The Radio Department stole my sleep

It's a bit like the taste of a fever dream baked into the cake they'd serve in a Sophia Coppola film, the streets of Calgary are hazy with the manic inability to pick between winter and spring. And so, in that cloudy white feeling of 2006 it presses down on all the roads of the NorthWest. Sometimes, if your sunglasses are the right shade and you turn the heater up enough to get the inside of the car muggy you turn right and look at that stretch of hill coming down John Laurie and it looks like summer again. The dry and parched January grass laying in heaps and tangles as if its been burnt by a West coast sun. But it isn’t. It is still winter. February is always the worst month of the year.

In here, in this house, we are entrenched with thoughts of Lutwyche and Lodger. Laid back fantasies of bright promises given to you through a youtube screen of the new look this season, some new earrings shaped like almonds (because you declared studs were out), a realization that you're going to keep dying your hair till it looks exactly like it did that day on the bus when it was dewey. Cherry and brown and sweet, the same colour and dampness of being a young woman and basking in that new skin. Sleeping in, but awake with thoughts of a navy memory from a long time ago. The sweet smell of manufactured rain that your Febreeze canister gives you so readily, a distant glimpse of an orchid you bought in a bottle when you turned 15 and the fantasy of running away to live as a fruit vendor in London. All those things trapped in your pillows, all those things caught in the lining of your carpet and divider. 6 years later you flip through those books you used to hold dear and carry around in your jackets and bags and hid in your binders. Intrigued you notice that the smell on page 56 is still of menthols and a strange nameless perfume you stole from your mothers room (in a seashell shaped bottle that smelt of, well, the sea). What is this present if all it seems to do is remind you of the past in which you only thought of this present?

You wish it would rain so bad. The same wish for a couple months now but it doesn’t seem to come through. A melancholy wish the same tone and texture of Disney's Robin Hood (you know), the same crackly sound as 'Queen Jane Approximately'. 

* * *

I got a package in the mail and it was quite frankly one of the best presents I've received. I'm listening to a mix made by a friend and it has brought back all sorts of strange old day feelings. I've decided to regularly start getting back into this thing now, and by thing i mean 'blogging'. Mostly because I need to organize my moronic thoughts. 

Learning to Navigate in 2013 and Calgary.

In this place, one new and yet not, I am a rather clumsy sailor. Or perhaps an unkempt boat, led by a spectacular moon. No sun yet, but I suppose those gifts are only given to the most resilient of sailors, or the sons of kings. Like Odysseus, who took a decade to go home, (I always wondered how Penelope never wavered) my hair is also filled with sand and old phrases you all once uttered. And a net full of fish, each of them a life, each of them a history of its own species.  In this place, lilies have a fragrance of something else. Not a flower, but a waxy smell, of childhood? An imprint of some stoney version of who I may have been? Or is this just another betrayal of my own tendency to fit all things into a bigger truth. Must all things come with a meaning, fleeting but still just loud enough to be caught by those who sit and wait and listen. Coy and fickle, only showing itself to those fools who gaze lovingly at lilies and curtains and pillars waiting for some brazen young thing of beauty to emerge from a hidden conclusion. Must an epiphany always burst forth if one stares long enough into a starstruck sky above a prairie field.  I don't think it can be helped though. The map in my pocket – the one I drew myself (of the sky and the land), it always tells me to do just that. It's folds are deep and browning, with the whispers of those dead old men who thought themselves such great thinkers. They were. They are? But how useful will those century old secrets do me? A woman.

Dead men, surprisingly though, only grow more senile and vulgar. Even if their words remain inactive. Their souls clamber on, a heavy and ridiculous air of old gods and old knowledge. Resisting the truths offered by Chthonic heroes, and shifting slowly, slowly to an Olympian philosophy. And there they are, in their obsession with the sky and hatred of the ground, breathing down my neck, telling me how I should read my own map. "Look up, don't look down. Keep looking skyward. There is nothing of value in dirt and roots. Only an atlas of stars can help you" It can all be very patronizing. And yet, it is precious to me. This is precious to me. Words are all I have. Mine and theirs and yours.

