Mirror monkey

It's funny. Very funny. funny funny funny
its funny because its funny monkeys
funny mirror monkeys
monkeys putting themselves in other
monkeys make more monkeys
more mirrors
The mirrors make monkey demons
of the the mirror monkeys
don't be a mirror monkey demon

I woke up
I woke up
I was a monkey
Stay away from the mirror monkey
Stay inside. STAY!
I woke up a monkey
I woke up a monkey
Mim mim mim mim mim mim mim
Talking monkeys
why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why?
thats why - mirror monkeys

Its funny with the monkeys
The monkeys the monkeys mirror monkeys
the mirrors are bad for the monkeys
they are bad for the monkeys
so the monkey mirror makes monkey doodoo
Don't let the monkey demons in
They're bad for the mirror monkeys

Scary trope

Greetings from my present trope.

The trope I'm sitting in for the present moment is scary but very....airy. It makes me angry but makes my intended course ever clearer. Is there anyone out there who wants to do something? I'm sitting in a very political space, very international, a little Chomsky, a little Orwell, a little cyberpunk with some doubts about how amusingly harmless historicism really is. Can we do anything? I sure as hell hope so. I don't even want to go into detail, I can feel it's substance very clearly and it's even scarier than I previously imagined. If anyone is out there, please help! I need an umbrella! Or a new language at the least.

Planting

I arrived at terminal 2 at approximately 9:30 this morning. Sarah drove me. We each had a Paradiso Medium at Second Cup. My favourite. I thought we should have split a large or extra large to save money. Ah well. I ate a slice of Pepperoni pizza at one of those generic airport deli’s. It cost me $2.75. I noticed that there was an interfaith prayer room just outside the security check-in. I had time so I spent 15 minutes meditating. It was good.
At security they gave me the full rundown. I figure either they received word that I had been alone in the “interfaith” (read: muslim) prayer room, or else my size and youth meant that even a small weapon would be a problem. Maybe they thought I was a test. Whatever it was they scanned my shoes, made me lift my legs, take off my belt, patted me down.
The name of the girl at the WestJet check-in was Emily. She thanked me for doing what I was going to do with a sincerity that baffled me. A good omen I suppose. “The tides are with me” I told myself in my characteristically melodramatic tone. “This was a good choice.
I know this because I do not worry about Sarah. I know we will share love (and fluids) again. As well, the tropes are good. I looked over some books in the Relay store. Some new-age book by Deepak Chopra called “The Meaning of Coincidence” or something like that caught my eye. It featured a compass on its cover. I am wearing a compass. The man at the security check remarked upon my compass with a peculiar enthusiasm for my wearing it. I couldn’t see why it fascinated him to such an extent. It’s rather cheap and plain. The back cover of the book spoke of synchronicity, or future/past symmetry. This symmetry is very real. I took note of the book but instead chose “Tuesdays with Morrie,” which was next to the Chopra book. It was the only book which appealed. I have Montaigne with me but the old-world French was too dense. That’s why I bought Morrie. The first thirty pages brought me to the brink of tears many times. What bowled me over was the following passage in a book I’d hear about but already knew in a strange way. I …. No words.
Here’s the passage:

“ I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year early. To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray sweatshirts and box in a local gym and walk with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke… I seek my identity in toughness – but it is Morrie’s softness that draws me, and because he does not look at me like a kid trying to be something more than I am, I relax.”

We are about to take off. I think to the Tarantino movie, Haraway, Latour, Forbes, Nick Reilly, my parents, Sarah…. “The less one makes declarative statements, the less one has the opportunity to look stupid in retrospect.”
As I am pushed into my seat for takeoff I think fuck it: something good and right is happening. I am becoming. The compass, dogtags and book tell me so. Liftoff J

The time is 2 pm EST. I have just finished Tuesdays with morrie. Didn’t realize it was true. Wow. I was brought to tears too many times to count. I am flying over the Manitoba/Saskatchewan border. I have nothing to say. I will either watch TV o r sleep now.
13:48

I have arrived in Vancouver. BEAUTIFUL! Checked my coat. It’s almost 6 hours till my flight. I figure there’s no harm in a quick stop in to the city for a beer. It’s hotter’n hell and I feel like some kind of alien in my own country. Two surfers at the baggage check couldn’t stop laughing. Kind of annoying but I’d laugh all the time too if I surfed for a living.
I LOVE this place. I only wish I were staying just a wee bit longer. Ah well. Maybe on the way home?
I shoulda brushed my teeth. Blecch!
The air here tastes good, a taste that only a few extra thousand feet could give me. Everyone is happy. I am too. The only cloud that hangs over me is the fact that my stay will be a short one.

