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For the last few nights I've been crashing at my friends place in Dartmouth. I've been sleeping on an air matress with a leak. Every hour I get up and reinflate it. Last night I'd had enough. I patched the leak with the sticky parts of a bandaid, a bottle of liquid bandage and some hair putty for consistancy. It held all night. I'm impressed with myself. |
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Health
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Jan. 5th, 2006 @ 08:03 pm
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Im in Dartmouth NS. My friend rented a building to house the animation company he just started. The building is much larger than he needs but the place has been empty for a year so he took it. It used to be a doctors office. A group of doctors that skipped the chapter on hygene from what I can see. I found a shelf labeled CHLAMIDIA in what is now being used as the kitchen. |
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So I'm at a bar. Every Thursday and Sunday they have an informal get together of musicians. Fiddles, Flutes, Bagpipes, Spoons, Accordians etc... A freind of mine is on flutes. I'm chillin with him. I notice a guy banging to flat sticks together. Looks like he is playing kindling. So I ask, "Is that guy playing sticks".... "Ha, no. Of course not. Those are cow shins". Cow shins are common musical instruments I guess. |
www.fekdep.com
It doesn't have much there now but I'm hoping it will. You can create a user, write whatever you want. Maybe I'll grow it. |
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Dream
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Mar. 5th, 2005 @ 09:37 pm
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Its modern times, but feels a lot like the thirties or forties. The way people dress etc.. I have a job at a Publishers. I’m an intern I think, but not at the bottom of the pile. My job that day was to photocopy documents for a writer who was coming in. Our best writer. Brilliant, prophetic and quite insane. He’ll only accept documents printed on the back of other things. Discarded memos, old newspaper articles, anything. I’m making copies for him using a variety of different medias. Transparencies, old plays, roschack tests etc… The publisher is ran by two partners. A man in his 50s, grey hair wearing a brown wrinkled suit. He seams very wise but doesn’t use flaunt it. He takes more of a back burner approach to the business. I didn’t dream a name for him so for the purpose of this story he is Bossman. His partner is a woman in her late 30s, attractive, well dressed, well educated and knows it. Bosslady is over my shoulder telling me how I should make copies for Writer. I shrug it off knowing she is too busy at the moment to really care what I’m doing. I’m nearly done when its announced that he has arrived, the entire company of fifteen or so employees rushed out to greet him. I finish up and follow behind. When I arrive, I stand atop the first of two staircases leading to the office looking down at the white cube van Writer had backed in to a handicapped space. Apart from the publishers, there are fifty or so other people working or visiting the building out front. All of them staring at the dead body Writer has attached in a standing position to the back of the truck. His hands are wired on to the door. Writer, a man in his mid sixties, dirty and unkempt is standing just behind the body laughing. I get the impression he likes to play sick games like this. He knows that it is so bazaar that its unbelievable. After all, who would do that? Who would tie a body to a truck and drive it around the city? Bossman, begins to laugh as well and encourages the rest of the publicists to do the same. All laugh nervously. The rest of the crowd assumes that its some strange joke, that it’s a fake body and moves on. Writer seams satisfied and walks to me carrying a variety of books and papers. He is impressed that I didn’t laugh alone with the rest. He makes me the lead on his project and walks away with a couple of people that appeared to be old friends. The walk past the interns pulling the body from the truck and in to the main entrance of the building. I take my paperwork and go inside. Bosslady orders me to make copies of everything then follows quickly behind them. I turn, immediately smashing in to a young girl. Another intern. Very new to the company. I drop what I have and we both pickup the pieces. Bossman touches my shoulder tells me to take what I have in my arms and follow. The intern will make copies of the rest and deliver them to us. He is very confident that I have all that I need anyway. We go to his office, where I begin to read what Writer has given me. It’s a story of an ancient people from Aisathia (As-ay-shia). Most of his written documents are coded or written in another language. Aisathian presumable. Included are books about the Aisathian people. Most are very vague though. Books on