blessed are the easily amused

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

bugs! fucking bugs. we were going to escape the bugs and move to the radiant cleanliness of the paris of the effing prairies. there was a house. small but fine. character. our neighbourhood. dog friendly. cheap. trees, trees for god's sake. good landlords who would have treated us precisely as wonderfuly as they always have.

now cam and vesti are annoyed with us and think we're flaky for changing our minds 16 times.

it's all part of the post ness anticlimax downward slide. i want no part of it. give me drinks and ask me no questions.

sam won. this time.

Monday, July 28, 2003

i sing a prairie starful shroud
reels around our heads out loud
and when at last we go to sleep
the stars will count our souls like sheep

----missing line----
skate away from shriek and fang
last one in's a rotten grinch
build my supper mrs finch

gossip slop and angel thread
music haloes every head
poets in the produce aisle
heads up arses - double smile

so i'm pollyanna. so what? sometimes life is ok, and even those of us saturated in the cheap and plentiful cynicism of our time have to accept a beautiful moment when we see one. all this by way of introduction to the feature story - nigel has learned to ride a motorcycle. what a rite of passage. his maniacal howl as he let the clutch out and spat gravel and grasshoppers out behind him, the setting sun beaming orange through the clouds of dust and pesticide... it's only a matter of time before he's breaking his scapula and wearing cute motocross outfits. little nigel, all grown up.

i really have to get my little honda out from under its pile of cobwebs and roberts benz's recycling. i have to ride away from lethargy and grasshoppers. i have to feel the wind and grit buoying me up. i have to go to camping.

everything since ness creek has been anticlimactic.

Saturday, July 12, 2003

country living. ahh, smell that duststorm in the air; listen to the hypnotic and ceaseless mastication of the grasshoppers.

alright, we've proven our little point. we handled it, more or less. now we can move back into the city and huddle with the other sensible survivalists. you can't live in saskatchewan without huddling. people even huddle with jerks that they can't stand, because living here is like living on the moon - you feel like it's enough just to have the same genus and phylum as someone. now you're comrades and citizens of planet flat.

and there's a weird pride in it, living in a place that's 47 years behind and unpronouncable. those of us who stay are like people with funny hats - obviously we're so self-actualized that we contain our cool. we don't get it from being toronto or a regular sort of coors ball cap. we're funny that way. but salt of the earth, anyone will tell you. like your cousin who lives here. doesn't everyone have a cousin here?

people also stay because they think they'll be a mighty fish in this puddle before long. but it's not in the cards for everyone. not me. i'm 33 and still pretty much a small-medium pickerel. you know, fine for breakfast for one. only jesus could feed the masses with me.

Friday, July 04, 2003

a hangover is a tool to make us slow down and absorb detail. the weirdness of the light before rain. the exceptionally bad flavour of the coffee. the pole vaulter's expression of focussed dorkiness.

i have lousy dreams. but i bet if i was drunk more, and hung over more, i would sleep the sleep of the righteous and dehydrated. what snoozing lush can spare brain cells for anxiety and guilt and fear of...

when i find, through diligent jungian self-probings, what these fears are, i will publish them. i will publish them as limericks and lay them to waste. and i will sleep. with reveen's smirk on my lips.

message in a bottle:
i'm alive!
post script to message in bottle:
i'm hung over. we played at lydia's last night and tried so hard to get back into the groove (if what we had could be called a groove). michelle, now shorn of her gold locks, is still a wide eyed hottie.
am i too old for this? nah.