whoa insanely long day. hosted 8-2:30, then bussed down to granville island, bought some extremly cheap canvases that i hope to turn into something amazing, maybe a gastown scene...  from Opus walked to loomis to buy some white paint, but ended up absent mindedly buying black paint and a paintbrush.  I didnt realize that I actually wanted to buy white untill i was half up fir on the way to broadway.  its all good cause ive figured out how to save white paint, and use more black.  I must say it was an awkward bus ride with all that junk.  worked in the kitchen form 5 -9 then ended up waiting around 2 hours for a ride. i was to comatose from the insanely long day to care.  delving into the world of psych at a good pace.  right now the power at UBC is out, maybe it will stay like that for tommorow... gotta cancel my health insurance and buy a new book tommorow.

Tente imaginar   part 1

Try to imagine the sweet humidity of a central Costa Rican jungle:

Green, dewy, foliage accented by pinks and purples of jungle orchids.

Try to imagine dipping your foot in the choppy, deep blue Mediterranean, on the end of Gibraltar:

You can feel the heat coming northward off the broad expanse of Africa.

Try to imagine the blues and grays of Reykjavik in November:

The bleak sky, and low black hills are pierced with the oranges and reds of city life.

Try  to imagine the chill in the air at Machu Pichu:

Deep under the wet grass and cold rock lie a golden cache brighter than the Sahara Sun.

Try, for a second, to imagine the scorched Earth at Kursk:

The long grass sways in a wind devoid of change.

Try to imagine the sounds of Havana on a Friday night:

The sky is a neon blue, the palms are black shadows, and the lights and congas of the city spill onto the beach.

Try to imagine the smells of Florence on a Saturday morning:

The inviting smells of bread and pastries emulate from the shops and Casas.

Try to imagine the feel of the Pacific on the Queen Charlotte’s:

The liquid ice draws the breath out of your lungs, as the deep green trees and grey sky wait.

Try to imagine the taste on your lips as you splash in the Dead Sea:

The bitterness of the water complements the buoyancy and the sun keeps glaring.

Try, for a second, to imagine the view sitting atop Turtle Island in Fiji:

The South Pacific sunset turns everything under it into a delightful pastel.

