I looked to the sky
From my city locale
And I saw
The complaints
Of the daytime dwelling.
The noisy proprietors of
Thunderous voices had
Shouted "Carpe diem!"
Too long
And I saw that my sky was tainted.
Those voices
That shut out the dark
And propped up their sconces
Felt the day too short
And inflicted their choices
On my midnight.
They feared the challenge
Brought on by dusk's early presence.
And they were quick to shout and condemn the nocturnal actions
As evil and mischievous.
Curious creatures too mysterious and divine
To accept, the bats and owls
Were too ugly and unpleasant to approach.
I wondered if they felt small
In comparison to such vastness –
Rejecting lustrous gifts sent from
Light years away
For fear of incompatibility with an ancient and overbearing
Tao of navigation
They faded the bright lights provided already
For billions of years
And sought a thick cover of neon comforts
Like children plugging in night lights.
This failure,
This blindness,
This "seeking the light"
That rejects
A time of opportunity
And a universe of beauty
Leads to the very action
That leaves those very day dwellers in the dark
And it is what sets them behind the prospering nocturnal.
Showing posts with label environmentalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label environmentalism. Show all posts
Monday, March 9, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Plenty
I have too many Fruit Cards because I always forget them when I go to the cafeteria. Fruit Cards are the wonderful genius of the cafeteria staff that is meant to motivate students to eat their fruits. If you buy an apple, you get a stamp. Apples cost about 39 cents, but if you buy ten of them, you get a free one. If I don’t have my card with me, they give me a new one.
This doesn’t mean much more than the fact that I’m going to have a build up of cards for a while because I would feel bad killing a twig’s-worth of tree to combine one or three cards with another.
----------------
Now playing: Ten Years After - I'd Love To Change The World
This doesn’t mean much more than the fact that I’m going to have a build up of cards for a while because I would feel bad killing a twig’s-worth of tree to combine one or three cards with another.
----------------
Now playing: Ten Years After - I'd Love To Change The World
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Natural Disaster
The big fish eat the little ones,
Swimming around,
They bathe in the shallow, blood-ruby sun of Los Angeles
A lonely place for the actors and actresses: silicone starlets
Consumed by that sun.
Burning hills, the plastic lava-flow of fiery avalanches
Where unprepared thespians
Are building their homes
Too close to nature, too close to alone,
Too close to perfect,
Always too close
With too much money to burn,
They’re always burning under
That bloody red sun.
With expensive explosions to hide all the lies
The insecure idols burn all their ties
I’d like to direct a new feature film:
One where the actors and actresses learn
That expensive wardrobes and luxury cars,
Dressing room curtains and makeup residue,
Self-indulgence and high-profile lives
Make excellent kindling to burn all their lies.
I’ve found incentive to let it all burn.
A natural disaster in the fake plastic hills:
A pure cinematic and visceral experience
And all of the actors keep popping their pills
We won’t do anything, we’ll just watch it burn
They’ll spark it themselves; they’ll just have to learn –
Maybe they’ll learn but I’m not so sure:
I’m sure their insurance will give bliss through sweet settlement…
Come buy your ticket
And take this ride
Join in this tour bus of voyeur passivity
Watch the sun collide
Watch the hills burn, yeah,
We’ll watch from the side.
I don’t care if the sun burns it all,
I think its time that Hollywood falls
So stoke up an avalanche that slides into the Pacific.
Watch it burn,
Watch it burn.
Let it slide,
Watch it burn.
“Learn to swim.”
I don’t feel guilty,
I just feel prepared. Without a Blackberry,
A Lexus, or Rolex,
Without a Gucci handbag to hold things in tact
Or an agent
To do my job for me
I feel more ready than ever before
So let the rapture begin, leave bright stars
In the dark.
----------------
Now playing: tool - Ænema
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Jungles in the Sky
Each plant had
four walls:
no roofs.
The ground under wheels
a recycled plastic, with
paths made of flat carpet.
No more windows
Except on the screens
- just a door-like space
made because a wall
was a bit smaller than the
other three;
and another is barely visible
because of the reincarnated trees:
the ones that grow so high even the
hawks fear to fly to the peaks;
they grow atop the fake wood veneer
of four-drawer chopping blocks.
Jungles in the sky
where each plant is exotic
(or at least in the
eye of the ant):
where the beasts roar
when rubbed the
wrong way
and only the meek
survive.
four walls:
no roofs.
The ground under wheels
a recycled plastic, with
paths made of flat carpet.