Management and Marketing 101 - The Conversation

I recently discovered this 'piece' of writing in the sent messages of my old high school email address. I wrote this when I was 16, and I think I must have been going through an intense 'tv comedy writer' phase. Management and Marketing was probably my favourite class I took in high school. Mostly because it was taught by the best teacher, and the students of the class were a very small group of kids who were all anomalies and straight up weirdos but in the best way. It was a perfect ethnic combo of freaks and geeks except in the 21st century in which changing someones screensaver to a picture of fecal matter replaces locker vandalism. I forget who resembles who in this fictional dialogue now, but If i were to ever write anything resembling a strange dysfunctional tv comedy I'm positive that I would look back to this classroom first for inspiration.

* * *

The Conversation

“Why would you even watch that show?”

We were all sitting in our management and marketing classroom, waiting for Mr.Olbricht to come in but 20 minutes had passed and somehow the conversation had led to T.V shows.

“Yeah, why would you watch Ugly Betty? It’s just that dumb show about the Hispanic girl who designs clothes right?”

“No, no, no. She works for a fashion magazine, and she doesn’t know anything about fashion, but then slowly as the show progresses she learns the tricks”

“That’s so stupid”

“That’s exactly like the Devil Wears Prada. At least Anne Hathaway looks good”

“I think it’s an endearing show.”

“I think I’d rather watch My Family on BBC”

“I guess it’s a guilty pleasure show. Sort of like Hannah Montana”

Everyone looked up in unison with a look of shock but hilarious agreement on their faces.

David spoke up “What’s Hannah Montana?”

Whispers immediately broke out and no-one knew what to say.

“How can you not know what Hannah Montana is? Do you not know what the Disney Channel is as well?”

“No. I don’t”

“What the fuck is wrong with you David.”

“Someone tell me what it is”

“Okay so basically, there’s this hillbilly chick who suffers from multiple personality disorder and-“

“No she doesn’t you idiot, she just has an alternative lifestyle as a teen pop star”

“Sounds like MPD to me”

“Go fuck yourself”

“Why are you getting so worked up? It’s just a dumb kid’s show”

“My aunt co-wrote 3 episodes from season 1. You know that short Spanish kid who runs the fruit stand at the beach on the show?”

“No”

“Well his name’s Rico. And he’s named after my little brother”

Even though a minute ago we were putting down Hannah Montana we all oo’ed and ahh’ed at this news. A TV-show character being named after your sibling was a huge deal regardless of what show, or which character. Matt, seeing a perfect opportunity to crack a demented joke, spoke out.

“I was going to write a show called “Alexis Texas””

“That’s not even funny Matt”

“Yeah that’s just stupid”

We all looked at Matt’s screen to see that he had just google’d “Female names that rhyme with American States”.

Deciding to let this one go we continued our discussion

“Okay, okay, if you had to be a character on a television show, who would you be?”

“Are cartoons included?”

“Yes”

“Is anime included?”

“Anime is cartoon idiot”

“Oh my god, no its not. It’s entirely different”

“I’m sorry, but to me, cartoon is animation. And so is anime, hence the name”

“It’s entirely different”

“How is it –“

“Just shut up okay.”

“Anime included guys”

“Uhmm”

“Okay let me think”

“I’ve got one”

“I’ve got a better one. I’d probably want to be Rupert”

“Rupert? Rupert the bear? With the red sweater and yellow scarf?”

“Yeah. He was the smartest out of all his friends, had the best parents, I think he was an only child, and often got to go on magical journey’s that weren’t stupid but a delight to watch and made one long to be a part of his world”

We nodded our heads in agreement.

“Understandable. Alright. I’d want to be Izzie on Grey’s Anatomy”

“Why the hell would you want to be Izzie?”

“It’s not to really be Izzie. It’s just to be on Grey’s Anatomy”

“And do what?”

“Tell Sandra Oh to stop kidding herself and quit the television industry. She’s really something”

“I really like her. She’s funny”

“Okay. Just because you said that I’m going to unplug a bunch of shit from the back of your computer”

“Okay I got one”

“No one cares Matt”

“Just listen. It’s cool. I’d want to be Johnny Depp from Jump Street”

“That’s cool Matt, but everyone stopped giving a shit the moment you opened your mouth.”

“Don’t you guys want to know why I’d be him?”