The bongo patterns were still in his head, and being slapped onto Alvin’s leg as he made his way to his second class, English. They were spending the class working out the kinks in the communal understanding of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. They had watched the movie last week when Alvin was fortunate enough to have his glasses. This class was his homeroom, and after the brief synopsis of the part where Biff and Happy come up with a hair-brained idea that “can’t go wrong,” the class shifts to discussion about the walk-a-thon.
Alvin could never understand why they paid to go here, and they had to do more fundraising than any other public school he had heard of. “There must be something worthwhile here, I guess,” he thought before deciding he would figure it out later.
Mrs. Fitzgerald droned on about raising pledges, and Alvin could hear a new rap song drifting out of some bored student’s Discman.
Alvin took after his father and had a love for jazz. Rap was not Alvin’s favorite genre of music. It was not at all racial based, Duke Ellington and Otis Redding were his favorite musicians, it was a substantial dislike of the attitude portrayed. For a country where media is so regulated he thought that most rap music would be crushed. Alvin was not a staunch believer in the illuminati, but he definitely thought that everything, from allocation of money to newspaper headlines was decided by the government. To him rap was a gathering of solecisms on top a beat. The attitudes described were not something that Alvin thought should be idolized in the “greatest nation on Earth…”
Why anybody, let alone impressionable teenagers, would be drawn to a life of illicit crime and burglary if it yielded the so called beautiful women, money and cars that rappers talk way too much about. He thought that most people would know that the cars in most rap videos are rented, but they didn’t.
It made him feel somewhat depressed to see so many little children wearing pants that were five sizes to big and around that many inches lower than they should be. He just figured that they didn’t know that they were imitating the style in prison where belts were not allowed. “People should be embracing freedom, rather than mimicking those who have jeopardized it!” he often remarked to his stoic classmates who would promptly return to their doodling of graffiti tags.
He did like dancehall and reggae which were gathering steam in the popular music market. He admired rappers such as K-OS, Nas, Talib Kweli, The Roots and others who were doing positive things with their music.
The class was dismissed early leaving Alvin with ten extra minutes to enjoy his spare.
He took off to meet one of his classmates, Nate, in the middle of the courtyard. They made their usual hamburger run during this spare. Alvin wouldn’t quite call Nate his friend. Rather than enjoy Nate’s company, Alvin tended to enjoy listening to his peer’s far fetched stories, and impossible get rich schemes.
Alvin left the warm womb of the school corridor and burst into the frigid November air. The sky was still open and blue. It was an empty sunny day. Alvin’s regret of not wearing a sweater deepened he walked through the courtyard.
“What’s up man?” said Nate casually as they high-fived each other.
“Not a whole lot,” replied Alvin, “I’m freezing, and the blimp took the last of my cash.”
“Ha, you had to pay him back for your nerdling game then, eh ese?” said Nate. Nate was roughly one quarter Latin American, which supposedly gave him the license to talk like a Vato. He was not a great student, and the school’s strict disciplinary policies were the only reason he was not truant all the time. Today Nate was wearing a thick green knit took and a green and yellow Super Sonics hoodie. Alvin’s blanched white shirt and silver, grey and black tie made him and Nate polar opposites.
Their mindsets were reflected in their choice of clothing. Alvin’s mindset was quasi conservative. He valued things that have been tried tested and true. He opposed radical change in all areas of his life. He loved routine, and planned to copy his parents and pursue university directly after high school.
Nate was on a little different path of life. If his freestyle rap career did not work out he planned to become a crooked police man… Alvin kept the fact that, Nate’s drug use would probably negate his entrance into the Police Academy, to himself.
Their differences did not prevent them from enjoying the bus ride to the Hamburger Haven one a week on their spare.
They walked to the bus stop chatting about girls and cars; the conversation was centered around ones that they would probably never enjoy. Alvin leaned back against the bus stop pole, while Nate paced around looking slightly constipated, which means he was thinking very hard. It obviously hurt to think. “Oh no!” thought Alvin. He looked around to see if anyone was standing at the bus stop because Nate’s pained look only meant one thing: he was about to break out a freestyle.
“Uh, uh. Yo I’m on lockdown in Locketown. I’m jailed by poverty. My moneys spent, can’t pay my rent, nothing in my pocket but twenty five cent…”
“So how was your religion exam..?” asked Alvin, wanting to stop this sad attempt at rapping.
“It was aiite. What did you think of my flow hombre?” asked Nate.
“It was a sickening, are you retarded? Your dad is a prosecutor for Beckman, Burns and Jefferson, and your mom is VP of finance for Celltropolis Communications. They’re probably the richest parents in the class.” Thought Alvin.
“It was sweet,” Alvin told him, hoping that this would not egg his classmate on.
“Ya, I know. Man I wanna be a cop. You know what I’d do?”
“You’d serve and protect?” remarked Alvin dryly.
“Naw, I’d make a deal with the criminals. I’d make them cut me in and I’d give them a heads up if they came up on the pig’s radar.”