ancient societies that briefly mention the possibility of the Aisathian people systematically suppressed by other great civilizations. One book stood out. I think a children’s book. In its first few pages there was a illustrated map with the major early civilizations and their origins. The Aisathians were on a boat with a big blue arrow pointing to a spot on a map or old Europe. In the arrows, there were figures about the people. For Aisathia it was Population: unknown, Technology: unknown etc.. but it did point to an area they were thought to have originated. Bossman laughed a little at me. He knew nothing from Writer was ever easy. That’s what made him brilliant. He had confidence I’d figure it out. I called a friend, Tom. Tom is one of those really smart, really nice guys that you are sure was always picked last for any sports. I mentioned Aisathia and he knew something about it. He came right over. He shed a little light on the myths about these people. Their religious beliefs, some history and most importantly what happened to them. He did make a point of saying that this was all speculative as there is no proof that these people ever actually existed. Some scholars believe that some of the history attributed to other cultures really belongs to the Aisathians, but these scholars are a small minority. A few rooms over in what looks like the lunch area for the staff the young intern is talking to another employee, not an intern but not very important either. He is wearing a black suit with a power red tie. He’s very arrogant. He pressures the intern to share what information she has on Writer. She says she doesn’t know anything other than its her job to copy the documentation she was carrying. He demands to read it and she hands it over asking only that he return it to her in the morning so she can carry out her work. Its end of day now and she just wants to go home. He sits at a table and begins to read it. Most of it is in English. Its notes and short essays about the Aisathian people. Bosslady and a tattooed henchman sneak up behind him. The henchman strangles the man with piano wire. Bosslady collects up the papers, turns to her henchman and says “Long live Aisathia” in a sarcastic, and definitely comic book style villain voice.
That’s where I wake up. I think the rest of the dream was me finding out about the Aisathian people, traveling the world following writers encrypted notes. Tom and the girl play in to it too. I think in the end I may or may not find anything, but Writers story isn’t about the people, its about us. All this may have been part of one of his games. The book would expose the existence of Aisathians, and the underground society that they are today and us, the people that find it. Like he’d scouted us out. Maybe I’ll finish the dream tonight. |
| » Beneath the surface |
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A woman stood on the eastbound platform lit by orange light. She clutched three roses, holding them close, swaying to "Ahhhh, Sugar...... Ahhhhh, Honey Honey ......" This chorus repeated itself over and over again from some novelty machine sitting atop her luggage. I looked at her, she looked at me then faced forward drawing her roses in and smiled. When the train arrived, she stayed behind. I wonder who gave her those roses. I wonder what she was feeling.
Mar. 4th, 2005 @ 12:43 am
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| » weeeeeee----oooooooooooowwwwwwwwww |
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Fact: Dishcloths will catch fire on a burner set to 5.
Fact: My fire alarm is Toronto's old Air Raid Siren.
Fact: When threatened by an Air Raid Siren cats can teleport themselves to various parts of a room.
So the siren goes off. While I'm changing my freshly soiled underpants the Polish family next door evacuated. The Russian guys downstairs and I are deviding up the empty apartment.
Mar. 2nd, 2005 @ 12:14 pm
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| » The Muderer |
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I have a book published in 1890. Its called Conklin's Handy Manual of Useful Information and Altas of the World. Its a pocket sized book but this title fits on the cover. Page 133 is titled "The Murderer (an unpublished book by Edgar Allen Poe)". It seams in 1890 it was possible to publish a book containing unpublished material.
After some research I have discovered that this poem was only ever published in this book and is falsly attributed to Poe. So, here it is, the only place to find this on the internet!
Ye glittering stars! How fair ye shine to-night,
And O, thou beauteaous moon! thy fairy light
Is peeping thro' those iron bars so near me.
How silent is the night - how clear and bright!
I nothing hear, nor aught there is to hear me.
Shunned by all, as if the world did fear me;
Alone in chains! Ah, me' the cursed spell
That brought me here. Heaven could not cheer me
Within these walls - within this dark, cold cell,
This gloomy, dreary, solitary hell.