“I want to be Naruto”

“Tell us why David”

“Okay, even though Sakura and Sasuke hate him, it’s obvious that they would be nothing without their united powers. Not to mention Sakura liking him as well. Sasuke also thinks of him as his real true friend, you start seeing this as you near the episodes in the early hundreds. Naruto also has the doppelganger effect. Something I wouldn’t mind having myself”

“Who’s Naruto?”

“Okay it’s a show where-“

“All your choices are stupid. I’d be Jackie from That 70’s Show”

“An obvious slut decision.”

Mr.Olbricht walked in, holding a copy of Reservoir Dogs in one hand and The Corporation in the other.

“Sweet! Reservoir Dogs!”

“What? Oh no no no” he chuckled. “We’ll be watching The Corporation today. Has anyone seen this movie”

“Has anyone seen your face?”

“Hahaha”

“No really, let’s just watch Reservoir Dogs Mr.Olbricht. I never knew you liked Quentin. I myself am a big Pulp Fiction fan”

“What kind of asshole says that out loud? We're all Pulp Fiction fans moron”

“Okay. Enough joking time”

“We weren’t joking. This is how we are”

He ignored us and put in The Corporation, while trying to hide reservoir dogs behind a stack of books on legal studies. We settled into movie mode, where magically someone pulled out a bag of Doritos’s and two pop cans from under their desk. Instead of The Corporation coming on screen, a picture of Dustin Hoffman acting disabled popped up and set into motion.

“Yo, what the fuck is this shit”

“This isn’t The Corporation”

“Hold on a second”

“Isn’t this the Rain Man. With Tom Cruise?”

“I saw this movie in psych 3 months ago. It was pretty lame”

“Hey. Which one of you guys caught Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch like a mad man”

“Matt. Are you kidding me?”

“That happened 3 fucking years ago man”

Something Has Changed Matthew

January 15th, 1963

Mr. Mattew Bowen

42 Westwood, Broughton

North Linconshire

Dear Matthew,

Do you remember the conversation we had the last time we saw each other a few months back? About the possibility that you might seriously invest in being an inventor.  Well this idea has fascinated me since we spoke about it, mostly because it has made me somewhat unsure about you. I’ve been toying with why it has made me uncomfortable about seeing you again and a few nights ago I realized what it was.  After the usual bit of reading, and once the candle had melted entirely onto the wood I managed to slip off into a very deep sleep. And Matthew, I had the most peculiar dream. In it you were standing on a staircase above me with a hammer in one hand and a book of instructions penned by yourself in the other. And as hard as I tried to climb and reach the top of the staircase I couldn’t seem to reach your height. Eventually I got exhausted and collapsed at which point you simply laughed at me! You are most probably laughing now, but I must assert the seriousness of how I felt at the moment. The indignation and insecurity that pressed me to the bed each time you laughed down at me. I awoke sweating and terribly afraid of my own abilities and I began thinking a great deal about our conversation from before. See Matthew, the thing that astonishes me about inventors is the complication that comes with the idea that one can play god. How designs and blueprints and structures can all form under your fingers to amalgamate into a thing of beauty and a thing of function. And a thing that has both those qualities, function and beauty, is then a thing of greatness. In a microscopic sense, you have created something that serves a purpose. A structure that validates your genius and power. And in those structures, aside from the calculations that went into the thickness and length of the wood or the curvature of the knob the question is does it reveal something to you? Does it reveal a secret about your leadership and your visions for the future?  I am no inventor because I am not good at building from scratch. Clay and craft and brick never form under my hand. I am no inventor because my forte is the process of taking ideas that already are and then reforming it to make it mine. It can easily be confused for invention if done with finesse, but it is actually adaptation and re-iteration.  And thus I have realized that I am terrified of seeing you again, for if you really are an inventor now, you are much more powerful than me. At least in whatever way I measure power. If you have truly invested in this craft and become successful, then I’m afraid our friendship will forever remain in a loop in which I fear you may somehow know more than me. That you may know more about the rules that are bound to this world and have found some way to be a part of the process of creation. I fear that our friendship will deteriorate to a level in which I constantly wonder what secrets you know about being utterly novel and what you have discovered in those long nights in which you pour over your constructions.

I hope I have not offended you Mattew. In some ways, fearing you is the greatest compliment I can give you. I await your reply.

Sincerely,

Your friend the writer

1947.

