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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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It was about time, really, the boy, he's never overreached, but the daughter isn't shy.
She's been losing - she's won at Scrabble, until I started enforcing the rules - same for me as her, leveled the playing field, as it were, that wasn't a popular call...
Chess, well, I've never been a great player but with the kids I've taken it for granted I could not pay attention, play sloppy and worse, and recover from the worst of plays.
The daughter's proved otherwise. A few moves in...a few moves, I recognize them after playing them, first a bishop, then a knight, then a queen, all left unguarded, and she's quick to pounce on them. I'm inattentive at best. It's good this, you don't want to beat your kids forever, you want them to be better than you, but still, maybe I have to slow down a bit, pay more attention, up the ante - I don't want to be seen as TOO easy...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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The children are over, it's great to have them, it's Xmas after all...
No presents this year, sorry kids...
They're used to it. But they're over and of course I've got to feed them, from an ever diminishing stash of groceries, - enough, as it were, to last me a week if I ate lean, now enough to last me until tomorrow morning. And no budget to replace them.
The son, sleeping on the living room floor surrounded by unpacked boxes, the daughter just swinging by to check up, games of Scrabble, Chess, conversation...
The conversation, it only ever goes so far. There is the Great Wall: Between parents and children, I am, I fancy, more liberal than most, more truthful, less bullshit, better advice, we can talk about women, men, drugs, still there is that wall, we each draw it around ourselves, me, you, the places we don't share, we need this, but we isolate ourselves...
Breakfast for the boy, bacon, eggs, waffles, I've found the old waffle iron in the locker, the apartment fills with childhood smells, we laugh and reminisce about when I'd make chocolate chip waffles for the kids, only, maybe, they weren't chocolate chips, they were little mouse turds from an old roommate of ours...
An old plate, found in the locker, the boys childhood plate, for me, only 10 years ago, for him, half his life:
8-13, his plate, by assignment, he recognizes it, goes through a few brief moments of remembering...
It's not important, this lack of food thing, I've been here so fucking often before, I need to sort through some of these boxes, find some shit to sell, start the big downsizing, how can I have this much crap? Really? And a 1/4 of it isn't mine, it's the kids, their childhoods I'm hanging on to, even if I manage to empty the locker there will still that stuff that needs to be saved, future heirlooms, I am cautious about throwing their stuff away, because - a mobile childhood saw that mine was discarded, and I'd be curious to see some of my old favorite toys.
The boy and I make a trip to the locker, fill the LadyJeep, a few discoveries, I'll share when I unpack, repack, there are more boxes of photos (sorry Breony, not that box but I'm getting closer), the living room now full, maybe 30 boxes, books, knick-knacks, objects of inspiration, art supplies, time now to sort, sell, donate, repack, repeat.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Down the clickhole of Russel Brand on YouTube. He's bright, clearly, and his mind frequently struggles to keep up with his mouth. And he does a fine job of being outrageous, cheeky, the seducer, the bad boy, and he's damned good company (to watch), throwing his invariably dry hosts on their ass or otherwise upsetting or challenging the situation.
So, click, click, click, and eventually you hit his "TREWS" channel, True News, an oxymoron if ever there was one. A few years since he's started this, he's clearly an awful lot less manic, calmer, he's kind-of doing the Jim Carey, Guru, Comedian come Messiah, the grey beard of wisdom, the 12 steps, they trampled him with the higher power, I don't disagree, I could use his advice at every turn, but - for the layperson, at least, I think , all this newfound enlightenment makes him boring.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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This is as sinister as hell. You can tell who's running the show, and they know it. Who's getting away with Murder? We are, we are...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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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...