Games inside, when the weather is bad

Linus freaking sucks at this game..

Acknowledgement

Oh, revisitation. What a lame concept. But i will admit, i am an addict, too.

My second gf/bf relationship ended a very long time ago, now. It is like something far away in space that cannot even be seen with telescopes anymore. It is behind vapours and ethers and shadows and cobwebs hewn by very melodramatic spiders.

The way in which my second relationship is very impressive is that it cannot be personified; it must be deified, albeit as a goddess of despair and supertragedy and insurmountable resentment. Which is maybe not the normal outcome of deifying.

I was taught that boys and girls get together, and they say very nice and tender things in order to get the other to make out with them, and they sympathize on grande scales, but eventually, eventually, either slowly or unbelievably fastly, ever-so-eventually, there is a resentment, a harboured and fueled resentment, and it temporarily disappears into a cycle of forgiveness and ease when it is time to make out again, and then re-resentment on and ever onwards and downwards.

And then usually what happens, is that the girl declares herself a victim of the boy's failings where relationships are concerned, and the boy is labeled as eternal villain, condemned forever for his nebulous sins against the female. These facts are usually advertised to the planet via all available forms of communication infrastructure. Sympathizers for the victim from the male gender are screened, and leading candidates are interviewed and made out with, and perhaps a new resentment cycle is established between these two parties, although my research is not adequate to say for sure.

The boy, in turn, is feeling very unjustly condemned, and feels very strongly that this injustice is in need of correction, and attempts to gather evidence in order to prove that not only is he not the culprit, but that perhaps there is no crime to begin with, or even that the girl may be the culprit and deserving of the muds and cursings of civilization. But this is futile because there will be no hearings and no considerations. And simpler men are smarter than this, since they have gotten their coat on and tied a handkerchief to a stick and have left out the do', long long befo'.

But for more refined and complicated boys, with so much self-worth wrapped up within the opinions of anyone who might care to consider them every once in awhile, the concept of "fuck this, i'm leaving" somehow does not occur to them, and so they are left with a swirling and spiraling action, which displaces a force from the internal volumes ever greater against the weakening sides of this vessel, (the vessel deifying sanity). And the whirling pressure causes one dramatic crack and then another and suddenly, one night in the midst of all of this, the boy finds that the vessel has failed and is gone, and the spiraling whirlpool is unbounded, and is making very dramatic floodings over all of creation.

But anyways. So very eventually the torrents subside, and the sun comes up, not in any glorious fashion, but just a mundane and unnoticed orb which causes a slow evaporation, which also goes mostly unnoticed. A consciousness has waned from the observer, and the wanderings resemble sleepwalking, with eyes open and goggles on, until some shape in the desert poses an obstacle, the wandering stops, the goggles shrink back to allow the full object into the viewing area, and the observer begins to have little microscopic bolts of electrics and flashes of gravity, and an acknowledgement of light and colour, and past and present and future, and the sound of light wind turbulating against barren rocks and over shifting sand, and around the observer and its goggles, and across the shape, which is seen from a mile off of the ground, is so large, is a curled up leviathan buried under the sands, except the nostrils which are the source of a pair of meandering trails of smoke, up into the sky, until the observer has one particular microscopic electric bolt, and the trails of smoke cease all of a sudden, and instead the nostrils begin to make an inhalation, and the sand-sheathed ribbed cage of the monster begins a gradual upward movement, and particles of sand break away from one another due to the movement, and make cascades, downwards thanks to a newly acknowledged gravity, down into piles that outline the leviathan shape, and the inhalation comes to its apex, and for a long time any movement stops, and everything is still again, for a long time, a long time, and then ever so subtly the ribbed cage begins to sink downward, a black smoke begins to sputter from the nostrils, which is quickly wisped invisible by the desert wind, and the black smokes intensify as the ribbed cage begins to sink at an increased rate, unpiercingly black smoke, and a microscopic electric bolt across the pupil of the observer causes a lightning to crack through the entirety of this portrait, and very suddenly the eyes of the leviathan are wide open, and the sand which had buried them has been vapourized by an intense energy, which is an eerie ray of light puncturing the atmosphere, and now there is heat and small flames from the nostrils, stoked by the exhalation, until the exhalation comes to its nadir, and everything is still again, again for a long time, and the eyes dim as a second inhalation begins, and the ribbed cage slowly moves upwards, and sand falls away, and now skin of the leviathan becomes visible, and the observer suddenly realizes that it is inhaling, and the sky is shrinking to its breath, and microscopic electric bolts are becoming so much larger, and accelerating in frequency, and the observer acknowledges that it is now very dark as the leviathaninhalation has almost come to its second apex. Suns and stars and moons have left to the other side of the world, had retreated imperceptibly from one moment to the next. And then the second inhalation has ended, and for a very long time there is much darkness and silence. And the observer acknowledges the absence of sound and wind, the air of the world being contained in the lungs of itself, and the monster below. Airless, dark and silent, with full lungs. But the world begins to quiver, subtle and then more intense, and then more intense, and the world is quaking, and mountains begin to break into pieces, and the observerhas its goggles vapourized by a blinding bolt of lightning, and the observer begins to fall towards the rippling ground, through the darkness and gravity. A monstrous heart reawakens, a second exhalation begins, and when it does the ground erupts in flames, and all sands are vaporized, and the leviathan is loosed and alive, and as the exhalations give air back to the world, a terrible scream reverberates and claims every particle for its own, and the shockwave renders creation to plasma, and the plasma is scattered through this new chaos, as towering flamed wings unfold across the wavering dins.

