for both parties; all the worse for the reputation of the egg lover if a slow opening of the egg is not tedious, but enjoyable, for such a person may be relegated to certain specialized websites. No, the best way to penetrate into an egg's guarded juices is to be firm, but not rash. And this begins with the knocking at the egg's shell. The egg is to be decisively rapped against a solid surface, something that can bear the force of the encounter in a manner conducive to the bringing together of egg and taster. If the venue of the knock was to give way, both egg and cracker would be left in an awkward situation, the egg merely bruised or bumped but not seeing any reason to open up. The knock should produce just a small crack. Not an immediate full opening of the egg, for such haste, again, most often leads to the egg being everywhere but one's own plate. Once such a crack is shown to the potential eater, it does not do simply to dive in greedily. This may well finally result in the consummation of the simmering process, but it lacks finesse, and is not as enjoyable for either side. The sides of the shell are to be parted gracefully, with elegance. Here one may add a touch of dash, a swoop of the hands, a touch of a smile at the corner of the lips. The opening of the shell is a special and intimate thing, a canvass on which a dance of the fingers is to be painted; there is no reason to rush through this most creative and magical of moments. Once the sides of the shell are fully parted, most lovers of eggs simply let the contents fall into the pan. This is reasonable, and the yolk must fall, but it is often enjoyable to hold the yolk and the white a fleeting moment or two inside one half of the shell, cupped there, hovering, quivering, waiting to be plunged into the heat of the receptacle beneath it. One may perhaps even pass the lovely fluids from one half of the shell to the other, if the two halves are well balanced. This variety of enticement requires a deft and experienced hand, and is réussit only by the most experienced and devoted of egg lovers. When the white of the egg begins to spill over the side of the shell, it is at that moment that the soft yolk and slick white are to be dashed against the pan into the glorious cacophony of their own frying. This done, there always remains a drop of white viscously hanging from the shell, bobbing. A drop of the hand and a twist of the wrist are all that is needed to collect that last drop of white against the smiling surface of the eggshell's face. Once this is done, and the precious gifts of the egg's insides are laid bare, given unconditionally to the cook, the shell can be disposed of unceremoniously, for it is longer required. It may have been a perfectly formed encasement, an attractive packaging design, but it is merely a geometric ideal, cold, hard, and now shattered, pale, and brittle next to the warm, glowing nourishment of the yolk, which now sings in its hot new home. Shortly thereafter, the yolk, too, opens up, and the very magic of it is released to the cook, this latter having been proven worthy. The cook and the egg then finally come together, and it is beautiful. [top] "tense then release" published spring 2005 i'm back at this shitty bar, in this shitty town. suburban rats congregate here to gnaw at each other. their burning stink and ache stain the air, fake derision clambering over manufactured libidos, and here i am. i walk in and every head turns to look as every head always does for every body that walks in. a table of trimmed, waxed, and coddled jackasses laughs. this routine gets old. i guess the guys in the band figured i still live here, in this town. that's alright; i've been outta touch, & they can hack it here. they've get their own self-contained space, the vitriol doesn't seem to bleed into them. two of them are basically married to their girlfriends, & their music gives them all the peace of religion. nothing gets under them. i admire that; i'm too frenetic. i do the interview at the billiard pub next door. it's an easy thing. chill. shoot the shit with guys i've known for years. "so ask some questions." Steve. "fuck that. talk to me. tell me something interesting. get cheezy. i mean, music journalism is cheezy. don't sweat it." we chat. joke. fall in to the genre label game. "Fucking Metal" "Not-Stupid Metal" "New Age Metal for the Millennium" "Progressive Millennium Metal" apparently, Nic is engaged to his dog and recently had a one-night stand with a cougar. a real old one. "a cougar's grandma." Brian. i give Nic props for that. "i'd