“Well…” said Alvin, wondering how he was going to tell his peer that he was nuts, “it would probably be a decent life, until the police bust you and YOU end up as a COP in JAIL.”
“Yea, good point, I think I’ll work on my free styling then…”
“As long as you practice far away from me,” Alvin prayed to himself.
“Yeah, work with it bro,” he encouraged falsely.
A bus pulled up and with two flashes of bus passes they made their way to the back. The trip down eleven blocks of 71st Avenue was spent in silence. Alvin’s mind lazily swam though many thoughts. He wanted a nice house, nice wife and nice car eventually. What would it take to achieve that kind of life though?
As the upscale houses, sprawling hedges and driveways with fancy German cars with mahogany and smoke glass blurred past the large bus window, Alvin sensed that their beauty ended on the outside. Their living rooms looked like they were never lived in. These houses were houses and that was it. They could not be considered homes. The parents were probably typical “west side” parents who put money before their kids. These parents taught their kids that happiness lay in material possessions. The kids could see it from a young age as their parents would take overtime over time with them. They needed to each their kids how to love life. Alvin’s parents taught him and Cathy this from a young age. They were taken on many hikes, lake trips with the canoe, and weekly trips to the library. As children there outings were novelties. Sunset hikes always ended with trips to a restaurant. Trips to the lake meant mom’s great noodle salad with cucumber, Italian dressing, celery… Library trips as a child were priceless. Alvin can remember the excitement of Tintin and Asterix, which turned into a love of the Hardy boys which matured into a passion for architecture books. As Alvin and Cathy started high school these outings continued, but seemed like a chore. Now, as a somewhat enlightened grade 12 student Alvin appreciated the hikes, lakes and trips to the library. These excursions were responsible for teaching Alvin how to love life. This is what kept Alvin away from drugs. Being able to love the simple pleasures of life was a priceless quality that Alvin so dearly wanted to instill upon his children. He wanted to be just like his dad when he was his age: he wanted to come home from work to a family in a warm house, sit down and talk to them about their day, and enjoy some poetry with some spirits before he went to bed.
“PULL IT!” shouted Nate, who yanked Alvin out of his thoughts. Instinctively Alvin grabbed the buzzer, and made his way down to the hissing doors.
“I’m down for a triple stacker with cheese, for sheeze,” said Nate which roughly meant that he wanted a burger with three patties for sure.
“I’m just going to chill,” said Alvin.
“Come on, I’ll buy you food.”
“Naw, I’ll be fine,” said Alvin over the growing growl of his stomach. As delicious as a soft sesame bun, with chopped purple onions, sizzling patties, mayo, relish, tomatoes and lettuce sounded, he did not want to owe Nate money, ever.
Alvin once read that there were certain tribes in Africa that believed that if a picture was taken of them, they lost their soul, Alvin felt this way in regards to lending people money. He was still unsure if he wanted a credit card or not. On one hand he hated the thought of compounded debt, yet on the other hand, he had always spent his money before he had earned it.
His thoughts wandered back to the fancy cars and exquisite home lining 71st Avenue. While he did want a flashy SUV in ten years, he understood that by then he would probably not even want it anymore. Alvin remembers one particular conversation with his dad, when Alvin would have been around seven years old. Alvin was sitting at the kitchen table drawing himself, and the car he wanted to have in the future (which vaguely resembled the batmobile). His dad came buy and looked at Alvin’s projection of himself and sat down and explained to him how when he was his age he wanted similar things, but sometimes he just had to make do with what he could afford. Alvin understood that the dilapidated Delta 88 was just as good as any Charger or Chevelle, it served the same purpose: a means of transferring from point A to point B. Alvin could now see that money was no replacement for family.
“What are you high?” shouted Nate, pounding his fist down against the table, “I’m almost done my entire meal, and all you’ve done is stare at the cash register, that and drool a bit. Que pasa homes?”
“I dunno,” remarked Alvin frantically wiping his mouth, “I was just thinking of the future, I dunno, where will be in ten years? I hope…”
“Ah, screw the future, Carpe Diem bro,” said Nate showing the extent of his Latin. “You gotta be like that dude in that book about the painting we read ese.”
“Dorian Grey?”
“Si. That guy lived life to the fullest.”
“Not to mention also killing his best friend, and having someone else kill themselves because you made them dispose of the body…”
“Whatever, hedonism is where IT IS at, luck come from seizing the day, chico”
“There’s no such thing as luck buddy. A good life comes out of insight and good habits,” advised Alvin.
“Ok, whatever… tell that to me when I’m living la vida loca as a rapper.”
“Nothing comes out of luck. Do you honestly freaking think that the famous rappers just became famous because they happened to be at a certain place at a certain time?” Alvin argues. “Take Eminem for instance, he took his mixtapes to L.A. It took insight and good habits to decide to make the trip from Detroit to…”
“Eminem? Pshhhhh…” Nate interrupts.
“Forget it,” Alvin counters, “We should probably hit up that bus and get back on lockdown if we don’t want detention.”
“Skip it. Lets just stay on the 71 bus until tha East End, and pay bums a quarter to give us their life stories,” contended Nate.
“Naw man, forget it. I have work after school,” Alvin pointed out. Alvin was a cook at a concession in Hyde Park.
* * *