What the fuck was i talking about?

Oh, i had received a message. It was soft and sweet and apologetic. I wrote an acknowledgement for the first time in many years. It was not bitter or angry, but i suppose it wasn't soft or sweet or apologetic either. My regards remain tempered, in honor of dead bitternesses, and dead angers. This means that it was not dishonest.

I am glad that i am not a treasurable male. I am glad that i am not good enough for the outsider elite. I am glad that i will give up for my own sake. I am glad that i am selfish, and i am glad that i can be vicious. These are things the world deserves from me, sometimes.

Phoniness, where i have kept my pens and paper.

L.C., AAiW, Ch.6

So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. `If it had grown up,' she said to herself, `it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.' And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, `if one only knew the right way to change them--' when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off.

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good- natured, she thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

`I don't much care where--' said Alice.

`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.

`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.

`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. `What sort of people live about here?'

`In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round, `lives a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, `lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'

`But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.

`Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'

`How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.

`You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'

Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on `And how do you know that you're mad?'

`To begin with,' said the Cat, `a dog's not mad. You grant that?'

`I suppose so,' said Alice.

`Well, then,' the Cat went on, `you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.'

`I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice.

`Call it what you like,' said the Cat. `Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?'

`I should like it very much,' said Alice, `but I haven't been invited yet.'

`You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished.

Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again.

`By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat. `I'd nearly forgotten to ask.'

`It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way.

`I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again.

Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. `I've seen hatters before,' she said to herself; `the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March.' As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree.

`Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat.

`I said pig,' replied Alice; `and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'

`All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

`Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; `but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!'

Neptune

Everyone forgot to congratulate Neptune.

Now, Neptune is eighth, and last. Again, in a solar system completely free of scrubs.

No scrubs.

Someday i am going to live on the lower east side of Neptune. I will be the planet's first lighthouse keeper. Even though there are no oceans or ships or shipcaptains on Neptune, and even though there are no rocky shores for vessels to crash upon, on Neptune, i will still be Neptune's first lighthouse keeper, mostly because i would like to be first at something, and more than that, i would like to be first at something upon the eighth and last planet, and more even more than even that, i would like to be first at something upon the last planet that no one else would ever think to be first at, on the last and eighth planet.

Still, i predict A Plague of Lighthouse Keepers, on Neptune. Someday.

Saab Rays

Saab Rays is how you pronounce the Buffalo hockey team in espanol, which is a language discovered by the people of Spain, which is a country that was discovered by Romans, who were a people that were discovered by Jesus, who was a white guy that spoke the King's english.

Anyways. That was a hell of a tangent.

Greg allowed me to use one of his season tickets last night when the Sabres played the Flyers. It was my first time in tha HiSBiC since maybe a Sabres-Flyers game a few years ago, or maybe even since Trent Reznor used the place to perform his hits. Which was a long long time ago. In any case, i did not remember where the bathrooms were located, but i managed to find some.

The Sabres and Flyers were tied 0-0 after the first period. The Sabres scored six goals in the second period.

What was that again?

Six goals in one period. That never happens.

The final score was 9-1. It was like a touchdown with a missed PAT and then a field goal, versus a half of a safety. It was just like that, except it was more of a complete and total dominance by one team over another in every possible facet of playing a sport, such as hockey, which is rare for scoring 9 goals.