When the independence came we were out looking for the line that seperated our lives before and after. A line that was not merely a political one, but one of substance that revealed a freedom that had always belonged to us.The truths of freedom though do not lie in the assigning of a new dawn when such a time has not yet come. The truths of freedom are bound to our relationships with our countrymen, the simple availability of grain and the small but magnificent idea that one can move through social strata's without fear. Nonetheless, tonight, freedom manifested itself everywhere through the promise that was offered with independence. An idea, an action, a dream all flooding through the land's gutters and alley ways. 

So tonight, when the city was ablaze with both fire and hope, and the sky was bursting with a thousand colours the people had released, in the smallest room of the floor above a tobacco shop he shared his first kiss. The adults had all run into the streets to celebrate, forgetting momentarily the children who were pretending to be asleep in whatever they used for a bed. It was not surprising that his father had always called Mohan an opportunist, for it was at this moment, when mothers and fathers were abandoning their posts and the city was drenched with the spirit of liberation that he climbed out of his bed, through the window and on to the roof. From there, it was only a few careful leaps across the closely collected rooftops of  Vibhav Nagar. He stopped, knowing exactly where she lived and stumbled onto her balcony. Behind him, the streets were full, the teenagers too drunk to care about a young boy running through the rooftops of Agra. Someone called out "Thief!", but even such an accusation was submerged in laughter. For how trivial was the crime of a thief? How much it didn't matter on this night. 

He was not yet old enough to realize exactly why the city had gone mad, but he knew something important was happening. He knew then that to invest in this particular night would bring about the best outcome. He picked the lock of the balcony door with ease and moved through her house without concern for anything. He was brash, stumbling over pots and chairs but laughing to himself. He didn't care. Something beautiful was happening outside and he was going to transfer that feeling into this house. He knew no-one else was home but her, and he called out. Bravely, stupidly, with all the zeal a 14 year old boy can muster he let her name tumble out of his mouth. Instead of appearing from the smallest room in the house, she came through the front door at that exact moment. Upon seeing him, her face broke into a smile. And then, an expression that held the same excitement and curiosity Mohan's voice had betrayed. Both of them were drenched in the heat that came with all Augusts, which for some reason had grown thicker tonight. Perhaps it was the fires in the city. Perhaps it was the realization that change was creeping through not only the land but this room, coiling itself around their hands and clothes and eyelashes. 

"I was out looking for you," She said.

"I came here. Everyones gone."

"I know."

Anthony Bourdain is My Spirit Animal

Hello again to all my friends, HERE ON PBS KIDZ.

Being terrible at the act of blogging feels more unatural than being the frequent, angry and hormonal teenager that blogged daily. When did I stop writing about every day like it was nessecary. When did I stop being so mad about everything when it didn't fall exactly in agreement with my young adult opinions. Or have I not become less mad but just more quiet? More censored. If I remember correctly, 2006 was a time in which we all loosely threw around the n-word because it seemed cool, and very heavily relied on dubbing everyone dumb and misguided. And of course when I look back, and read that loud and manic writing I cringe, even gag perhaps. But I also feel terribly less creative. I don't want to eventually come to the moronic realization that the most productive and imaginative time of my life was before I turned 20. Not that it was that productive at all, but every week was littered with a new dream that marched each day into some childlike frenzy in which the next moment had the potential to be the moment that changed our lives.

It seems that everything I am angry about has become something everyone is angry about? And maybe thats the initial ritual of adulthood, to be joint in our hatred of this 'terrible' society rather than get upset over how it hasn't offered us our own version of greatness. Don't get me wrong, I am not at all less interested in achieving a title, getting a whiff of being dubbed 'great', having my ego gloriously stroked. But I'm less inclined to believe that i'm entitled to have this delivered to me. Unfortunatley, this realization does not exactly translate immediatley into the logical conclusion of 'working harder'.

Right now, right this minute, I want to be Anthony Bourdain. Look I know, I am neither an accomplished chef , well known writer or a seasoned traveller, but for the past two weeks I have been having a repeated fantasy of being exactly that (throw into that mix a musical genius and political leader). There is something profound about Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. Hear me out fuckers. Just slow down before you LOL at my face.

