One.

An abundance of colours.

The World: Two Thursdays ago, a storm passing through radically changed the colour of the sky. From blue to grey to orange, green and yellow. I watched the entire thing, complete with thunder and lightning, mesmerized alongside an 18-month-old.

My Home: I’ve been working on my home. Spent days ripping up vinyl tiles by hand, purging accumulated crap, painting the particle board that covers a section of my floor. My home’s now bigger, brighter, happier. Moving on from a hodge-podge monochrome to include bright splashes of greens, reds and blues.

Other People: I’ve been seeing people’s colours reveal themselves. I can’t see auras, but I’ve always synaesthestically equated experiences, words, people, music with colours. I’m looking for a brown, with a golden tinge. My life as I know it will re-start when that energy comes into it. I’m done with the blues and greys, moderating my oranges and yellows. Right now I’m settling into a sage green, or is it the other way around?

Two.

A little memory’s a dangerous thing. Repeated scenario over the past few months; different people, different venues. Sometimes I duplicate food orders – a deliberate ploy to manipulate that already-seen feeling.

We sit across from each other over food, coffee. We talk about our shared past, and I’m amazed at the discrepancies between my memories and yours. Paranoia sets in, and I can’t help but think: this is what brainwashing feels like. I want to believe your truth, but the body yells out “NO!” with every single cell. I daren’t forget.

I’ve been writing everything down as I remember it. And I only stand by my words as my own(ed) truth. This fictionalized narrative is a coping strategy, making peace with my decisions. Remember, it never has to be factual, it just has to be true. Anyone can write their own stories, I’m just not necessarily into reading them.

Three.

Something about roads and the way they unfold in front of me. This summer, I’ve spent hours, days on roads following them and not always having a destination. A lot of guitar-driven music on the stereo. Skies for days. Home behind me, somewhere else ahead of me.

24 hours in free-flow short:

junk food petrol lorries bluegrass flamenco east south india gentlewoman bluegrass sodium lights tina turner scratch the tina steamy maybe bring back a little bit of tina paranoid exhibitionism claustrophobia cobblestoned dawn filter the sun make it tolerable hide behind find another way to transition into light technicoloured theatrics jitter come down disturbances in the reality field prairie reminiscing poutine. did we really make a vow we never had any intention of keeping? thank you for failing with me – remember, i’m on witnessing duty.

***

There’s more that I need to get out, soon come.

i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i want to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i’m wont to stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop i won’t stop.

iwontstop

march 2000, the face

i need to find my copy of this! for some reason, this magazine cover has stayed with me over the years. it’s also been repetitively coming up this year. posting it today because of the research coming out of the pew center, which relates to conversations i’ve been having with my friends about future child-parent relationships and cultural points of reference. and on wednesday (yesterday), the guardian posted an interview with mani from the stone roses.

and on that note, need to go find some albums.

got me counting the times i suited up for war. physical, mental, emotional and spiritual threats. i may not throw the first blow, but step up and watch me not back down. i don’t enjoy fighting, but there’s a warrior spirit in me somewhere.

excerpt (pulped/thick/shun):

Five teenaged girls stopped me on my way somewhere, tried to take my belongings. One of them had pulled out a switchblade, one of the older ones. This wasn’t supposed to happen in a smaller city, wasn’t supposed to happen outside an alleyway, definitely wasn’t supposed to happen in a middle-class residential neighbourhood. I walked these streets with no fear.

“Give us your bag,” the girl with the knife said.

“No.”

The punch came quick, no time to duck. Sunk my nails into the aggressor, twisted her arm.

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that,” I said. I wasn’t even angry, just surprised that someone would try to punch me. Had never happened before.

“Let go of her arm and give me your bag,” the girl with the blade said.

My voice turned to steel, cold, and I didn’t let go. “I already said no.”

Interludes from Doggystyle played in my head: we could either handle this like some gentlemen, or…

Minutes later, a five-on-one scuffle. Kicks, punches, one of the girls on the asphalt, my knee on the small of her back as her homegirls tried to beat me off her. They tried to have it their way. They would have had it their way, had a God-fearing neighbour not heard the ruckus and come running out of his home waving a mobile or cordless phone.

the response to emotional threats isn’t much different. disassociation, sharpened reflexes. on auto-pilot, and the neurotic, i-choose-flight persona shut down and pushed aside, to be dealt with later. forget cowardice as a survival mechanism. the flipside of cowardice is bravado, and i’m not down with that either. it’s easier to face battles than hide and hope they’ll disappear. all that aggressive confrontation is energy that has to go somewhere.

the aftermath, whether win or lose, is the same. body hunched, shrunken after emotional/physical exertion. back muscles stiff, from the pain of giving/receiving blows or holding the anger and the fear in. chin lowered in weariness, eyes duller. the post-adrenaline climax down leads to sleep for days, a gentle reprieve for re-generation.

i’m not a healer by nature, but i do covet that gentle, soothing touch; yearn for that mind-calming talent. i would rather be balsamic than inflammable. at the very least, i want to be able to sit down at a table rather than crouch into position, sword drawn.