Anyway, even though the game did not have any pensivity, it was still a lot of fun, and i remembered that i enjoy hockey in person even more than on television. My favourite moment was when the russian guy, who is named Afinogenov, took the puck and made "hmmm hmmmmh hm hmmm" soft working hum sounds, like a person who is pruning shrubs in their front yard, and skated the puck into the zone, hhmmm hm hmmmh hmmm, noticed two defenders between himself and the net, hmmm hmm hm hmmmmm, decided to take a long-cut around the outside of the defender to his right, hmmm hm hmmm hmmm hum, went around the defender's back and curled back to the middle towards the net, hmmm hmm hmmmm hum hum, moved the puck around a little with his stick until the goalie flopped, hmmm hmmm hum hmm, and cascaded the puck into the net, like it was the easiest thing that had ever had to be done-diddly-did.

Anyways. The good news is that Philadelphia has an overqualified curling team on their hands, now.

That was a cut-down.

I have to go.

Friday the 13th Catastrophe

Last night my mother was forced to set fire to at least four hundred decorative candles, that had previously had no obligation to the world other than looking fancy and smelling pretty.

There were lit decorative candles in bunches in the living room, around and about the dining room and kitchen, on the tops of the toilets, on the work bench, adjacent to the propane-fuelled grill which was rolled into the garage from the rain and lit, much like a candle, except its purpose was not light, but great and intense heat, which was used to cook bits of meats and potatoes and asparagi, which is the plural of asparagus, which would otherwise have to be asparaguses, or asparagus.

Water, thankfully, was plentiful in the outdoor setting, if not the indoor setting. And so buckets were used to collect the plentiful waters from the roof downspouts, and these buckets of water were poured into toilet tanks, and verily, we could pee and then flush, too.

This romantically candlelit family reunion was happening in order to introduce my newest nephew to the ancient lands of my family, which were wrecked yesterday by a storm that came through and poured hundreds and hundreds of pounds of water, in semisolid forms, onto still-fully-leafed tree branches, which had not been exercising and were feeling puny, and did not have it in them to resist snapping and falling ruined to the ground after a short, inferred struggle.

And so, verily, great swaths of the ancient lands of my family have had a genocide of the trees, which are one of my top three favourite examples of biology upon the whole entire planet.

My father would describe how he was sleeping from Thursday night into Friday morning, and hearing trees outside, nearby and faraway, groaning, creaking, snapping, etc. He did not infer (but i did) that the only sound by morning was the sound of mother nature sobbing, which is not meeting the definition of melodramatic to mention, because it really happened, and it is a sad thing, because trees are worthwhile, especially when they are fully intact, and it is tragic when trees are not fully intact, and especially very old and dependable trees.

I drove down West Avenue on my way to my grandmother's guest bed at 10:30Pm, and it was like the apocalypse. It is true that the apocalypse will look very dark, power lines and broken tree branches will be halfway into the road, and lawns will be plastered with treecarnage.

Here are examples of the treecarnage.




The whole problem, we're guessing, is that the snowstorms are premature, and the presence of leaves on trees is overmature, and the mingling of these facts causes great devastation to ensue.

The deciduous trees have not been deciduous in a timely fashion, is what i mean. And this was baneful. I am not sure what chemical makes leaves become orange and brittle so that they fall off easily, but the trees should have been taking supplements of whatever that is, because their leaves totally caused them to become fucked over, and collect much more weight than they were ever rated for, and so they cracked off, and caused more damage on the way down, such as to thirty thousand electrical lines.

On Saturday morning we traveled to the house of some friends of the family, and we ate breakfast and drank coffee and watched the television, and the anchorpeople would discuss exactly the sorts of things you should be doing with your power out. On television, i said.

Anyways.

Schoolbus seats & windows

Monsters of the future will be identifiable by their tendency to have skin which is rendered from the seats of ancient and dilapidated school buses, a vile dark green, and horrifically texturous.

Damaged skin will be awkwardly patched with the same. Dried industrial adhesive will have been applied well beyond the boundaries, and will frame the patch in a tacky lustrousness.

Transfer bus 93 will be the first victim.

-

Something else about school buses, is that some of the most amazing portraits i ever saw in my young life were made out of frost, on wintry schoolbus windows. If i had happened to own a digital camera when i was eight, i totally would have snapped pictures of frosts that resembled swirling paisley, or impressionistic white-on-white-on-white galaxies of snowflakeshapes, or fractals within fractals of featherish entities. With blurry wet holes in the arts, where my fingers had been.