be into that, for sure. fuck. no problem." at this point, i'd do anything. i'm so fucking tense. fucking-tense. from not fucking. it's because i've given up. why bother trying? especially in Deadmonton & fuckin' Stalbert. this town, this little suburb of a frontier-town colony has always hated me. anyone who didn't was like family or like idolizing fan. no touching. i mean, there ARE no freaks here for me. they all take off to fucking Toronto. now even Damon wants to go there. damn. so i sit in this clean little kit-assembled pool bar, making jokes with my young prodigy metalhead friends. "hey, Babeage, you know Pud's the only one of us remaining in fat-camp?" Brian. "yeah?" "i'm done, & Shaun didn't go back." "damn!" "yeah!" Nic. "it's STILL fat-camp!" the community music college. "see?! they're STILL fat!! man, that shit makes you fat!!" he points a finger, long and skinny like him, into Brian. "print that this time! it didn't get printed last time." this is the band's second cd release, second feature by me in the magazine. i believe in these guys. they know what they're doing, and they kick my ass. "man," i say, "i doubt they'd run it." "fuck them." Nic. "i know." "I mean, look." pointing now into Shaun. "you don't lose the weight. it's permanent, man. it sticks with you. fuckin' look!" the guys in the band who went to college have gained weight. it's ironic. metaphorical. we make jokes, me & Pud & Brian, quick cerebral slang dirty jokes. "my friend," Brian, "why are you not imbibing?" "scratch. can't afford no nectar. not on these paycheques." i lift my pen, squint at it in the bright pool table light. "what do you drink?" "scatch." "scotch?" "scatch." "scatch." he howls laughter. "gatcha. How much is a scatch here, for a man of your talents?" "three-se'en-fy" "Babeage, that's nothing!" "it's too much. Bud's has it for two-eighty. i'm a scatch whore-" "a scatch whoooore. scatch whUre." Pud. "dass right. I work fo' scatch. so pay up, bitches!" "shut up, whure. i got your scatch right HERE." Nic. "fuck you, cougar boy." the easy texture these boys carry with them is appealing, but it's lost on me. i'm lost in a blinded quotidien delirium of contraction. i'm shrinking against my desire, less for all that i want and don't get. compacting myself into a spring-loaded package, ready to blow. one gentle touch will throw the latch & demons will howl out of me screaming banshee-like, roaring deafening past the girl, scaring her, thrilling her, rounding & brightening her eyes. i've seen it before. done it. Montreal, sigh. Leduc, cringe. i'm fixed on afterglow. i'm so wound up that getting off isn't the issue. the fucking has fallen away. it's the semantics that rivet me. the idea of a beautiful soul seeing my lock & using their key. the desire, not the caress of the woman, of the person, the mind, the eyes. wanting fingers on the puzzle cube of my whirring atoms. smiling. every chick i see now is a hand on my cheek, a grip on my shoulders, tits in my face, a curved landscape to roam, to spread myself over like a fresh new homestead. a knowing voice sliding between my muscles. a fucking meat tenderizer. we wrap it up, Pud asks for a ride home. i'm sticking around. he gets a lift from someone else. I hover around Matt and Stone like a fuckin' groupie, desperate for something to do, people to occupy my mind. they're playing foozball. i want their absorption with simple distractions. video games, movies, pool. i make tense jokes. about sex. Matt suddenly loses two games. he's afflicted. he's always got at least six girls going. always. never older. never. he's addicted. he talks girls al the time. about them. to them. new. every week, another fresh green teen who adores his routine tricks and bright face. he's distracted. they flow through him, under him. i bust into his voice-mail with his password that i guessed and feel bubbly treble spilling everywhere. "i missed you today. was it me or you?" "hi! i just got in the door!" "call me on the upstairs line, k?" damn. we go next door, to The Crown. i shouldn't stay here. be here. people have wanted to beat me, here. and sexual ghosts are everywhere. the perfect goddess we called Rack Attack three years ago. three fucking years. not-fucking years. her smooth curved pale face. amazing feminine bounty. razor brain. fire spirit. she seduced me without knowing it every goddamned weekend when i worked beside her, spinning cds and novelty gameshow prize wheels. and all the others i wanted & my friends got. for a night, a month, a year & always me skulking home degraded, furious, sad. and