to be announced

explorations in writing

sci-fi sunshine
   discollected thoughts in the beginning of nowhere...still shakin' with the rat bikes, still hot and sweaty, still needing to change the password on this thing. No one whoever that is, has looked at this in a bajillion years. Especially not me. Wondering if there's a word, in another language, for 'that place on a woman's hips, on the narrower part of the waist, that feels real good when you place your hands there.'
    Such a lovely thought.

looooong time
So I thought I'd throw in a message that probably no one will ever read...mostly meaningless stuff...and that's about it...randomness, and assorted blather...maybe I'll go to Facebook and get Jess to read a few things...might just do weird little sci-fi excerpts here, for the hell of get a little bit of practice doing not much at all, so that it can get lost in a sea of billions of messages, which is kind of a cool thought actually...

Chopper Night In Canada, Pg 2
   Prometheus stole the the fire, so we could wield a welding torch.

   Embellishing mundane objects with an extra sense of oomph and mystery? Well, yeah, sure-that sounds like fun. But for me, it was working on a mural that made the mystery clear: Downtown east side, heat of summer, a couple dozen people, an actual guy practising hobo monikers, and ridng trains and assorted DTES'rs. One a lady who had most of her home in a pull along bag, another, graffitti artist who'd busted his back falling off the skytrain, and had been, in a wheelchair, in the catacombs under Paris. Got chased out by the local gendarme.

   What I'm saying is, almost everyone in the group were/are dirt poor, and more than one, homeless. Me, I was quasi homeless. And yet, for little pay, we were there, everyday, laughter and jocularity and good times and shit, none of us can fucking afford to do this! We're bottom rung, poorest neighborhood in Canada...finally, the eyes open a little. Creativity, it goes deeper than deep. It's not just some fanciful dillettante tendencies. Yet not quite instinct. Not just reptile brain...raw and primal, yes, and easily as powerful as any of the basic urges-the will to survive, the need to protect, all of those. And yet, all that shit and more. Hands gotta be doing something. S'why computers will never replace that. Too deep.

   Here, see? One of the people I worked with, had most of her home in a little pull cart. Also had a couple of medical issues to deal with, and who knows what kind of medication that she could barely afford. And yet there she was, everyday, you could feel it, gentle, yet powerful. A need, a hunger, a primal fucking thing, inexplicable, undescribable. People on their deathbeds have called for their favourite brush, typewriter, pen. Yeah, it's that heavy. Heavier. Crazy cool heavy. Can't be stopped, can't be crushed.

   See? Over there-Neanderthal, Cro-mag, scraping bare subsistance out of roots and rodents...and you better believe there's gonna be some fine artistic shit on that cave wall tonight. I mean, c'mon, it's just a bone implement, why go and mess it all up with markings? Scientists say for ritual reasons, I say no way, dude, rituals are just the dressing. Cause this drive, that's more than just a mere drive, goes down deep into the soul.

   Maybe deeper.

   Myself, I have good days, and bad days. The bad days can be very bad. On one such day, I'd crashed, it was all I could do to keep awake. Lay in bed most of the day. Except, for one moment, when I dragged myself out of bed (and stayed out of bed) and found myself mostly just installing and tightening up a brake.

   But, then and there, I caught myself. What? It's just a mechanical thing, it's not art. Yeah, well, when doing a painting, artist gotta do all sorts of boring shit like painting the ground on, white gesso, and that's just one of the boring things an artist gotta do. So yeah, just a brake is art, damnit, cause I said so. That little action gave me enough charge to face the rest of the day. If not week.

   For some reason, this reminds me of watching Grandma knit. As a kid, I was amazed, cause she would be talking away, and not once looking at the knitting, and her hands flew, magical movements, all on their own. Something pinged in me, and even then, I realized that there was a little something beyond mere practice. I marveled at the dexterity, the awareness that her hands seemed to be doing all of the thinking.

   Hands gotta be doing something.

   And that's probably why I wrote, and am rewriting, this book.



Chopper Night In Canada-Element 1st.
    "Those familiar with the novels and plays of Samuel Beckett need not be reminded of the rich clowning he engenders by means of the bicycle. It is for him the prime symbol of the Cartesian mind in it's acrobatic relation of mind and body in precarious imbalance. This plight goes with a lineal progression that mimics the very form of purposeful and resourceful independence of action".
Marshall McLuhan.