14:20

Note 15 minutes

424 – 98 B-Line Berrard

98 B-L Vancouver

Get on Bus at Seymour

You are heading North on Robson

Rush hour is at 4/4:30

14:57

Holy SHIT

I don’t want to leave this place. Ever.
The sun shines in a way that it never does in Toronto or even Hali. The air is clean. There are flowers and trees everywhere. I’ve found a place to love in this Godforsaken country. Everyone looks good and happy. The city’s made for people, not cars.
I’m completely at a loss for words. While I can’t stay long, I wish I could, it’s worth the trip. My god was it worth it. Street vendors set up and sell things.

It’s all good. This is where I belong.

15:34

Wow. The air here is even better than I ever imagined. I tried chasing a bus for a while because it didn’t seem to stop at every stop. I ran full tilt in my new boots for at least a a couple of hundred meters and I notice two things: 1) My breaths need be only shallow and short to be effective. 2) I had to need to catch breath, no soreness, nothing.

Now, 1) may be my dimished condition but 2) is clearly good air. In fact, I need only very small amounts to satisfy my lungs. It is AMAZING.

I (heart) Vancouver.

It’s too bad I’m leaving so soon but I know I will be back soon.

Boot evaluation:

Points of irritation (which will need moleskin)

Right foot: Big toe, baby toe, heel (minor irritation)

Left foot: Big toe (minor), baby toe

15:45

The west coast is the future. It feels new, young, vibrant. Trendy stores pop up so fast you can’t take them all in. Despite the intense commercialization, the city feels more natural, more human than any city I have ever visited.
No narrow, self-reflective European alleys, no sterile arteries moving sour-faced yes-men through dirty streets.
The beautiful Asian girl to my right will be my metaphor for the city. She wears what look like Chanel shades with a Reebok tank. Her purse says Baby Phat and she smiles serenely as she listens to the tunes from her Panasonic MP3/CD player.
She is gorgeous.
And young.
And Quietly confident. Every Eastern bone in my body wants to see, know and touch girls like her any day for the week far more than those boring east coast blondes. (*sigh*)

16:01

One thing I was too caught up in the goodness to mention were the addicts. The other side of Vancouvers is an emaciated, wrinkled old bum with white streaks, splotches, sores and rot all over his body. His right arm was a mess of holes and long-atrophied muscle. He was jittering away the jones dance. He was a good man from the look of his eyes. I saw a man that had accepted his new life to the extent that despite his physical decay and the hunger betrayed by his agitation, he was able to stop, look a friend in the eye and wish them a good day. How many wealthy Torontonians can make the same claim?
When I looked him in the eye and said that I was sorry but would give him no change, he did not give a look of resentment as I h ave grown accustomed to in Halifax but a nod of resigned acceptance and understanding. It may sound odd, but it seemed that in his own way he retained a sense of dignity. He was still a man.

April 27 – Prince George

11:42

I woke up at 6:30 to the sound of Jed knocking on Room 12, looking for Peter. It was 6:30 but I was jetlagged so I wasn’t sleeping.
We went out to Tim’s (Jed, Kovacs, Brian and I) for food and coffee. It was far.
We walked 5-7 km to get shovels and bags. It cost $106.
After we had our stuff, Jed, Brian and Paul (not Peter) troke rocks and flipped our shovels. My feet are protesting the new boots but I Purell’d them up.
On the way home to the Cinderblock Palace (the Queensway Motel,) we met a friend; a skinny little cat which reminded me of Abby for obvious reasons. She didn’t like to be carried but followed us for a while.
She eventually left us for a Bear-man with an RV shortly after we decidedl to name her Nicky and feed her. Slut.
It is a beautiful day, so far the guys are great. Jed is a disillusioned Christian with a good sense of thrift. I hope to learn a thing or two. Paul is great; a theology student with a calm demeanor which puts me at ease and makes me like him instantly. I don’t’ know what to make of Brian. I guess we’ll see. I gotta go. Out.

15:16

Tired. I’m in the P.G. Library. I’m increasingly impressed with this place. The library is nice and relatively new, in fact it reminds me of the Reference Library. Since my last entry I had a corn dog, pepperoni stick, taquito, Nestle shake and an apple before going swimming at the community center. We h it the water slide which was a blast. There was this creepy T-1000 lifeguard who seemed incapable of smiling (I tried,) he just stood there, sour-faced as if he were “at ease” in some sad swimming pool-army. I like these guys more and more and am reallyi pumped to get started. Brian is convinced he’s gonna be good which I know is a mistake but that is fine; it reminds me not to do the same. I can tell I’m in good company. I know that at the end of these three months, I will be reborn. I eagerly await my death. Yummy.

On a side note, every girl here seems hungry for our flesh. I don’t know why, but they stare, smile and flirt. Huh.

Where?