No Reservations follows Bourdain around the world as he eats a variety of culturally relevant food, drinks a generous emount of nation-specific alcohol and does a bunch of shit in between eating and drinking that is also unique to each country visited. Obviously this sounds like several combo travel-food shows. No. Noooope. You're entirley wrong. I'm not sure what makes No Reservations particularly unique, but it probably has something to do with Bourdain's personality – an unabashed, curious, funny and inherently bitter amalgamation of a man. This goes togther with the idea of a “crew” of people who are evidently now Bourdain's friends, his “team” who move with him from place to place experiencing what each culture has to offer through food and its relevance through history. There is a genuine effort to dive headfirst into each culture but also a severe honesty that comes through Bourdain's background narration. There is a sincerity to no reservations that isn't desperate to “show a new culture” but rather it is eager to experience it and weigh out its beauty and ugliness and then taste it. Bourdain finds himself in post-colonial Asia, Africa and South America and drinks away his days in old grand hotels, he comments on the movement of time, the progression of ideology and the attatchment to identity over the culinary arts. At times, his remarks are biting – blunt and judgmental of some strange cultural oddity. At other times he is fasinated, sypmathetic and observant. In Europe Bourdain is more familiar, he slips into Italian and French cuisine with ease but still maintains the same balance of abrasive commentary and genuine love of all things new and strange. There is a certain integrity to the No Reservations team and it comes through in their footage, in their accidents and in how Bourdain acts as a center piece to how this entire group of people swim through a large assortment of food, people and places.

So, with that said. Earlier today, immediatley after waking up I watched Bourdain's NR episode in “Rome”. Shot entirly in black and white to project Bourdain's own dream of an old filmy Italy where men walk in suits and the streets are as still as paintings at night time. Theres a moment in the episode where the freshest of fresh cheese is being cut for the first time and Bourdain gets to taste it. And its only in the first 10-15 minutes after cutting the cheese will it ever truly taste as perfect it does in that moment. I'm not sure why this had such an insane effect on me, but my longtime thirst for travel and adventure which quite frankly had been uneasily dormant in my life for the last little bit, once again reignited. I want to travel the world in the very same way and taste food and hear music and re-live history through people in the same Bourdain like stlye. It is awfully familiar and extremley provoking. A little bit of exhaustion, intruigue, excitment and awareness. And it truly has nothing to do with “fun”. I think it is much more rooted in learning, understanding what people really value and going back in time by moving through the world like it is a quite wonderful textbook.

I only wish I hadn't discovered this show so late. 

Herodotus Liked his Meat Dry

In my study of antiquity, humans are categorized. There are slaves and there are masters, haves and have-nots, the military elite and the child rearing woman. The bards, the artisans and the whores. And I wonder, at what point does a small isolated party of like minded people become stamped in time as a record of something. A record of something bigger than them and yet still a brief image of a life they were a part of. Is it more important to note the patterns shared by a group of potters and the development of their craft, is that really the summation of their life? Or is history actually told in the conversations that were had between the time in which each pot dried, and the quiet and exhausted sighs that were released when the time came to close the shop at night. I wonder then where a small but pleasant weekend in our contemporary world would fit. I wonder how the small joys extracted from playing a board game around a wooden table after consuming a warm meal and being simmered down by wine will ever make its way into a history. An enquiry about what it means to be human today in all its fleeting glory. If the feeling of heavy bedsheets and how hot the teapot feels at the start against my palm will wind up being of any importance, because is it not that which makes us who we are? The smallest sensations surrounding the movement of our hands, reaching for another's fingers. The careful and precise way in which you cut onions and look away ever so slightly to attempt to not cry. The smell of coriander against the tip of a knife and how you stop, inhale generously and keep cutting. How graciously we all enjoy each others companies and let the deep and rumbling sound of laughter escape our throats without stopping to wonder if this is what it means to be human today. And for a second in time I am transfixed, because I don't rememer reading about a Mycenaean bard with a penchant for comedy and a particular dislike of grapeseed oil, but for some reason that is all I see. I don't remember when the brown haired soldier in the phalanx turned to his shorter but more refined comrade and quietly whispered a jest, but all at once, in a consuming and terrifying emotion that is not my own I try so hard to remember this. For their sake and for mine. I try at that moment to remember a thousand human histories, and fill in the gaps of my books with these conversations. I wonder if, when all things are quiet and we are an ancient and recorded history ourselves, someone else will remember a small weekend in this place. A very simple record of a simple time.