No more windows
Except on the screens
- just a door-like space
made because a wall
was a bit smaller than the
other three;
and another is barely visible
because of the reincarnated trees:
the ones that grow so high even the
hawks fear to fly to the peaks;
they grow atop the fake wood veneer
of four-drawer chopping blocks.
Jungles in the sky
where each plant is exotic
(or at least in the
eye of the ant):
where the beasts roar
when rubbed the
wrong way
and only the meek
survive.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Weird On Wheels: Consumer Campaigning vs. Wacky Wit
No cars in the city – penitentiaries built and maintained to the standards of country clubs and golf courses – businessmen wearing clown costumes to work. These platforms might seem odd to the public, but that’s only because they follow the definition more visibly than the dominant parties’ (“weird: strange and uncanny or bizarre” – Oxford Study Dictionary, 1996). In fact, the weirdest part of all is likely the coverage. The media-safe parties (in Canada; the Liberals, NDP, and the Conservatives; and in the US; the Democrats and Republicans) are more-often-than-not backed up by some hefty wads of cash to make their campaigns soar to peaks where outlooks become secondary concern, and popularity; key.
Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo Journalism and novelist was not your average writer. This is the very man that wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – a tale of drug-induced antics while on assignment in the city of broken bank accounts and all-night boozeries. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie, you’ll know this is a man who pushes every limit in sight, and when he campaigned for Sheriff of Aspen, Colorado in 1969, there was no exception. Thompson was a prominent figure of an anarchist group known as the party for Freak Power. His platform included a legalization of the recreational use of narcotics (while prosecuting profiting dealers harshly to reduce gang activity), to “Sod the streets at once” (The Great Shark Hunt, Simon & Shuster Paperbacks, 1979) and create large parking-lots on the outskirts of Aspen in order to reduce pollution and preserve nature, to change the name of Aspen to “Fat City” by public referendum as to prevent the greedy from capitalizing on the name (for example, titles such as the Aspen Music Festival would then on be known as the “Fat City Music Festival”), forbid hunting and fishing in Aspen (or Fat City) to all non-residents, and the ban of weapons in public for all officers (including Thompson, who was a well-known firearms enthusiast). Of course, Thompson felt it was very important that Aspen elect a responsible party, and in his efforts, promised his community that if he became Sheriff, he’d never eat mescaline while on duty.
Hunter S. Thompson - Aspen Sheriff Election 1970
Ten years later, Jello Biafra – former Dead Kennedys lead singer and since then solo and spoken word artist – ran for mayor in San Francisco. What was originally meant to be a prank soon turned into a serious involvement in local politics and social order. His campaign promised everything from placing a rule that required businessmen to dress in clown attire within San Francisco to a citywide ban on cars (in an attempt to reduce pollution). But here is where the media attacks again, showcasing only the bizarre and offering little exposure for the revolutionary. Among his “weird” campaign moves are some plans that Jello’s argued had received too little attention: he felt that squatting should be legal in abandoned San Franciscan homes; he opted for elections to decide the occupations and jurisdictions of local police; played for a 50% panhandler commission for all state workers laid off due to deficit-caused staff reductions; and stood for jails being moved to local golf courses “so [occupants] can enjoy true rehabilitation like the Watergate criminals” (from an interview with Jools Holland). Despite the fact that he only won 3% of the votes, Biafra – his real name Eric Reed Boucher – did manage to put a dent in the politically limited wall of San-Francisco: following the election: no candidate was to run under any name other than the one given to them at birth.
Despite wacky antics and bold campaign promises, none of these parties went anywhere past their campaign as far as electorate success sees. The way North Americans and many more people of the world have been raised is to the understanding that the person who puts the most of their self into their work is the one that achieves the greatest cookie-jar success: in the case of campaigning; the more a party spends, the greater their audience becomes. Fairly independent parties, they don’t have the buck for that bang. This is where the track and field of the political race becomes more about Gatorade sponsorships than the ability to jump higher – run faster – throw further – run a country up to speed. It’s that kind of corporate funding that clouds the judgment. It gets people thinking who to vote for – who will cater to their needs in the future (their needs, their future – not their future’s future) – who’s drinking the same sports drink as them – who they should invest in.
Just like athletes drop sponsors, the sellout parties drop values along the road. Here is where generations of fence-sitters lose their strength and pick a box that seems familiar, because too different is too much to handle. In general, NHL athletes didn’t stop playing hockey when they changed the rules – instigated shoot outs in place of overtimes; they kept playing hockey because they were good at it and made good cash money. The year before that they were on strike, this was the new harvest season, and they had to make up for some dead crops.