“Wake up, we’re leaving now, if you can get ready in five minutes we will bus together OKAY?”
All Alvin could think of was how he didn’t want to miss the chance to bus with his sister. “I’m on my way,” he shouted back.
He gathered up his homework which was strewn all over his concrete floor, and grabbed his almost empty pencil case. He decided he could tie his tie during the walk. Alvin grabbed a few chocolate chip cookies and a glass of water before racing down the stairs after his sister. It was a crisp autumn day, and a puffing Alvin realized he should be in his jacket just as he caught up to his sister.
“I heard grade elevens talking about you again. What did I tell you about talking to those morons?” Alvin muttered accusingly.
“What I do is MY business,” Cathy hissed back without looking at him, or breaking her
“Well, It’s my business when you name comes up in cafeteria,” Alvin said, “besides, can’t you find decent boys to hang out with?”
“No boy will ever be good enough in your eyes,” his sister replied, stopping in the middle of the side street intersection. Alvin couldn’t stop to face her.
“She’s right,” he thought, “no one will be good enough for her.”
They continued the final two blocks in silence, and got onto the bus. Cathy promptly sat down at the front of the bus, and Alvin slouched to the back of the bus and sat down. As he stared blankly out of the foggy window, a horrible thought jolted out of his day dream. He realized that he probably didn’t bring his glasses. He checked his pockets, and searched his bag, but he knew that they were next to the computer, where he left them before going to bed. They were scheduled to watch a movie in Spanish class today, but he would have to stare blankly at the bright fuzzy screen and hope they wouldn’t be tested on it.
Life was hard for this grade twelve boy, but it could be a lot harder, he thought as he stared at the bleak walls of the neighborhood public school. Just four years, he had campaigned so hard to go there, but it was to no avail as his parents were resolute to send him to St. Anthony’s, the all boys school for the almost rich boys. He silently whispered a thank you to his parents for not allowing him to be sent to such an institution.
His sister was a year younger, and in his mind, seven years dumber. She was pretty, and he could see why she caught the attention of just about every boy at his school. She was cooler than he was, and he resented that deep down. He wished that he had gone the places she went, when he was her age, but he accepted that he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it.
The ding of the next-stop pulley yanks Alvin from his thoughts and he follows his sister out the back door at the corner of Fort St. and 57th. His sister could walk to her school from there, but he needed one more bus to his.
The chill of the fall wind, made him once again regret not bringing a coat. He waited at the bus stop while luxury cars, and intercity busses impersonally rushed passed him. From the bus stop he could glimpse the tall mirrored office towers of downtown of Lockeville, Oregon exactly fifty-seven blocks and one bridge North of him. He didn’t really know anything about the towns namesake, besides the fact that John Locke thought that the indigenous peoples of the Carolinas should be considered more civilized than the Afro Americans many centuries ago. As to why a distant town on the West Coast should be named after him, Alvin wasn’t too sure.
It was a good town to live in, he thought. There was an east and a west. The east side was poorer and the west side was richer. The same as any west coast city, really. The east was settled first, and deteriorated as the newer west side was built up on the ocean bluffs.
“Goin south?” yells a gruff voice, and Alvin realizes that it is the bus driver. How long has it been sitting there he embarrassingly wonders as he shoves his transfer in the scanner. He shrinks down into an aisle seat blushing, as he absently ties up his tie. The Fourteen block trip is over too soon, and he steps back into the cold, clear day.
He shivers the mere two blocks to his school. The houses in this neighborhood are pompous in his opinion. Relics from an age when the IN thing were crescent driveways with faux gatehouses. They all seemed to be the same shade of creamy beige with brown highlights, and Alvin could glimpse a hint of a deep raspberry dining room in each one.
Finally he arrived at his school, St Anthony’s, his penitentiary for the next seven tedious months. It was a remnant of the mundane architecture of the nineteen seventies. It had three wings embracing a stone courtyard somewhat like the Vatican. All the wings were the same shade of grey concrete, with windows that allowed the fluorescent light to shine out of. It was three stories tall, and the seven deciduous trees overpowered the school. Their big gold leaves complemented the deep blue sky. The middle of the courtyard was marked with a flag pole, which was adorned with the art of Betty Ross.