And then, when they finally invented USB ports and memory card readers, i could have retrieved my dusty digital camera and uploaded photos to a computer, and began the process of having each amazing windowobservation printed to large canvas, and i would open a museum full of schoolbuswindowphotos, and i would became a famous millionaire, because everyone would visit and no one would ignore the glass case at the entrance that asked for your meager donation, or at least an awkward smile to the attendant as you made your way to Steal the glimpses.

In retrospect, i suppose i could have used a regular camera so that i would not have to wait for technology to catch up, but i was and am weird like that.

And then when the future monsters visit the museum, they would stand and stare into the portraits in long thirty-minute sessions, and they would not know why they were having one of those sad, nostalgiac moments, and then their monster sensibilities would shake them out of it and they would move on to the next portrait and it would start all over again.

Faeries

On wednesday night i saw Joanna Newsom perform songs.

Joanna Newsom plays harp, and most people do not like her because of her voice, which had been like an awkward little girl voice, but for the people who have gotten used to the voice, they would have it no other way, and we say that the voice is a very big reason for the mystique that we are hearing.

Joanna Newsom put out an album a couple years ago, which i liked more than most all of the other albums from then. It was like a set of very strange appalachian folk songs, with the most intricate poems being used for words that i have ever heard. It took a while to get used to the voice, but i did and i liked it very much.

On wednesday night, it was a couple years later and Joanna Newsom had a more restrained voice, which made her sound older, maybe twenty-four. Joanna Newsom is twenty-four, which makes me feel very old. The older songs suffered just a little from the matured voice, because they need that singer to be completely over the top, but the old songs were not the focus.

The new songs were Completely Different. The new songs apply a whole new formulaic approach. Traditional approaches to making songs are Gone. The new songs are revelations. The second song that Joanna Newsom played was her first new song of the evening, being revealed to the world, and it was one of about three performances i have ever seen that left me feeling like i had just witnessed something like an epiphany, true art truly, which is truly difficult for a guy like me, in a crowded room full of strangers.

The song was about ten minutes long, no verses or choruses anywhere in sight, it was like a one-hundred-and-fifty-line poem that puts Walt Whitman to shame. The music was being channeled from a spirit somewhere overhead, or actually the music was being channeled from several, ancient, spirits, overhead and below the floor, and Joanna Newsom switched between them at random.

The music was in themes. It went like this:

-theme #1
-excursion
-theme #2
-theme #3
-theme #1
-excursion
etc.

Afterwards i was out of breath and accidentally having my eyes open very wide. But Joanna Newsom was not.

I found the lyrics to the new songs online, already. Except they are not lyrics, they are full-fledged poems, i keep forgetting.

Here is that first new song that she played.



the meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow
set to the sky in a flying spree, for the sport over the pharaoh
a little while later the Pharisees dragged a comb through the meadow
do you remember what they called up to you and me, in our window?

there is a rusty light on the pines tonight
sun pouring wine, lord, or marrow
down into the bones of the birches
and the spires of the churches
jutting out from the shadows
the yoke, and the axe, and the old smokestacks and the bale and the barrow
and everything sloped like it was dragged from a rope
in the mouth of the south below

we've seen those mountains kneeling, felten and grey
we thought our very hearts would up and melt away
from that snow in the nighttime
just going
and going
and the stirring of wind chimes
in the morning
in the morning
helps me find my way back in
from the place where I have been

and, Emily - I saw you last night by the river
I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water
frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever,
in a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky'd been breathing on a mirror

anyhow - I sat by your side, by the water
you taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger
tho all I knew of the rote universe were those pleiades loosed in december
I promised you I‘d set them to verse so I'd always remember

that the meteorite is a source of the light
and the meteor's just what we see
and the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

and the meteorite's just what causes the light
and the meteor's how it's perceived
and the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

you came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I'm in
threw the window wide and cried; Amen! Amen! Amen!
the whole world - stopped - to hear you hollering
you looked down and saw now what was happening

the lines are fadin' in my kingdom
(tho I have never known the way to border 'em in)
so the muddy mouths of baboons and sows and the grouse and the horse and the hen
grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen
and the mail is late and the great estates are not lit from within
the talk in town's becoming downright sickening