Unlike the cash-driven parties we see, firing different philosophies every other day of the week, the weird stick to their guns still to this day. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his motto ’til the day he killed himself; “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro;” he never won any elections, but his writing still exists just as it did long before his new audiences were even conceived – just as popular, and if not, more. Jello’s motto, a little different, but just as influential: “don’t hate the media, become the media” – and he’s done a good job at that, producing albums at a rate so fast it’s as if the lyrical content of each song was as easily rendered as simple stones he only had to pick off the earth.
Become the media. Turn pro. Separate the suit-wearing clowns from the real people, and take your picking. Think about how satisfying it is, seeing a clown get a cream pie right on the nose. Ask the “weird,” and they’ll probably tell you that this is about all the clowns are good for: laughs.
*originally published in The Undercroft, vol.2, iss.3: "Rally in the Alley" as a feature article.
----------------
Now playing: The Misfits - Where Eagles Dare
Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo Journalism and novelist was not your average writer. This is the very man that wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – a tale of drug-induced antics while on assignment in the city of broken bank accounts and all-night boozeries. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie, you’ll know this is a man who pushes every limit in sight, and when he campaigned for Sheriff of Aspen, Colorado in 1969, there was no exception. Thompson was a prominent figure of an anarchist group known as the party for Freak Power. His platform included a legalization of the recreational use of narcotics (while prosecuting profiting dealers harshly to reduce gang activity), to “Sod the streets at once” (The Great Shark Hunt, Simon & Shuster Paperbacks, 1979) and create large parking-lots on the outskirts of Aspen in order to reduce pollution and preserve nature, to change the name of Aspen to “Fat City” by public referendum as to prevent the greedy from capitalizing on the name (for example, titles such as the Aspen Music Festival would then on be known as the “Fat City Music Festival”), forbid hunting and fishing in Aspen (or Fat City) to all non-residents, and the ban of weapons in public for all officers (including Thompson, who was a well-known firearms enthusiast). Of course, Thompson felt it was very important that Aspen elect a responsible party, and in his efforts, promised his community that if he became Sheriff, he’d never eat mescaline while on duty.
Hunter S. Thompson - Aspen Sheriff Election 1970
Ten years later, Jello Biafra – former Dead Kennedys lead singer and since then solo and spoken word artist – ran for mayor in San Francisco. What was originally meant to be a prank soon turned into a serious involvement in local politics and social order. His campaign promised everything from placing a rule that required businessmen to dress in clown attire within San Francisco to a citywide ban on cars (in an attempt to reduce pollution). But here is where the media attacks again, showcasing only the bizarre and offering little exposure for the revolutionary. Among his “weird” campaign moves are some plans that Jello’s argued had received too little attention: he felt that squatting should be legal in abandoned San Franciscan homes; he opted for elections to decide the occupations and jurisdictions of local police; played for a 50% panhandler commission for all state workers laid off due to deficit-caused staff reductions; and stood for jails being moved to local golf courses “so [occupants] can enjoy true rehabilitation like the Watergate criminals” (from an interview with Jools Holland). Despite the fact that he only won 3% of the votes, Biafra – his real name Eric Reed Boucher – did manage to put a dent in the politically limited wall of San-Francisco: following the election: no candidate was to run under any name other than the one given to them at birth.
Despite wacky antics and bold campaign promises, none of these parties went anywhere past their campaign as far as electorate success sees. The way North Americans and many more people of the world have been raised is to the understanding that the person who puts the most of their self into their work is the one that achieves the greatest cookie-jar success: in the case of campaigning; the more a party spends, the greater their audience becomes. Fairly independent parties, they don’t have the buck for that bang. This is where the track and field of the political race becomes more about Gatorade sponsorships than the ability to jump higher – run faster – throw further – run a country up to speed. It’s that kind of corporate funding that clouds the judgment. It gets people thinking who to vote for – who will cater to their needs in the future (their needs, their future – not their future’s future) – who’s drinking the same sports drink as them – who they should invest in.
Just like athletes drop sponsors, the sellout parties drop values along the road. Here is where generations of fence-sitters lose their strength and pick a box that seems familiar, because too different is too much to handle. In general, NHL athletes didn’t stop playing hockey when they changed the rules – instigated shoot outs in place of overtimes; they kept playing hockey because they were good at it and made good cash money. The year before that they were on strike, this was the new harvest season, and they had to make up for some dead crops.
