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Forgotten
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1266
And I'm trying to find old music, links, information that I dimly remember from a decade or so before.
An old music video, popular in Prague, Fall of '93. Searching, searching, I can find nothing.
Another, an old piece of music from Paris, bookmarked on a computer that died a long time ago. And a long list of favorite links that died with it.
To watch a home movie, recorded on an old webcam, format not longer supported, or the blistering foil on the CD making it unplayable.
Trying to find these lost souvenirs of my life, lost to time and place and increasingly the failings and shortcomings of the digital age. Lost, lost, the digital afterworld proving to be a an unreliable shifting memory...photos, however bleached, can still be held, records can still be played and film can be restored, but these early years of internet and innovation, they're somehow both dimly remembered and lost forever...
Kootenay Rave
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 765
This is it, my send-off to myself, a Halloween rave in the Valley, I finish my shift - final shift at the Pub, the night waitress comes in, she's been all sorts of sporting swapping shifts with me while I got my shit together, she's drunk, now she wants it off but she can see it in my eyes, I'm outta there-done, done like dinner, done done done.
She lets me go and I'm gone. I only needed a sock.
My costume, a black sweater, black pair of paints, hand painted glow-in-the-dark rendering of an impressionistic skeleton, some skeleton gloves and a bikers scarf complete it. Not much, but enough.
The Valley, for those who don't know or have never been, is a place of perpetual enchantment. Entering the valley all cell phones stop working, and not just because there's no towers, but because the locals want it that way. The demons of technology have no sway here. This is where the nations pot used to be grown. This is where all the best parties are...
An address, a few lights beside the highway mark the turn, a muddy road, directions at the first-aid tent (because every responsible rave has a first aid tent, cheap insurance against bad drugs or irresponsible usage), pull in and park. The parking lot, a muddy cow-pasture, and I think about pitching my tent. No. Too muddy, too rainy, and I'm shortly afterwards returning to Calgary, there won't be time to dry the tent out, clean it up. And I make a pleasant discovery, that the driver seat so fully pushes back and reclines that I can - almost - comfortably sleep here. I'm a connoisseur of sleeping in cars, having spent too many nights curled around a gearshift or huddled bent double on the back seat, and this is as good as it gets.
Go and survey the scene. Twinkling LED lights guide the way, across a fairy bridge, there's the chill-down tent, the Stage, a covered dance floor, various set-ups for bonfires, and the party is slowly underway...
This is the land of the fairies, of perpetual enchantment. Costumes, there are more than a few unicorns, to be expected, onesies with glittering satin horns, there are witches and devils, garden-gnomes and Christmas Elfs, a new one to me, wearing little glittering eye masks and stuffed upright toques, costumes that compliment the bearded wearer, there are the disturbing latex masks and gorilla suits, disturbing because even through a costume we want some sense of who we're talking to, there's a clever Spy-VS-Spy costume on a leggy blonde, clever but impractical, the mask keeps slipping, there are the home-made and store-bought lycra skeletons, I could go on...
It's cold, raining, wander between the dance-floor and the bonfire, huge, 20 feet across, a circle surrounds it, a tall, elegant woman presides over it, she introduces herself. Manon. She is beautiful, elegant. French Canadian, queen of the fairies, warming her hands she's got skeleton gloves, her concession to costume, never has death looked so fetching, in her own space, quiet and with her own thoughts wrapped about her preserves her regal bearing, her aloofness. There's Lindsey, I know her from another rave, careening all about, to the dance-floor, back to the fire, always at 70 degrees to the ground, she's drunk, I guessed tripping but she denies it, just drunk, she's out of control, others express concern, she gets annoyed, it's only once a week, Saturdays, why can't she get drunk on Saturdays? And I'm her touchstone, safe-zone, she knows me and so circles about on random errands, to the dance-floor, to the fire, into the shadows and again returning, clumsily barging into people and stumbling, checking in with me that everything's OK, then off again. There are the drunk Albertans, you saw their plates in the parking lot, jumping over the bonfire, six-pack or mickey in their hand, trouble waiting to happen, the wrong drug at the best party on earth, they don't get it, something about the Albertan mindset, raves, they advocate for responsible drug use, Alcohol is not a responsible drug. There are elders, older men and women, older than me even, in their 60's, 70's, they console the younger ravers who mixed their weed with too much liquor, or are in the midst of a bad trip, they've been there, they know, and their experience here is shared to good use.
There's no judgement. Well, maybe a bit. Everything's ok but the booze, people don't like that. For good reason, people get drunk, they get into fights, they're assholes, the other drugs, they're not so - well, vicious, but everyone here polices everyone else.
The night passes, and everyone makes their introductions, if you don't know them you probably know of them, 1, maybe 2 degrees of separation, talking you recognize them, one grower, she's introduced herself, describing her situation, and I recognize her, inwardly laugh, I gave her ex a ride, I know her from a very different viewpoint, and there are more, make eye contact, conversation, there's none of the awkwardness that permeates encounters at bars or nightclubs, no expectations or misreading of intentions..
It's a fine evening, cold, rainy, move wood onto the bonfire. Go dance, warm-yourself, chat, repeat.
Soon the light's breaking and time for bed, 6:00 AM and the parties still going, but it's time, time now, the road winds long and longer, cold and raining...my mind is both quiet and brimming...full and silent...remember the fire and Manon, beauty is always an inspiration, especially when it doesn't speak or bend your ear to it's mischief...
End of D&D
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1243
Finally, the sad and necessary end to the this portion of Kootenay adventure. To live here I need to increase my income by a couple of orders of magnitude. Find a different livelihood. A year, maybe 2 in Calgary to wrap up my affairs - see the daughter off to college - empty my locker, reduce my baggage, wrap up countless creative projects and make my plan to return. Finally, after 2 years living on sofas, under bridges, in buses, guesthouses, trailers, dingy staff accommodations, by the side of the highway and off logging cuts, tents and roommates, time again for a place of my own.
The pub, I'll miss it, sort of, some of the people, the more unique characters and nut-jobs that fill the area, some of my co-workers, but this is not why I came here and it's worn it's own rut, time to move on, when I return it'll be to the Valley side, a place, however humble, of my own, but I've a couple years now to plan for that.
Cops just being cops
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Link of the day
- Hits: 785
Cops in America. Cops in Canada. Not so different.
Mel Magazine on the Botham Jean story.
Link: https://melmagazine.com/en-us/story/how-to-kill-a-black-man-twice-in-america-the-botham-jean-story
There is a point where something is so broken it can't be fixed. It's time then to throw it out and start over. We've been there with the police for a while.
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