in due time we will see the far butte lit by a flare
I've seen your bravery, and I will follow you there
and row through the nighttime
gone healthy
gone healthy all of a sudden
in search of the midwife
who could help me
who could help me
help me find my way back in
there are worries where I've been

say, say, say in the lee of the bay; don't be bothered
leave your troubles here where the tugboats shear the water from the water
(flanked by furrows, curling back, like a match held up to a newspaper)
Emily, they'll follow your lead by the letter
and I make this claim, and I'm not ashamed to say I know you better
what they've seen is just a beam of your sun that banishes winter

let us go! though we know it's a hopeless endeavor
the ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever
though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning
there is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning

come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now
blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow
peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow, with
hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow

and everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour
the butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours
and my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines
- come on home, now! all my bones are dolorous with vines

Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight
the way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light
squint skyward and listen -
loving him, we move within his borders:
just asterisms in the stars' set order

we could stand for a century
starin'
with our heads cocked
in the broad daylight at this thing
joy
landlocked
in bodies that don't keep
dumbstruck with the sweetness of being
till we don't be
told; take this
and eat this

told; the meteorite is the source of the light
and the meteor's just what we see
and the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

and the meteorite's just what causes the light
and the meteor's how it's perceived
and the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

.



Umm. Woah.

Wrath of Gawd

This morning at 6:25Am, instead of hearing Y108 click onto my alarm clock, which is more and more completely lame all of the time, because it is always playing "Love In An Elevator" by Aerosmith at 6:25Am for some reason, but anyway, instead i was awokened by the WRATH OF GOD, which was incidentally much more effective in shooing the drowsiness than Y108 ever has been.

It was maybe the most impressive Wrath of God performance that i have ever seen.



Thunders were having a frequency of every few seconds and they were EAR-SPLITTING. They seemed to say "RAWR! I AM ANGRY! I AM ANGRY AT THE WORLD BENEATH ME! I AM THE SKY! I AM THE SKY AND I AM MAKING NOISE! BAM!" and so on.

The lightning was like a clash between Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, or perhaps, because of its energy and vigor and choler, it was more like a mythical sky clash between Team Tagi and Team Pagong from the very first Survivor. Yes! It WAS that frenetic!

Most lightnings were one-third of the sky ... IN GIRTH!

If my exaggeration is not too exuberant and if my lack of calculations are not completely off, then that means that the lightning bolts were, on average, forty miles in diametric cross-section - the thickest lightnings that have ever been wrought by the heavens. If one of those were to have made contact with the ground, entire cities and suburbs and all of their things that they owned would be vapourized in a split-second of 50-billion mega-amperes of electrical current. Holy shit!

At that point, electric bolts would no longer be satisfied with just touching the ground to bring equilibrium to the difference in electrical potential - oh No! These electric bolts would would want to pierce the ground and dig and touch the ground on The Other Side Of The World..(!).. Dramatic.

If you are walking in Asia - that is just one more thing for your feet to worry about... Forty-mile-thick lightnings that are ten thousand miles long and coming up out of the ground at unawares. You'd better wear something more substantial than those flip-flops. I would suggest moon boots.

Polkaroo!

If you say "Aww, I missed him again!" now, you are a goddamn liar.

We are driving him by all of your houses, just to make sure.

Nuit Blanche part duuuuhgh

"Duuuuuhgh" is how you say two in french, because french is fucking retarded.

After the fog thing at Nuit Blanche, we walked to the third floor of an art museum, which had a lot of wall-to-wall people, and things on the walls that we did not care about looking at. Mostly it just made me feeling closer to deaths, due to the mysterious affliction, which was probably antianxis plus booze plus food poisoning plus nihilisms, which equals death minus three after climbing three flights of stairs.

Do not worry, you can try out the numberss all you want, there is no mathemats between a flight of stairs and death, just because there happened to be three of each. Don't be so fucking neurotic, for jesuschrists' sakes.

After the museum, we drove to a part of Queen Street, i think. Queen Street had car washes with film loops, and another car wash with a giant ice block, which was supposed to melt all night long and reveal its artiness come the morn. But ice is translucent, dumbass, so i saw that it was just going to be a word, starting with 'd' and ending with 's', who cares we left after two minutes.