                       Single Speed Nightmare Machine:

   Round and round, so the cycle begins-to chop: the act of mangling, destroying, or to remake, rebuild, deconstruct, and otherwise to completely fuck up a perfectly good bike. To feed a weird hunger for fresh metal. The act of cutting up a frame, by demented be-boppin' bikelords and clownkings of the pavement, wringing inspiration from beer and acetylene, curbstomping the sacred geometry of the bike and attendant genteel manners thereof...
   Joyfully weird lil urban outlaws improvising baroque fusions and conglomerations of unidentifiable whatchacallits out of thin air, rust, and the junkpile. A strange ravenous hunger to create, a need to ignore laws of physical nature, to punk up the fun quotient. Yeah, you start to feel it wiggling it's way into yer neo-cortex, don't you? An urge, a longing, mad desire, a way to shirk off drudgery of urban dystopia, by indulging in one's own dystopic utopia-or should I say dyutopia (forgive my Joycean slang)? One must burn, pheonix smash and fix this mutant out of the promethean primeval fiery gut of creation a monstrous metal beast of dubious means. Wrapped in an embrace of burning paint and welding fumes, you begin to feel it, that need, that heavy metal addiction that massages your gentle psyche with a big ass wrench.

   You have become enslaved to the grinding metal scream of freakbike manna, of building an endless dream of rebellious weirdness from a simple machine.

   You've become a choppaholic.

ol' Heph, bangin' away...
   A wee sampling of some very rough text for upcoming book, is about freaky bikes, natch:

   Single Speed Nightmare Machine-I lean into a plastic container, full of rusty nuts and bolts, and there it is, the perfume-earth-like swingin' down in the caves with lame ol' Hepthaestus, crafting, sculpting, thrashing together some be boppin' deluxe scrap o'crap from out of the dead bones junkpile, purifying and remixing bare metal beauty with a heavy hardcore back beat-the pounding of hammers on molten metal, the sizzle of water-pure conversion of aether into flight-wood feeds fire-fire creates earth-earth bears metal. And then bike! sweet heavenly bones of it, hardcore engineering transmutation, transubstantiatin' a velomutation into State of Being, pop sampling and mash ups of the four elements-earth, air, water, fire.

   The velocipedean form contains all four elements-earth-the ore that forms the very body of this machine-air-not only necessary for forward momentum (nothing yet has replaced the pneumatic tire) but also involved with flight-the Wright Brothers were bicycle mechanics, and no one had yet managed to get a winged device to steer. It was the Wright Bros who observed people on bikes leaning into turns, not steering, and invented ailerons-fire-the act of creation itself, birthed forth from the fires of a welder-water-one would think that perhaps the only involvement is the cooling of a welded form, but no, the motion of a bike is the element water-it swims like a fish, flies like a bird-the flow of the turn is the element water, expressed as aether, perhaps.

   So there you have it, folks, a sampling. In rough form. stuff to be added, like a little zing, things like that (while I wrote it, thrash metal, old style, playing in the background.) Stay toned!

Opening ceremonies.
 So many moments...All of us recognizing Bobby Orr nearly instantly. Bryan adams looking good, Nelly Furtado looking hot, me realizng that what seperates our popstars from Murrika's stars, is that ours seem more real, like you could have a cofee with them, or a donut.

   The whole look-breathtaking, spectacular. What, a devil in a canoe? Kind of a Unibroue reference? Wait, wait-what's that? Punks iddling and dancing? Is that Ashley fucking McIssac up there? 

   K.D. Lang took one of Cohen's more cynical songs, and sung it out and tore my heart into giggling pieces and sung so sweet, so pure, I wanted her to sprout wings and fly around. My, but can she sing.

   Wayne Gretsky was a bit of a wrong note. I sorta forgave the planners on that, if only because I'm a Canadian, and that's what we do. But it wasn't enough to take any of it away.