while not very much has been at risk in previous skirmishes, this willingness to battle has me worried about what would happen were the stakes to be high. when the drive is fiercely all-consuming and unguarded. when the battle is to the death – for love, family, belief, country.

soundtrack to this thought: lost ones.

you live somewhere different and intriguing. the same place i’ve been visiting, quickly leaving before i get in there too deep. i show up quietly, move in the shadows, and don’t touch anything. i want to know more about your world; it’s crazy that we’ve only met in this plane. take me around, show me. my fears are unfounded, but you create a circle of light that protects us both.

i’m ready to move there, for the short-term. a temporary residence in a world i thought i had made up but later learned that it had existed all along. you live there, your permanent home is there, and you only leave once in a while. but you have a constant who grounds you in the real. i don’t.

so will you whisper my way through my visit? there’s stuff i need to get done here, and after you make me comfortable, i’ll leave you alone and go about my business. i’m not afraid here, everything is so familiar in a past life/spirit world sort of way. it’s not that your world is strange, it’s just that i don’t belong there. and trust me, i know all about where i do and don’t belong. i’ll be safe here for a while before i need to return.

if i pack my bags for a visit, make sure i leave. i trust you’ll know when that time comes.

one.

“did you fall from the sun?” he asked me. triggered memories, images – william blake, my personal icarus narrative, blinding love. no, i didn’t fall from the sun, but i clothe myself in her. searched myself to find the love within. darkness. Darkness. bobbing up and down in it. fighting a new and intense paranoia. maybe it’s contagious. “knock on wood and all the other elements.” I didn’t mean to step on your head, love.

this is my becoming.

two.

I’ve been looking for different ways to take myself to the next level. I put the question out there, and the answer is always the same: you need to become silent. Confused, I kept on asking. I can’t deal with not being able to express. My personal histories have only taught me silence in response to violence.

I finally get it. I need to not speak. I need to take a vow of silence for a short period of time. And write myself through it. It’s going to be mentally intense, and I’m only beginning to prepare for it now. It will take me a while to become ready, but I know beyond the shadow of a doubt it’s something I need to do.

three.

synchronicity on a crazy level. in constructed worlds, real life, virtual interactions, dreams. a lot of the symbolism is astrological and incredibly apt: aquarius, scorpio, saturn, orion. there’s been a lot of blood too. the music of nirvana, lou reed, david bowie, and burt bacharach. violent rhetoric: daggers, armour, protection, war. sense of destruction, but an understanding that clearing needs to happen in a final way for the new, which will now be all the more brighter. this dagger’s got me feeling like a warrior. ink has a strange way of being.

four.

A couple of weeks ago, someone sent me photos taken of them. The photos were portrait shots, a beautiful, smiling woman celebrating her birthday, one summer afternoon in Toronto. But what struck me (and the reason I received the photos) was the couple in the background. Pure love, joy, and light. I could see it in the body postures, the gentle gestures, and the multicoloured auras my imagination filled in. Beauty is so fragile, fleeting.

**

The photos I was sent via email reminded me of a Duane Michals image that has resonated with me since the first time I came across it. And so I leave you with it: This Photograph Is My Proof (1967, 74)

This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon when things were still good between us, and she embraced me. And we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look, see for yourself!

toronto’s an unhealthy city. every time i leave it, i remember this, and it amazes me how easy it is to get caught up in all of it. i’m learning how to be healthy and safe within it, and part of that is knowing the city on my own terms, like i did once, seven years ago. so i’m renegotiating my relationship with toronto and refusing to let it get me down.

last night, i walked down train tracks, looked at graffiti, watched a woman on a motorised wheelchair sing edith piaf songs up and down a street, and hung out on a porch bathed in orange street light. sitting with a friend, we talked for a couple of hours about the danger of constructed fantasies, the relationship between the artist and audience, and a whole bunch of other stuff.

i’m re-accessing a lost part of myself, one that had been swallowed up in pricey brunches, pretentious conversations about designer commodities, and a rat race kind of city life. i need to un-apologetically reclaim this re-found part of me and i need to stop feeling judged because i’m not conforming. i won’t internalise the ridicule and criticism. i’m not down with that any more, and while i’m now on a new journey, the path is so familiar to me i feel like i’m on my way home. i feel safe again, in part due to the protection offered by a strange and new mythical companionship.

there are a few things i haven’t done in a while: watch the moon rise over the lake; walk and listen in strange neighbourhoods; swing my feet over rooftops and watch the city like a gargoyle; ride streetcars for fun; read in alleyways. i haven’t let my pants get smudged, torn or dirty in a long time.

i’m way happier when i get to look like a raggamuffin.

-

addendum: reading this over, i feel like i somewhat misrepresented myself. sometimes, i fully enjoy my engagement in overpriced food and bougie material culture. i do love, to a certain extent, highbrow city life. but in lesser than or equal amounts to pedestrian offroading and concrete hangouts.