i'm here now. again. after so long. i should leave. i don't. i'm so goddamn tense, i'm fucking losing it. i'm not making any sense. i'm yelling nonsense at everybody, racial things that have Matt reeling in laughing awe. i'm so tense, i don't give a shit about a a damn thing. they're everywhere, these moving statues, clad in age-old cling-and-show got from the latest billboard. they can't hold a straight line, they're darkness howling out of cleavage at me from every angle. i'm surrounded, eyes darting, panicking. they breathe into the air like a pump into the cock in my head. i'm crazy now. a crazy cock. i've reached capacity. i'm an angst sponge that nobody has wrung out in a long, long time. there's no more room in me for any more tension, worry, hatred, frustration, fury, wonder. it's all oozing out of my pores now. it scents the room, souring the thonged perfume and gelled cologne. it moves through me, amplified. from the air, through me, bullying into semantic spaces between & my friends & people i don't even know. i'm yawning out obnoxious crap everybody knows & feels & sublimates & fucks away. they resent the unseemliness of my chaotic release, projection. they want to never talk about it. like shit on their tables. and here i am forcing it into their air. it disintegrates into noise. pure screaming. i'm Tom Green. i've always been bitterly jealous of him, with his total release and receiving of incredible beauty. he shows no resisitance. he gives in always, and receives all. and now i am him. screaming madly not-to the music of the lounge lizard one-computer-band. the people love it. laugh. cry. howl. point. smile. i've drowned. i respond to questions with screams, gurgling vomits of noise with eyebrows like flags. [top] "Circles and Sam" published spring 2000 The first time Steve had ever really thought of circles as a frightening concept was when he was eight years old. Of course, he had not, at precisely that point in his life, consciously thought of what he had witnessed as circular, and, naturally, had not become possessed of one of those mythologically popular morbid childhood fears causing him to ruin birthday parties by wailing at the sight of carousels and, later on, discreetly avoid doughnuts and pizza at social gatherings. No, his slow but startling realization of the equation between futility and circles came later, assisted by his memory of an event of his ninth year—a memory which enjoyed membership in that elite of recollections which constitute the phenomenon of cerebral imprints that never degrade, never fade, the phenomenon which everyone experiences, which everyone marvels at, and which no one discusses. Steve's storybook (as far as Steve would deign to use such a misnomeresque adjective) older brother, Alan, had taken him out to see a movie. This "late movie", beginning at 7:15pm, was pitched as a special treat to Steve, for it was not the childish matinee (and, as all wanted Steve conscious throughout, not the officially "late" movie of 9pm). Alan, eight years Steve's senior, was particularly susceptible to such outbursts of fraternal love—thus Steve's undying construction of him as storybook—and Steve was anything but unappreciative. In fact, Steve's admitted nerdiness was never verbally acknowledged in the elder's presence, for such was Alan's affection that an observation of that kind was sure to bring on physical wrath. Steve had, for this reason, prior to 6:30pm departure, overheard his mother reminding Alan of the positive side of verbal retribution, if not upper lips of the stiff variety, and other cheeks of the turned. And sure enough, the Fates provided the two brothers with a few local yokels to make the variety of jabs which they appeared to consistently think funnier than the last time they were made. And, her pep talk fresh in his mind, Alan's love for his Mooms (this moniker being the result of the classic toddlerhood mispronunciation) superceded his disgust at anti-social behaviour, keeping his lip stiff, although his other cheek remained less than turned. As the two sat through the ever-delectable wait for the film to begin, Alan related to Steve his feelings about the recent non-event. "I can't believe I didn't shut that guy up. Fuckin' moron. Man, you're already smarter than that guy. Of course you know that everything he said is idiotic crap right? Good. Don't ever forget that anything that comes out the mouth of someone that stupid really has no importance whatsoever, 'K? In fact, usually the opposite of the crap they spew is true. So you're the coolest