  The Shane. No, no, I'm already a giddy happy bubbling mass of happy, I'm already high as a kite, and not on pot, and then, they pull this shit on me? How dare they! How dare they melt my bitter ol' heart, how dare they make me wanna believe that yeah, it's all good! Bastards! I was so ready to hate on the Olympics, and then, well, I never!

   Because there's The Shane, right up there, Laying down the lines that make me proud, so solid, did you see the way he bows his head at the end, as if contemplating, nearly praying, and up, up comes his eyes, with that sly little look? Like his in on the joke, and you know, it's a good joke, it's a healing joke, and yes, I am The Shane, and this is only part of it. That and he had the same look as many of the athletes-what? I'm here? I'm...I'm Here? Well, okay then, let's do this thing.

   And having to work it in the same place as K.D. Lang who made me damn near cry, no word of a lie, that was the most amazing thing that I so wanted to be at. Because for all the performers, this is their one chance, all the practice is for here, now, no second takes. 

   No real security for Gretsky. And the protest, earlier in the day? I hear the police were hanging around, mostly laid back, probably a bit bored-it's a pretty sweet gig, shepherding the protestors. And I thought, how fucking Vancouver is that? Even the rain-yeah, welcome world, we weren't kidding when we said that's what we get here, and nature seemed determined to make us all remember.

   The very real emotion, on that fellas face, the one who did the first speech, about that poor Georgian boy, taken out during practice, by really bad design that they better be working on before the real work begins.

   All of it. Weird, to laugh, cheer, cry, get my heart broke and glued back together and melted and warm gushy giggly sparkly glittery I'm yellin' like an eight year old stuff. As someone on efbook said. "Damn it, Vancouver, you hit that one out of the park.

   And they did.

   And I'm STILL happy glowy silly, and I really needed it, so bad. There's been a mind bending bit of nastiness in my family-something happened, and it's so overwhelming, so...well, awful, that I'm still dealing with it, and no, you gotta  talk to me to find out what, and we all circled the wagons, and I've been swinging wild between some horrific pit, and that deadened kind of haze the mind goes into, just to keep a lid on it, keep you functioning. That bad, and worse than almost anything I can imagine-which is why there was that vindictive nastiness I wrote a couple days ago. I didn't even realize it at the time, but it was the only way to relieve some of the stress.

   And I didn't want to go out last night. Dee knew why, and was okay with whether I would or wouldn't, she's been very patient. And so I went to Bryn and Amber's anyways, realizing that while I didn't really feel like being with anyone, I probably needed to. 

   And so there was a weird edge to me me, I was overloud, a little too boisterous. You know the kind. You're hiding something, something the direct opposite of happy. And you're simultaneously almost desperate for something good, something human, anything, I'll take whatever I can get. That rat that just avoided that car? Yeah, that works. That weed, brazenly defying the odds where it has no right to? Works for me.

   And somewhere inside, a voice sez, yeah, you needed this. Sorry, there's only a little bit in the way of a good shoulder, cause you're the one providing the shoulder. So here, let's throw this one down: you're gonna see the goldarndest opening ceremonies ever-no, nowhere near as spectular as the Chinese, but that aint what we're about. There's a reason for all these choices, and remarkable they were, and yes, I did cry, quietly, yes, I did want to run out into the streets and hoot and holler. And yes, right now, with the shit I'm going through? I needed it, just didn't know how badly.

   So yeah, I am, now that you mention it, Gushing on. And no, not one iota embarassed. Oh, sure, I'll probably swing back to cynical, cause it's comfortable, an easy fit, but, well maybe just a teensy bit of a lighter cynical. Just a smidgen, don't wanna overdo it and go all mushy too fast now.

   And yes, while I'm at it, that's part of us. Not too loud, seem to be a bit standoffish, but that's just our way. Hey, the coffeepot's on the stove, got a chair for you-come in, sit yourself down, and we'll talk about this and that.

   So how about them olympics?

the ever important gossip shit....
Just taking a break from fixing the Targa (cause I'm missing a part for the front brakes) of oldness, well, 70's, and lamenting....mostly my self is flat broke kinda lament...but since I haven't had coffee yet (haven't gone out to get any, which I shall amend, soon) the lament will robably be kinda lame.

In fact, this whole thing is gonna be kinda short, since there isn't much I've been doing, the last few days. I am however, enjoying typing this out, even if the words are dull and boring.