Unlike the cash-driven parties we see, firing different philosophies every other day of the week, the weird stick to their guns still to this day. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his motto ’til the day he killed himself; “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro;” he never won any elections, but his writing still exists just as it did long before his new audiences were even conceived – just as popular, and if not, more. Jello’s motto, a little different, but just as influential: “don’t hate the media, become the media” – and he’s done a good job at that, producing albums at a rate so fast it’s as if the lyrical content of each song was as easily rendered as simple stones he only had to pick off the earth.
Become the media. Turn pro. Separate the suit-wearing clowns from the real people, and take your picking. Think about how satisfying it is, seeing a clown get a cream pie right on the nose. Ask the “weird,” and they’ll probably tell you that this is about all the clowns are good for: laughs.
*originally published in The Undercroft, vol.2, iss.3: "Rally in the Alley" as a feature article.
----------------
Now playing: The Misfits - Where Eagles Dare
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
A Delicate Balance?
Working in a wood-molding warehouse, everything feels like the volume’s been turned down to zero. For ten hours a day, four days a week, I once spent the majority of my summer living as if life was on mute. At the sound of every first buzzer I’d jam those earplugs into my hearing holes and I’d be off to my own silent little world. As long as you kept quiet and did what you were told, nobody bothered you.
Every day, the saws sang like cicadas on the grand reopening of mating season, and after long enough, you didn’t even hear that. The only thing you had between yourself and the white noise ambience of molding machines was your conscious stream of thought.
I often got to wonder about the Lifers; how had they worked here for ten years?
If I worked here long enough, would I run out of things to think? How long, standing around in this hot tin box on the side of a road that served no better purpose than being the industrial version of the Island of Misfit Toys, how long could I bear the silence before breaking and succumbing to this miserable, droning state?
The Lifers; had they no souls?
Across the street from my building, a great forest of luxurious greens fell to the blades of unyielding productivity.
Machines making room for hot tin boxes.
Machines making room for new machines.
For the trees, hope was as empty as the blue sky they had always reached for. But come September I’d be back to attending university lectures and seminars: learning to think again.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Like Spinning Plates
Monday, December 29, 2008
Flying South Without Wings
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
– Edgar Allan Poe, “To Science”
December 29, 2008
12:34 AM:
Canada Geese are honking in full force. This year, the Winter Solstice took place on December 21st at 7:04 AM EST. And that supposedly magic holiday Christmas, the day of sometimes miracle-bred/necessitated white precipitation, was four days ago.
I am less-than inclined to entertain theories involving geese that forgot to leave for the South with the rest. On a sadder note, I am even less inclined to take faith in superstition surrounding the time of the incident (12:34 AM).
Because this has happened, I can’t even enjoy a ride home from a night of good company, conversation, and a couple of drinks with my favourite girl without writing this in my head.
Yesterday morning the temperature rose to 16 degrees Celsius, and I live in Ontario. The only snow in front of my house is leftover residue from driveway shoveling. Across my bedroom floor, a fall jacket, various sweatshirts and a winter coat don’t know whether they belong in my closet or on my bedroom doorknobs, which – over the past few years – have become progressively lonelier.
It used to be the snow that got me down – now it’s the whole season.
I have always selected my dress attire according to the temperature and a brief glance outside. In winters-past I have maintained a default winter coat, but this season, I’m just as confused as the geese.
----------------
Now playing: Caspian Sawczak - Migration [demo]
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
– Edgar Allan Poe, “To Science”
December 29, 2008
12:34 AM:
Canada Geese are honking in full force. This year, the Winter Solstice took place on December 21st at 7:04 AM EST. And that supposedly magic holiday Christmas, the day of sometimes miracle-bred/necessitated white precipitation, was four days ago.
I am less-than inclined to entertain theories involving geese that forgot to leave for the South with the rest. On a sadder note, I am even less inclined to take faith in superstition surrounding the time of the incident (12:34 AM).
Because this has happened, I can’t even enjoy a ride home from a night of good company, conversation, and a couple of drinks with my favourite girl without writing this in my head.
Yesterday morning the temperature rose to 16 degrees Celsius, and I live in Ontario. The only snow in front of my house is leftover residue from driveway shoveling. Across my bedroom floor, a fall jacket, various sweatshirts and a winter coat don’t know whether they belong in my closet or on my bedroom doorknobs, which – over the past few years – have become progressively lonelier.
It used to be the snow that got me down – now it’s the whole season.
I have always selected my dress attire according to the temperature and a brief glance outside. In winters-past I have maintained a default winter coat, but this season, I’m just as confused as the geese.
----------------
Now playing: Caspian Sawczak - Migration [demo]
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