shit on earth. Ain't that right?" Steve smiled hugely, nodded even more so, and said, simply, his eyes shining, "Yup." He never got tired of his brother's tirades against the common masses. Alan was smart. So smart, Steve knew, that he could use swear words comfortably, simply because his ability with language was so great he had nothing to fear, no one to answer to—except Mooms, of course. Steve was hugely flattered that someone as hugely smart as his brother loved him so hugely. "I guess I'm just the better man for not demonstrating to that guy the reason for hiding his total inability to function in society in the presence of two men as fly as ourselves, eh?" Thanks to Alan, Steve knew that "fly" meant good, or something close to it. Steve also knew not to use the word until his grasp of it was complete. To do otherwise was "lame". Steve's later memory of the film itself was largely eclipsed by Alan's whispered commentary on it. Steve knew why the film was crap, and why it was so good, and was content to keep that knowledge to himself. Fortunately, the human trash heap had moved on while the brothers were inside the cineplex teaching and learning about popular culture and society. Unfortunately, Alan slipped on the winter parking lot ice as he closed Steve's car door, receiving a black eye from the exterior mirror. This was another thing to which Alan was prone. As long he wasn't seriously injured, though, he always just laughed it off. Alan was amazing that way. Dexterity, he always claimed, this time being no exception, was no longer a mandatory possession to get along in life. So he let out the grunt and moan he loved to utter, and lay on the ground as Steve was once again torn between loving worry and fond amusement. He then got up, brushed himself off, smiled hugely, and walked around to his side of the car. "The chicks are really gonna dig this make-up, eh buddy?" he said, pointing to his unmistakable shiner. Steve laughed, then smiled and shook his head. After a fun car ride home featuring a lecture about why chicks dig guys like Alan, the two walked into the back door of their suburban home to find Mooms reading in the living room, like she always, always was. "Hi boys! How was the movie?" Mooms, as wonderfully always. Alan, "Great, wickedly yet subtly ironic. Most of 'em probably missed that though." The boys walked into Mooms's lamplight. Her face, from love to anguish. "Alan! You told me you wouldn't! Not again! Why do you lie to me?! …" The shiner. The boy who cried wolf. Car keys revoked until no phone call came for a fortnight. He should have rolled that guy. This somehow, became circular to Steve, sometime after high school graduation. Mooms felt bad, but he still should have rolled him. This memory without a half-life was what caused Steve's Wednesday morning literature lecture on Sam Beckett to be like scholastic swiss cheese. Whatever anyone said, good ol' Sam always made Steve confused. Not, of course, because Steve didn't understand. Oh yeah, he knew why Sam wrote about two people going out of their ways to find various ways to do nothing. At least, enough of why for his own satisfaction. Enough of why to go on a personal internal tangent, replaying the movie incident under Beckett-gelled light. Of course, Sam had reached the bottom line. Great. Way to go him. Steve could appreciate that. What confused him was, well, what a crappy bottom line. Like, the only way to reach that line, fully, and go on living, is with a psychological mechanism. That mechanism could be selectively blind optimism, or a bitter jading. Still, what is the point of finally realizing that there is no point? Steve knew that there are lines that you just don't cross. Questions you just don't ask. Not because of some don't eat-of-the-fruit paranoia, but because of a why-even-do-that-to-yourself pragmatism. It was thus that his continual internal negotiating mechanism kicked in. Being a consciously self-satisfied academic, and loving it, Steve really had a distaste for people who lied to themselves, or went out of their way to be out of reality's way. He was proud of his ability to, say, see Schindler's List and not get really really upset. He was really not impressed with people who said that they refused to see that film because "it disturbed them" or something lame like that. "I mean, really, come on people" he would think. Getting disturbed by stuff like that is like writing Waiting for Godot. It's like not rolling the guy. It really doesn't get anything done. But hey, Steve thought, what's the point of getting