And thou, so slow. O Time! so passing slow;
Keeping my soul in bondage, in this woe
So torturing - this uncontrollable pain;
Was I to blame? I was they say. Then so
Be it. Will this deep sanguinary stain
Of my dark crime forever haunt my brain?
Must I live here and never, never hear
The sweetness of a friendly voice again?
Must I this torture feel year after year?
Live, die in hell, and Paradise so near?
Am I dead to Thee, O Christ? Thou who sought
The prisoner in the lonely cell; taught
Him to feel the enchantment of Thy love -
Am I dead to Thee? Canst Thou not be brought
By prayer from Thy celstial throne above
Into this darkened cell? Dost Thou, too, reprove
My soul? Thou, too, doom it do endless misery?
Am I so hardened that I can not move
The devine, forgiving love in Thee?
Canst Thou be Christ and have no love for me?
What! lost am I? Ne'er will I feel the bliss
Of heaven? Ne'er feel the joys above this
World of sin? What! never? Is my destiny
Hell? Into that dark, fathomless abyss
Of sin and crime? Into that misery
Eternal? Into that unquenchable sea
Of fire? Is there my future - is it there?
Ah! it comes before my eyes. See! See! Ye
Interal fiends! why come ye here? How dare
Ye come? Away! mock me not with your stare!
Away, ye fiends! Why at me now? Am I
Not hardened yet? Am I not fit for hell? Why
Test me again? O, horrors, hear the groans
Of tortured victims! Ah! see them lie
Bleeding and in chains! Hear the mocking moans
Of the madden'd demons, in deep, wild tones!
See them hurl their victims into the hot mire!
Now see the devils dance! What! Are they stones?
Have they no hearts, no love, no kind desire?
Fearfully reveling 'midst Jehovah's fire!
Cries, cries! horrible cries assail my ears!
I see her! My murdered victim no appears
Before me! Hear her pleading for mercy;
Ah! see her stare, with eyes swollen with tears;
Horrors! see her white arms outstretched to me,
Begging for life! O woe! O misery!
Take me, demons! take me out of this cell;
Satan, I'm thine! Hear, hear, I call on the;
Torture me - rack me with the pains of hell;
Do what thou wilt, but break this madd'ning spell.
Listen! Whats that? My soul, they come, they come!
The demons come to take thee to thy home!
See, see! No, no! O, heavens! What brought this
Pale skeleton here? Speak! speak! What! dumb?
And hast thou naught to say? What is thy office?
Away, fiend! What! Not for me! What is
Thy want? Speak, devil, speak! Come, come, unsheath
Thy tongue. Com'st though from the dark abyss
Of sin? Hold, hold! I know thee - my breath!
Ha! ha! I know thee now - 'tis Death! 'tis Death!
Feb. 27th, 2005 @ 04:52 pm
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| » Joy |
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I've just finished washing my laundry in my bathroom sink. What a treat. Washing jeans in a six inch deep basin full of ice water. The only heat coming from water I boiled on my stove. As if that wasnt enough of God's love, I had enough boiling water left to make tortellini. I'm going to bring it over to the Ingalls' farm. Word around town has it that Mary has come up blind. Poor girl.
Feb. 24th, 2005 @ 03:25 pm
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| » Tribute |
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Hunter, Gonzo. Need I say more?
Feb. 23rd, 2005 @ 10:59 pm
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| » so you know |
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Gay people get theirs in the end.
Feb. 22nd, 2005 @ 09:02 pm
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| » Kids |
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I've decided not to have children. What if a time traveler comse back and kills me and the whole future gets fucked up? I don't want to be responsible for a paradox. The risks are just too great.
Feb. 14th, 2005 @ 12:57 am
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| » Take a chance on me |
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I burned a CD for my drive to Burlington this evening. I meant to download and burn Best of Jazz. What I got was Best of ABBA. Imagine my suprise. Can you hear the drums Fernando? Well? Can ya? Punk?