Today was a good day for Alvin. He had band, English, a break followed by a spare, Phys Ed, lunch and Spanish. Entered his school through the cafeteria entrance, and was deafened by the loud chatter of the many adolescent boys. He made a bee line for the stairs, and headed for locker B27 on the third floor when he heard an unmistakable voice cry out, “Al, where’s my money? Huh, huh?” The speaker was Walter, a plodding boy, a few inches shorter and much wider than Alvin’s five foot ten wire frame.
“Relax, just a minute,” puffed Alvin as he quickened his pace through the crowded cafeteria. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by… anyone really talking to the nerdy Walter Jones. He knew he wasn’t self conscious, but who knows what could happen if a rumor started out that he was chummy with Walter “the walrus.” He owed Walter a few bucks from a PC game he had burnt a few weeks ago.
“Alright, alright,” said Alvin reluctantly. He fished a fiver out of his pocket, and watched the big sausage-like fingers of Walter Jones crinkle it. The peace from this slurry voiced behemoth would be much more delicious than the large slushy, chips and hamburger he had planned to buy during his extended spare.
He avoided everybody else as he made his way to his locker. He grabbed his drum sticks, and somewhat violently stuffed his bag into his locker.
He made his way up to the lonely third floor wing which houses the band room. It was the oldest wing, and the most decaying. It was all musty and everything seemed to be covered with dust. The band director was late as usual, and “Stars and Strips” was mid way to fruition. Everyone unpacked their noisemakers and stood up for the last four words of the anthem. Alvin was an adjunct-drummer, which basically meant that he spent most of the time on the congas and claves. He shared the revered position of drummer with Roy. Roy was what Alvin considered a nerd, and maybe that was why he wasn’t timid with his drumming. His cockiness on the set made him a favorite of the band director who favored loudness over preciseness.
Alvin made himself comfortable on the conga drums, and settled in for some quality day dreaming when the band director, Mr. Solari, burst out with an announcement: “We will now be playing a xmas gig at the Solstice this coming Friday.”
There was a collective groan in the band room. Next Friday was the Christmas dance. The last for the graduating class. They had played the Solstice Hotel for the last three years. It was a musty venue, with a cheesy air. The maroon shag carpets in the lobby always had a knack for causing their music stands to waver, and the brass walls and ceiling made an unfortunate glare on their music. As for an audience, that was a bigger joke than the hotel itself. There were always the few seedy seniors playing chess and puffing on cigars, and to the annoyance of this unfortunate jazz ensemble the potbellied hotel manager from somewhere east of the Baltic refused to turn off the mundane elevator music which was pumped into the lobby through overhead speakers.
A gig was a gig to Mr. Solari and this was as good as a gig at the Glass Swan Hotel and Spa, where it was rumored the manager slipped each band member a twenty after the show.
The way that the band director said Xmas instead of Christmas annoyed Alvin almost as much as the fact that he would miss his final high school Christmas dance.
While the director searched his filing cabinets for the itinerary, chatter broke out in the band room. With his head in his arms on the two congas, Alvin had a chance to hear everything. Across the room he heard the first trumpet tell the second alto sax, how his mom was giving his dad a week cruise to the Mediterranean for his upcoming birthday. This brought a pang of sadness to Alvin’s heart. He remembered this own father’s forty ninth birthday. This was before Alvin’s mom got the teaching job at the local college, and his dad became principal of John Adam’s Elementary. Times were tough back then, but happy. He recalled watching his dad’s face light up with joy as he meekly received his gifts. A can of Dr. Spazz (a distant relative once removed from Dr Pepper) from Cathy, a chocolate bar and two cans of sardines from his wife and a bag of Scottish mints and a pack of Rolo’s from Alvin. Alvin remembered feeling guilty as his dad offered him a mint, since all of his dad’s presents were roughly equal to one of Alvin’s lunches, even in those tight times. Things were better now, name brand products began appearing in the fridge, and the laundry detergent switched to a brand that only took one wash to remove stains. “Okay,” huffed the disgruntled band teacher triumphantly holding up the itinerary for the loathed gig, “stop by my desk after class to pick one up. Open your binders to Birdland, anna one anna two…”
“1 e and a 2 and uh, 1 e and a 4 and…” went Alvin’s hands on the congas as the song picked up.
* * *