anything done anyway, right Sam? Fuck that. Sam Beckett was a circle man, Steve thought as he walked away from the lecture. Why write about there being no point? To reveal the no-pointed-ness of existence? Steve laughed to himself. Circle, man, circle. It's all bad, he thought. That's what Alan would say, he thought, and laughed out loud. He saw some people getting in the elevator on the third floor of the Tory building. He took the openish staircase in front of the elevator down two floors, and saw them get out. He laughed, then smiled and shook his head. He watched them start walking up the staircase that he just used. Like, a lot of people. He stopped. He watched, his brow creased. Another elevator came down, stopped, opened. More got out and went up the stairs. Steve screwed up his face, scratched his head, and left the building. He stopped again, turned around, re-entered, waited for another descending elevator. He joined the group, ascending the stairs. Fourteen floors later, he was about to follow them into an elevator, sporting a lit up down-arrow. He became afraid, stopped. He shook his head, snorted, and got in. Everyone looked normal. Normal looked weird. Two girls were talking about an exam they had just written. Elevator stopped. Disembarkation. Stairs. More head shaking. Steve left. He did not come back. Ever. He had just seen that circles were everywhere. In fact, Steve realized, any line ever drawn had been and would be bent into a circle. Steve went home dazed that afternoon. He joined his aged mom in the living room, sat on a sofa chair. He picked up a romance novel. "Circle had lived in Circle all of her circle. She had been born, raised, and circled in Circle. It was all she circled. She was brought up in a circular circle of a circle, and she was thus very circle. She had never dreamed of being circle, although all her circle there had been a circle circling up deep down inside her circle." Steve thought of going crazy. Of screaming, standing up, screaming, walking several paces, screaming, running outside, screaming, running to the ocean, and screaming his last breath in bubbles. Instead he turned his head to face Mooms. "Is my dog ready?" She looked at him with a gaze full of maternal care and devotion. "It lacks a cock." Steve went back to his book. Alan entered the house, having driven up for the long weekend for a visit. "Hey folks! How's the coolest family on… Oh my god…" He looked from Mooms to Steve, and from her to he. The two of them looked up at Alan. For the first time in his life, Alan noticed the look that had always been in his mother's eyes, a blank, imploring look, as if she wanted to be taken for a walk, but would never, ever ask, let alone go. Now Steve gave Alan that look too. Alan screamed. It cost the city a fair bit of money to tow the car out of the harbour. The crane operator received a paycheque, most of which he spent on video lottery machines. Steve's and Moom's places in the round asylum were publicly subsidised. [top] "Travelling and Learning" published winter 1999 Small town so north it's the local metropolis. Next door to the artsy café bunker homeless drunks celebrate the spectacular dawn with toast of paint. Street sign points me towards Alaska. What the fuck. "The Corral" gathers local drinkers for "boot scootin' fun". Highway sign advises against stopping--"low flying planes". One skyscraper "downtown". What the fuck. Rotting dismembered automotive limbs litter the yard. Neighbours brag about submersible pickup trucks and rolling volkswagens. Boxes of bullets on the hood. What the fuck. Enjoy 27 km of really, really, really rough road for two-and-a-half hours. Firewatching don't-shoot-to-close house and a one-helicopter garage atop the mountain. Little twolies store closes Wednesday--it's the slowest day. What the fuck. Niagara Jr. hidden death deep in travel-at-your-own-risk country. Absent-mindedly drink a truckload of beer while dancing with a savvy three-year-old. Noon lake and midnight air cold enough to neuter every camper. What the fuck. Squawking birds, exploding bails, shrieking cows, highway 666, automotive backyard graveyards, roadside precipices, inconvenience store helipads, extreme dust hazards, synchronized bovinity, creepy peak-top monuments, shit so headbending language loses its grip. Everything here is in quotation marks. What the fuck. [top] "Love Letter from a Romantic Decadent" published spring 1999 Hmmm, what to talk about. [looks about room] Art! Yes, art. Such a topic offers unlimited conversational possibilities. Even when the