Feb. 8th, 2005 @ 11:33 pm
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| » Literacy |
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In Chapters I overheard:
"What is it about his poetry that moves you?"
"He says so many details but um... simply"
I guess poetry is not the kind of thing that rubs off on a guy.
Feb. 8th, 2005 @ 12:11 am
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| » People |
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Everyone is lonely.
Feb. 7th, 2005 @ 04:18 pm
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| » Vortex for breakfast |
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Things that go down my kitchen sink come out my shower drain. I'm one of the few that know what its like to stand on soggy outmeal.
Feb. 7th, 2005 @ 01:35 am
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| » Superbowl. |
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People that believe the Superbowl is a reason to have a party is one gene away from fucking their sister.
Feb. 6th, 2005 @ 05:11 pm
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| » Critters |
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I wonder what its like for a cat the first time you throw something at them. There's your cat on the other side of the living room scratching away at your couch. He's looking at you with a face that says he's loving it, he knows its wrong and doesn't care. You are too fat and lazy to do anything about it. Then, BOOM! Phone book right upside the head. Cats can't throw things. How could they know that you can. You may as well have hit him with lightning.
Feb. 6th, 2005 @ 02:34 pm
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| » Dead Man's horn |
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On the television people are always dying in their cars. Sometimes a heart attack, sometimes they are shot by the mob. Most of the time they slump forward sounding the horn until the scene fades in to the next. Ever try it? I've got a big head. I can't even get a beep unless I headbutt it.
Feb. 6th, 2005 @ 01:38 pm
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| » Bearded Clam |
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I don't really want to make a blog about what I did or am doing at any given time but today I will. I've got nothing on my mind other than my day. Today I met strangers. This is a tall order in Toronto.
I met up at Rodney's Oyster Bar for lunch today. Pete, a six and a half year oyster veteran informed me that in a year Rodney serves more than 300 different types of oysters from 5 subcategories. East Coast, West Coast, Some River in France and a couple of others. Kim, a waitress who suffered my friends drunken pick up lines wore a Whistler Mountain hat although she has never been. Its her husbands hat. We sat at the bar making small talk and watching Pete shuck. On our left was a an older couple visiting from BC. From Vancouver Island actually. They know the little town my father lives in. Since going to Vancouver island a couple weeks ago I've met more than a dozen people who have lived there. To my right a younger couple in their mid thirties. I'm not sure if they were actually a couple, but they seamed to be in the process of making it happen. Turns out the stud went to my high school. Besides Kim and Pete we were served by Keely, very attractive with long dark wavy hair and a cozy sweater. She seemed a little better equipped to deal with being hit on. I'm a pussy though so I didn't hit on her anyway. She did like my shirt though. I'm always happy to have my style complimented even though I'm dressed by the people where I shop. Keely explained that her name was Gaelic and for a moment I was very excited to be able to use the little bit of Gaelic I learned in Halifax. She doesn't speak any Gaelic though so as far as she was concerned I was just mumbling incoherently at her. Chicks dig that. I've learned to say "You are very pretty in five languages, Spanish, Portuguese, Ukrainian, Gaelic and Hindi. I had opportunity to use one when I met a Ukrainian girl last week but she was ugly like a smashed asshole so I passed. After a few beers, one friend left and the two of us that remained moved on to Smokeless Joes where we met the next waitress. Leena. Leena has been in Toronto for 5 years. Before that she lived a year in England as a volunteer. Before that, Colombia where she grew up. Like everyone else in Toronto she is studying film at York. In Toronto you are a Writer, Actor, Corporate whore or all of the above. If you read this and think that you are anything but, eat a dick you corporate whore. For a city of a few million it sometimes feels constraining. Leena is currently reading a script written by a friend of mine also attending film at York. Meh. The rest of my day involved watching improv...
Oh, the bathroom is decorated with pictures of bearded clams.
Feb. 6th, 2005 @ 01:07 am
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