Saturday, September 25, 2010

Wagggon


Circling old wagons, Brent and Che and Diana and Marlo, Bartosz and Devin and Chris and Bo-Beau. Do not feel anger in autumn.

Roller coasters, subways and a pancake people party ######################

I ended up at an abandoned amusement park at night. I was with other like minded people, some friends. We were there to ride James Gauvreau's roller coaster. This man made a derelict ride into an art experience in which the track carries the user through barriers of reality to turn into animated characters. Through the trip you would stop and see large scale broken line animation, brightly coloured, making surfaces new and alive with motion. All were created by James.

One stop held the train high above the track while an animation about swimming took over a huge barn wall in the distance. The water swirled like a Japanese print and pink dolphins crudely drawn swam and jumped and played. I rode the train with Craig, his mother was beside him. As the train came back down to the track fast, our hips bumped together and I joked to him about my arousal. He said that was okay.

When the ride was over, we all left the park to a late night house party. I left my group and headed for the subway station, where I found James with a tall woman who was crying. I had interrupted them but James introduced me to her anyway. As I hurried past them down to the train he assured me he would see me later at the party.

At the house, many people crowded a small living room that was warmly lit. I sat on the carpeted floor, the party was mostly other artists and hipster folk. All of my friends were to the right. They accumulated on a small couch, one by one. Four or five of them already occupied the space when Craig and his mom sat down, squeezing the others back into the couch. As Sham sad down, the human figures began to pancake. I became embarrassed at this sight, my friends literally sticking together at an after party for the arts. But after a few moments I realized that there were physically too many of them and it couldn't be real so, I woke up.

Bitty

I was at the top of a hill, populated with houses and trees, and I needed to get to the bottom. I had a feeling of urgency and despite the lovely weather, I knew danger was lurking. I was carrying baggage, a rolling suitcase and a full bag on my back. My right arm pinched a plastic laundry basket that carried Craig's cat, Bitty.

Leaving some place, there was a man with me, I pulled out my new iPhone and I ventured down the mountain. Walking the steep and winding paved road, I spoke to my mother as I walked past few people, all intent on packing up and leaving.

I walked past Ryan Kelly, recognized him as a friend I hadn't seen in months but didn't stop. I motioned "sorry" as I continued to speak on the phone, and he looked offended, but I was in a hurry to get out and kept walking down. The man with me continued to follow in silence.

I turned into an alley of a small apartment building on the hill. I stopped to look through some abandoned objects. I placed the laundry basket with Bitty down beside the pile. She looked at me with bright eyes and a worn white coat with black spots. After some time digging with one hand, still talking to my mother on the phone while handing a few things to my silent partner, I got up and turned back down the street.

It wasn't until I got to the bottom of the hill that I realized I had forgotten Bitty. Filled with anxiety, I dropped my bags and ran back up to find her. I was sure she would leave her basket and get lost. The silent man ran after me, but I didn't notice. I felt real fear in loosing her, and not getting out of town in time. Bitty and I were both in danger.

I got back to the main intersection, the sky had turned dark, the wind picked up, a tropical storm was imminent but I kept running. I heard the screech of a breaking car, then the howls of a cat in desperate pain. Lightening and the pound of thunder. But once I turned into the alley, Bitty was still there sitting in her basket, waiting for me.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

cluster fuck

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Bleiiieve it, autumn.
This place is home, fall to it Bowden

Thursday, September 16, 2010

=/\= Life force, Captains Log, Michael xxx3


New phone, Tiff, Today; Michael x3 Breaked with Stefanski, a work supervisor. Text with Yerxa, a party host looking for photographers. Gawked at Moore, for a Q&A. Keep it cominn' Keep it commin'


Michael (Hebrew: מִיכָאֵל‎ (pronounced [ˌmixäˈʔel]), Micha'el or Mîkhā'ēl; Greek: Μιχαήλ, Mikhaḗl; Latin: Michael or Míchaël; Arabic: ميخائيل‎, Mīkhā'īl) is an archangel in Hebrew, Christian and Islamic tradition. He is viewed as the field commander of the Army of God. He is mentioned by name in the Book of Daniel,[1] the Book of Jude[2] and the Book of Revelation in which he leads God's armies against Satan's forces during his uprising.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

GranManan

The worst part

video

Wants to go back...


Back to the land of no silence there is no peace, not even an ounce. Music blares at me from all directions on top of the traffic the people the pissing.

It is still present. Being present.
The presence of the stillness of the scene.

Heat, sun, pack. Computer, camera, sack. Lock it, walk it, Dufferin bus to rocket. Sweaty subway, sunshower (if only I knew) at Kipling, on to Pearson and pretend to be Feist on the moving side walks. Read, write, board the night flight. Take off westerly turn 180 degrees easterly. Beating metropolis, a Canadian Los Angeles. Black past Montreal land a few beyond, land ocean side, land decompress into tropical breeze that smells of fir trees, land what the fuck am I home? Embrace mom and dad, dressed in blue and green summer fad, rad. A brother from another mother in the back, sunshine's his name, robo dog his game. HOLYMOLYMOTHER OF LOVE.

Kennebecasis dip with dad and the dog.
Home to ma, salmon dinner by pa.

Sister comes back, in her new little hatch-back, ed quacks, lou's whack, its Miller Time. No no no, Coors Light. But the bonfires Mine. A witch burning fire no less, stands tall. The brush is dry, ma reminds me. Not used am I to a dry New Brunswick, this summer be fly right sick. But a hurricane is on the way. Brew-crew, then Fatty and J. O'Reilly, the fire bruns sweat, and we expect Earl after mid-lit. A light drizzle sets in after my family goes in. Rainforest no more, only a light buzz pre-Earl and a goodnight to my best man and his lady friend.

Saturday Earl arrives, late but still early, round 6-7am. Torrential rain but watevs. Earl Shmearl, not even a whirl. They needed the rain, where have it been? Summer of sin for the missing kin. Late Saturday afternoon the sunshines no word of a lie. He loves me. Blue sky burns through and friends drive me to across the river blue to see old party spoons. Then into town, Matty's new home, then as Joanna Bryson's date to a fate of late one hates to negate, wedding? Then valley, vitoes and vrrroom home.

Stood up sister at the Barnwood, but then had to get out of bed and roll down (with sunshine) to pick her drunk ass up.

Sunday morning Brother Matthew returns to take me to church on his 1983 Yamaha motorcycle. I fly on his back, helmet in tact, at +100klicks an hour. Up hill, over bend, down valley past Hammond. Trees beneath rivers surround and remember, lean with the round. Nauwigewauk. Darlings Island.

Sunday afternoon Sister Leigh drives to pick up her man friend, an army cadet, this Captain won't forget. Sister and I fight because it felt right, I still have might and she's all talk. Try not to bite! Clue experiments, parents are hilarious. Then ass-hole and I am The President.

Monday sunshine, he's mine. Run, play hide, garden, trees and front side. He's really cute. And just when I think we'ez tired, a good ol' fashioned crab apple fight! Run back run front, 4 trees in production some healthy ones and some runts. I grab a stack. One, Two, Three, aim for dad. Run, keep moving, don't stop. A still target is an easy target. Re-load. Attack sister, one two three. She's down! Get her now!!! And then an ambush on the army brat. Right smack in the back.

Then goodbyes, held back cries, fly fly fly.

Rings by Michelle Hishmeh

michellehishmeh@hotmail.com