conversation is one-sided. [Aside] Such conversations are often the best! [Returns] I really do feel strongly about your painting and drawing. Art is a beautiful, beautiful thing. You see, it represents you. It describes you. When I look at your work, my main feeling is "Here is something that came from you. From your mind and hands, from your eyes and fingers." I do not think, "Hmm, mediocre choice of palette, inadequate depth, stiff strokes, crass contours, and distasteful subject matter." I do not think, "This is but an obvious attempt to mimic the fluidity of Monet, the vitality of Renoir, and the intoxicating richness of Cézanne, yet it remains a mere toss-off with the life and passion of Degas' inflexible, uninteresting geometry, Gauguin's crude and disgusting dark women, and Van Gogh's silly, nauseating forms." [Stops. Picks out pretty, youngish girl from front row and addresses her specifically, conspiratorially,almost whispering.] Yes, that is me showing off. Do not be impressed. That is about as much use as I will get out of my art history schooling--No, check that, I did help a woman to look for an impressionist painting once at my part time employment in a bookseller's. Anyway, that is truly how I feel about those six painters. The popularity of Degas and Van Gogh shall always baffle me. Degas is so, so stiff. I, personally, want to wait till I am dead to have the pleasure of rigor mortis, thank you very much. And Van Gogh. . .ugh! [Starts to meander mentally, gradually forgets he has engaged the girl, raises voice] The shapes he creates resemble their models only enough to force upon the viewer the recognition of the model, and thus the obligation to see how it has been perverted! Spirals, circles, lines, lines, lines! Too many lines! I am spinning, spinning, yet I cannot escape those infernal binding lines! But Cézanne, ah, Cézanne. Blessed painter, what muse nests in your mind to enable you to compose such rich hues and gentle forms. Lovingly dancing with each other, beckoning to each other, heartening the viewer, your objects are delightful creatures peacefully caressing each other, singing a palpable, sedate love. [Remembers the girl] Ahem. Forgive me! I shall be forever prey to pontification upon the more refined creations of humankind. Still, my love, I am very much intoxicated with you, and the knowledge that you have something of colour and shape, of line and tone, to offer the world, that you CREATE, does nothing to sober me. In fact, I cannot recall anything you have done to have had a sobering effect on me. [Pauses] Ah yes. I remember being envious of that one fellow. Lucky chap, that one. Still, I certainly pulled ahead of him this age-old race, haven't I? [Gazes upward.] Still, no hard feelings, chap, right? No, no of course not! May the best man win at the game at which he is best! Ho ho, cheerio! [Catches himself] Right... right. Well, in any case, said example is yet inaccurate, for it hardly cooled my ardour. No, no, it rather spurred me, prodded me into invitations at which my now inaudible rational mind rolled its proverbial eyes. Proposals of wetting the tongue at local pubs and such. Well... there you are. It is quite obvious you are powerless to temper my addiction. Still you are quite skilled at the art of calming. Like a dulcimer-bearing soprano with a restless beast, you are. Not to say that I am like a restless beast. No, no, ha ha ha! Such a compliment does not become me, evidently. [Crosses to stage left.] No, I fall one degree short of clothing my piano legs. Yes indeed. Unfortunate, really. Still, any and all beastly echoes lodged in the detritus of my soul are stirred by your presence. Ironic really, even the presence of thoughts of you stirs my tongue to such erudite ramblings as my pen has never scrawled! "What is this?" shrieks said quill, "Such flourish! Such flare! Such flippant flamboyance! Stop, oh stop! It is too much! Woe! Woe!" Ha ha ha! [Pauses. Looks down at floor. Absently twirls beard. Crosses to stage right again. Starts. Looks up.] Right. Where was I? Ah, no where important I'm sure. To go back... you really must paint more. Draw more. Show off more. And pride more. As flattered as I am that, in your timidity, you still deemed me safe enough to reveal your hidden talent, I strongly believe that you should be proud of your creations, as I am proud of my stringing conventional fingering together with simplistic melodies in my guitar. Surely anyone could duplicate my work. But it is MY work. The work of the Man in Black, Johnny Cash, is also quite simplistic. But