One storefront had a film loop of a time-lapsed robin's nest, projecting onto a large piece of cloth that would sway forth and back as people walked past, and there would be flickerings of the robin mom feeding the robin babes and the robin babes growing feathers and the nest being nestled with more twigs and the robins growing up and flying away and then it started all over again, all within thirty seconds, and that is the only thing that really made me stop to watch for a long time, because it was captivating, i was in a mood to appreciate observations over statements, i am usually in a mood to appreciate observations over statements, i am an overwhelmed guy who has been living with all of you people for so long, after all.

In the community pool you were allowed to swim all through the wee hours, in your tighty and hopefully tidy whiteys, and the pool ceiling was allowed reflectations due to its foilage, and there were a series of sound artists playing all night long. The schedule listed Windy & Carl at 2Am, which blew my mind. I love Windy & Carl, because they are the best at creating sounds that are not music that you still want to really listen to, because it is good for sleeping to or for spacing out, and probably for taking drugs to, or making music to take drugs to make music to sleep to, fuck yes. But anyways, i was hardly expecting to run into anything i would have recognized, so i was excited, even though my companions were not, and W&C were not as appropriate for a loud community pool, because they are better for fog, so we left after ten minutes of hearing them play two notes back and forth, which was just a mundane reminder for me of how brilliant they are. Here is a photo and a sound song.



Windy & Carl - Traveling

Afterwards, there were spooky tents set up in legions in a desolate park, that had reminders of life in mental institutions, like the one where you went into a tent and were supposed to write your name on a piece of paper with a pencil, and then erase your name, and carefully wipe the eraser shavings into a nearby glass vial; and there were canopies with projections of time-lapsed daytime skies on the undersides, replete with nature sounds, and things like this, but mostly i am not going to detail any more of it, as i am feeling tired and completely undervalued, like i am wasting your time and you are wasting mine, what is our problems are?

Nuit Blanche part uungh

On this blog post i will be able to talk more about being poorly, which is one of my favourite things to go on about these days. Things seemed to be just fine on Friday night after watching a documentary about Daniel Johnston. Except that it was completely accidental that Daniel Johnston was so entirely tragic, and even though i seem to be constantly engorging myself on documentaries and biographies about tragedy-stricken artistes, i was more interested in just engorging myself with a fun, mentally-ill in a positive sort of way sort of documentary.

Except Daniel Johnston was an extreme manic depressive, and through his twenties he completely lost his ability to think rationally or have any footholds in reality, and he was constantly paranoid about the devil. And the father broke down crying while remembering the time that he was flying his small plane with Daniel as his passenger and Daniel thought he was Casper the friendly ghost and wanted to jump out of the plane, and then turned off the ignition of the aeroplane and dropped the keys out of the window and the father miraculously crashed them into a forest and they were not hurt too bad.

I slept for about twelve hours and when i woke up i found that i was not steady on my feet and was very nauseous and was making regurgitations into the toilet object and was curled up on the floor and was getting back into bed and going to sleep for another two hours. And even after a few repititions, i was still feeling unsteady on my feet, and extremely drowsy. But i figured that this was a rouse ruse i had put on myself, because i had slept for eighteen hours and i had every reason to be back on top of my game, so i got up and i went to Toronto.

In Toronto last night was the Nuit Blanche, which if you are pronouncing your french properly, goes like "Nuuue Blaahh". The idea is that parts of the city stay alive and observable from 7pm until sunrise the next morning, and unobvious sorts of parks and establishments become art exhibits. Liz had invited me along and we had Ian and Clíona with us too. Clíona is impossible to pronounce correctly so you should not even try, unless you have a wicked Irish accent.

My mental capacities were more than a bit predisposed to my shocking lack of physical capacities, so i will do my best to remember what we saw.

The first thing was the Hope Tree, which was a tree with thousands and thousands of water-resistant pieces of paper tied to the branches, each displaying one of four pieces of texts, which were wishes. A truly dedicated artist would have made each and every one of the thousands of pieces of paper completely unique in what it wished for, but i guess that would be expensive and artists aren't known for being millionaires.







The next exhibit was just fog, and that is all. As simplistic as it sounds, fog is very impressive and makes for gorgeous blurry photographs, which are the best photographs of them all.



Our next stop was a strip of downtown. But i am much too tired to detail it now, so maybe in the next post.

So i will make this "to be continued". In the next post, i will reveal the biggest surprise for me personally, at Nuit Blanche, which was Windy & Carl playing at 2-3Am at a community swimming pool.

I hope i do not have the flu influenza.