Music is the greatest travel agency,
with the click of a remote, i can go anywhere.
i hit play and,
I am taken to the lush green tops of Machu Picchu,
watching an Inca ceremony through the mist.
The latin rymes change to a middle easten fanfare,
and suddenly I find myself sprawled on a sand dune,
squinting at a cloaked caravan creep by.
I glance at the unfogiving sun
and the tablas change to swing drums
and I am holding a ciggarete in a smokey
parisian jazz bar.
just as I come to my senses, the tempo changes
and I am swirled into the uproar of a Liverpool Pub
on a Saturday night.
I spot the Dj, but with the flash of a strobe light,
I am swaying to deep bossa nova,
in a blue-lit silk bar, somewhere south of L.A.
The bossa bass becomes an untuned guitar
and I am now barefoot on a log, at English Bay
watching the sunset.
The dying sun warms my face and I close my eyes.
When I open them I am back at Machu Picchu,
shivering as torches light up, and the sun goes out.
The spanish lulluby fades out and I close my eyes,
awakening into reality.
I contemplate my voyage as jet-lag consumes me.

raspberries

the thin leaves were the tint of grass lit by the four o' clock sun

the yellow brown stems had a whisper of prickles, enough to make their presence known without being obtruse

somehow i knew the sour taste of the green berries

as my dad would instruct, the perfect berry would gently slither off its base at the slightest nudge leaving behind a dimpled off white cone

the color of the ideal berry was a deep merlot

their taste was heavenly, ambrosia in my own backyard

even the best berries were hampered with bugs, gritty seeds and iremovable juices

the raspberry patch was a rectangle along the fence

fishing wire, cedar posts showcased them in an open air box

when i was younger i would take the berries that were the faint red of the lower halfs of the freighters that filled our harbour

I would wrestle them off amid the disaproving eye of my dad and chew the unipe sectors of the off red juicy beehives

riding your bike around Stanley park

you will unconciously do many things

you will pass by: a gun that never fires,

a parody of a famous Australian Statue

and the blue hues of a unique skyline

as you skirt the seawall, you will:

see bikes, sails, gulls and trails

smell pine scented park air

and heavy salt vapour from the sea

flying over the ashphalt you:

pass over a river of salmon

and under a torrent of cars

and you see the biggest stone memorial in Vancouver

The past is dead.

I know because I went to their funeral yesterday.

Thier pamphlet, written on yellow cardstock, is still crumpled in my jacket pocket.

I saw them lowered into their solitary grave admist sobbing, drinking, laughing and smiles.

A woman went out sobbing about that the past is still alive, alive in everything we do, she was obviously drunk. Wasnt she? She must have been.

Was the past still alive?  Was it still reflected in all our actions?

I know it is dead. It was lowered into its hole under the rain.

Everyone had umbrellas, men held women, and children held hands.

People's feet became muddy. A gust of wind seperated the cheap umbrellas from the rest as they turned inside out.

Newspapers flew across the graveyard and a dog howled in the distance.

The grey, wet sky greyed as the casket was lowered.

Prayers and good memories were shared.

The odd man shed a tear [which was quickly assimilated with the raindrops]

Golden sun glinted through the clouds as the last shovel of dirt was thrown on.

Was the past winking back at us? Was it living in a better place now golden and mature?

The pall bearers left, the last crumbs from the finger sandwiches were swallowed, the hearse drove away, people made plans they wouldnt keep, and parents decided to look for a washroom for their kids.

On the way out to the bus stop I paused in front of another tomb stone, the one for people with soft shells.

I didnt get it. I crumpled up the yellow pamphet in my pocket as I left.

i cant wait till the torrents of this sunnyday dissapear
revealing the familiar blue skies of the low-flying clouds
the emptyness which each sunnyday brings
fills me with lonliness, and
the fullness which a greyday brings, has
slipped through my fingers last thursday
it will take a week for that comfort to return to me

boxed in by this empty cloudless day
im lost on the map of the freshly cut grass
i shiver as the sun burns my arms, and
my eyes lose focus in the sea of green grass
the lawn mower blades meet the grass blades
and the its man over nature, as
the lawn succumbs to its noisy hairdresser

actions

some actions can take nothing to say or do
but can mean so much to a very few
in some cases, you can grow up with nothing
and grow up to appreciate the smallest something
i know i grew up with alot more than most,
but when i grow up ill be able to boast
because all my life ive had the notion
that the my dreams are the sky, and my imagination the ocean
ive made my art for me, no matter what anyone has said
i make it to satisfy the images in my head