it is wonderful. Hoh! Listen to me compare myself to the Man in Black! What marvelous wonder of a nincompoop would wander into such a musing! Ha ha! [Pauses, turns back to audience, walks to sofa chair, turns around again, sits.] Speaking of music, I sincerely feel that silently being with someone of whom one is very fond, and, say, keeping them warm, while listening to certain musics is a truly and terribly sublime experience. Poke out my eyes, for I need them not to swim in the waters of Danna, to bask in the warmth of Enya, or to soar amongst the stars of Laika! All the while cloaking another swimmer in radiant feeling, never getting close enough. Majestic is such a pleasure. Noble and divine, reserved for the truly blessed. I have approached such levels of euphoria, but local radio-broadcast providers of music are not able to soar to the skies of I. No, they soar different skies. Certainly other blessed individuals soak in the luxurious depths of languor of which I speak, owing gratitude to the music providers of which I have spoken. But such waters are indifferent to me. Failing to work their magic on me, they still lift the corners of my lips by warming the hearts of those who warm my own heart. Nevertheless, I invite you to swim my seas, which bear a striking resemblance to the ideal bath, for you build the tub in your mind, you set the temperature of the water, and you invite what spiritual inhabitants you wish, feeling only what limbs I extend to you as constant reminders of who is sharing the warmth of the waters you swim. [Looks up. Smiles.] Of the same family of pleasures is that of viewing films. In the company of only that one soul who makes you smile incessantly, watching a film in near darkness is very, very rich indeed. Of course, the film plays a secondary role, often but a catalyst. I invite you to join me in drinking of this wine. Still, alone or not, film or not, without a thought I would spend any time with you I could. [Pretends to stretch arms downwards, looks at watch in unsuccessful attempt to be discreet about checking the time. Pauses.] One of the many, many, many, myriad things I thank you for is reminding me how much I love to write. Once again I have composed something on a level which I have never trodden previous. Thank you. Thank you. [Gets up, walks to wings upstage right.] I am but filling dead air until I see you next. [Exeunt.] [top] "Make with me sexy art film" published winter 1998 Be a patron at my Exotica You're the only one who can find the place anyway At other Exoticas, the patrons are mostly men and the dancers mostly women But I know we could swing on those swings they have, above all that I know we have Let me inspire in you the sisterhood, maternity, aunthood, or teacherness that is not there on paper, and that the dull fear Use Me as the receptacle to mix up those feelings with desire, touch, connection, beyond confusion Mix them in me, and taste what happens The rule that says that you can't touch me is not My rule Mother me and fuck me at the same time I know you want to I know you can It's been done "They" say it is wrong You are not "They" Nor am I Let's go there It will be fun Look me in the face Look it in the face Look you in the face Knowing, smile Our nights could be Boogie Nights should be Boogie Nights But not all of them There are other things to do And we can do them Appreciate metal Appreciate the notes that "They" said shouldn't fuck Love the scream Love the pleasure Love the pain Blur the lines "They" invented them Don't assume that I'm like "They" You know already I will not blow it up, whatever you ask So ask If I say yes go there, then go there If I say no don't go there, then stay where you are If I say no, don't back up Just stay where you are I like you where you are But ask Does it seem like a good idea to you? Ask me, then "They" invented fear too Do not fear my no And, for love of life, do not fear my yes Friend, sex, like, fuck, female, love, touch, dance, male, good, pleasure, scream, hold, kiss, cry, sleep, dissonance For love of life, free the words of the meanings "They" gave them they can be all good. Let's be the dissonant notes in new metal They make me cry, choke, and smile Let's fuck like friends who know each other like each other desire each other Forget "They" You don't have to step away back away go away leave ice after we try our ideas with each other Failure is not death It is knowledge and growth For love of life, free the words of the meanings "They" gave them they can be all good. Make with me sexy art film [top] |