Zing. Zowie.

Well, at least my room is halfway clean...though my paintings look a little dark, and I am tempted to redo what few are left...thought it was Sunday, all day long, until about an hour ago. Kinda feels like a sunday, even with a couple cups of coffee. From my window, I can hear the cars swoosh by, and see a little chunk of the nightime beige peach orangey overcast sky, reflecting all the streetlights. And on wednesdays, at the legion, usually full of drunk ass old men (there's one that shows up in a dark burgundy leather top mafia car, irish accent, sits drinking away his retirement funds from noon til closing) the hipsters show up and make a racket and occasionally a cop car shows up, because I think the legion doesn't really check ID.

Which for the last few days seems to have become the extent of my world. All the bikes are 'up on blocks' getting various rebuilds, so I don't usually wander very far. Should probably at least take a nice walk once in a while.

And the 'p' on this keyboard is sticky.

cue the coffee...state of the fucking year...
Uh, gonna do this one later...need more coffee...and, uh, coffee. Lot's of coffee. Think I'm gonna change the byline, and maybe the look, cause it's like, 2020, y'know. Hey, Clark-is there gonna be a Lady Crayon thang?

the story of Fred
Yesterday, after Labour Ready, and during some errands, something came up...Fred, is a bike, an oldish GT Windstream, that Donald the Chopper King had found in an alley somewhere, circa 2000-2001 or thereabouts, and gave to me. Which I immediately, in those heady days of yore, commenced to turning into a chopper. At some point, I had welded a nickel on the headtube as a headbadge, as the nickel, which had fallen of a parking meter, in front of The Grind, which the bike was locked to, into a little shallow traylike thing, where the kickstand was supposed to go. The nickel followed my merry bouncing bike ride all the way to Donald's, revealing itself when I had turned the bike upside down. I was so excited by this, that I demanded that the nickel be welded onto the headtube.

I rode the bike for many years-it was a good, solid ride, fast. I also paintede it a new colour apparently every other day.

Around five or more years ago, I was moving from Nanaimo sky train station area, to a compton style apartment west of hastings somewhere. Literal crackhead landlord, bullet hole in the window. Fun. Had to downsize. So, Fred had to go, a hard choice of what to keep was made. Fred had been stenciled on the bike in an idle moment.

Naturally, I'd all but forgotten the bike named Fred, having come into possession of some fairly decent bikes. So, there I was, yesterday, strolling up the alley, and, in the corner of my eye, I espy a nice black bike. "That is a nice black bike," I had thought to myself, "Perhaps I shall check out this nice black bike"

So I did. Upon closer inspection, consisting of grabbing with intent to carry, as it had no wheels, I suddenly realized, hey! My old ride! It still had the same crank, a piece of blue plastic wrapped around the upper chainstay, that was present when I threw it out, and yes, the same welded nickel. Even the black tape wrapped around the trannie converter (a tranny is the old cross bar, made out of sheet metal, that in the sixties, weas used to convert a girl's bike to a boy's bike. I'd used this one under the top tube.).

And of course, the same blue stencil-'Fred'. So named, because guys usually try to come up with cool street cred names for customized bikes, and I would have none of that, so I figured Fred was as good a name as any. Nice, solid, manly name.

I wasn't immediately freaked, but that it was only two blocks from where I currently live, well, I realized that the bike had followed me, faithfully, from nanaimo skytrain area (specifically, that empty lot up the gravel path beside the skytrain that can't be zoned for anything but empty lot.) over several years, to within a very short distance from my current hideout. It was then that I was pleasantly freaked out, and decided that if the darn thing was so determined to be with me, then henceforth, a neat chopper ride it shall be. The blue plastic will be removed, of course, but the rest of the bike shall remain mostly intact. With lot's of neat additions, an artbike chopper, if you will.

Fred's here to stay, and Fred shall be it's name, a tough old chopper by anyone's game, it's claim to fame, small though that is, the remarkable wee coincidences surrounding it's frame.

I wonder what cool adventures it's had? Where it was, all those years? Why it was left intact? How it got from thar, to hyar? One thing's for certain, Fred will be back on the streets, as soon as it's rebuilt!


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