I didn’t want them to go. Why did they have to go? The bite of the coffee shows up on my neural radar. The scars dotting my misshapen knuckles glow pink in face of the monitor. Where oh where have they gone? Being trapped in the sensual/perceptual realm is not a pleasant thing. Closing the door to a world which was once so important. Where did they go? It’s not nice to be a ghost in a long-dead city. It’s not lonely. There are other ghosts. It’s insubstantial. Where did they go? I sometimes try to hunt them down in the corridors of my own twisted cerebellum. Pursuing them as though they were mere thieves. “Stop, that’s mine you’re running off with!” I just don’t’ know what happened to them. What happened to me.
Being an automaton is fun but the opportunities are limited. This is what I feel now. Have I sacrificed them for the pleasure of physical automation. It would seem unlikely. I once strolled serpentine streets in Calcutta, warming my sinuses with the pungent scent of cinnamon and shisha. I watched my father gas the innocent in spite of my protests – some faceless boy in the tides of history. Where have they gone? Where have I gone?
Is it possible, or even likely that the external pressures have forced me inside out? But that is perverse, I should not be so inside out. Or perhaps the weathering of the epidermis has reduced my ability to communicate, to feel. Desperation sets in.
Twenty years old. Twenty. In the same old place I tried to run from so many times. What is the meaning of all this. Nothing. Am I moving too fast or too slow? Will I find myself stumbling, crashing to the ground in an uncoordinated dance of despair or will I simply slog safely behind?
It’s insubstantial. Where did it go? What happened to the sense that something tangible could be created from within my own sanatorium? Where are my keys? Do something. Stop thinking. DO dammit!

History wave-functions

So today I’m thinking maybe Hegel or one of those guys had a point here. I’m talking about histories. Thinking of histories as threads, intricate series of vectors between various human and non-human actors, creating chains of apparent causality within the confines of these actors. A history is established when a pattern emerges in these vectors, a kind of quantum causality – a self-propagating determination working within the possibilities offering the path of least resistance for the maintenance of the pattern. A domino falling in a certain multi-dimensional fashion so as to cause other dominoes to fall in a similar pattern varying within narrow ranges. The story becomes real albeit twisted and monstrous. But sooner or later the pattern trips up. The spinning top – each rotation generated and defined by each previous rotation – starts to wobble. If a new pattern is not initiated during the wobble then a crash and cessation of pattern is inevitable. Chaos or stagnation, whichever is worse.
The pattern encourages one ot only look within its range of present possibilities in relating to actors. This does not mean that the actors themselves are restricted to such a narrow range of relations. New relations must be found within the existing set of givens so as to kickstart the possibility for a new historical progression – a new thread linking it all together. This is difficult. Very difficult.
As one tries to consider the actors and their potentialities one’s view is constantly skewed by the changes wrought by the progress of the current pattern, if one stares hard enough at a set of relations for long enough in hopes of seeing an emerging pattern one is likely to find one’s self lost or alienated by the dimensional distortions which alter one’s perception of the object of observation, rendering it unrecognizable. This can only be overcome by an attempt at ahistoricist observation, by seeking to completely ignore the thread, to start within it – so that one’s vantage point is constant so as to better observe the actors.
The point is to tell a plausible story, one that can coexist within the framework of the present thread while offering greater possibilities for historical progression upon the termination or collapse of the present thread. Think of a wave-function collapse. The possibilities are exhausted and a point is on the horizon. Points are bad. If one creates a sub-wave within the dominant wave function, an eddy in the socio-literal progression of space time and consciousness then there is the possibility that this eddy will expand in cooling down of the present thread. This is our goal.
It is collapsing. There is need for a new history. One can perceive the potentialities but they are so tied up within the present thread that they are not likely to survive it’s collapse as they are presently formulated. They are dialectic, negative, founded upon the limits of the present history. A stand-alone positive history is needed in order to ensure the integrity of the social consciousness. A new history is a difficult thing to erect. Its conditions are as follows:

1) Full accordance and acceptance of the conditions at the termination of the present thread – inclusion of all actors: The new history must be compatible with the present physical and cultural environment, it cannot impose new norms for it has no physical reality with which to exert the energy required in order to effect such change. Cities, mating, individual expression, diversity, whatever exists must be supported or at least acknowledge by such a new history. It must start where the old history ends and merely offer ways to develop from the actors as they are found.
2) Complete divergence in socio-literary substance from previous historical thread. The new history must be new. It cannot rest upon the social foundations of the previous history for then it is merely a continuation of the previous historical thread and will offer no hope for future development but merely a continuation of the inevitable historical stagnation.


With the above two considerations in mind, the development of a new historical thread is clearly a challenge, it must both maintain the stability of the previous thread while answering the questions the previous thread did not explore – it must begin from the place the previous thread ended and yet work in a completely new dimension. Historical dimension is the principle here. Just as there are unexplored possibilities and dimensions within physical space which are defined in their relation to objects and observers, so do such dimensions exist within cultural space. We need to move into new cultural dimensions.
The good news is that alternative histories exist on the fringe of the wave-function and merely need tying together. They are loose bits of cultural quantum foam popping into existence and then being annihilated. We must seek out these bits and tie them to other loose bits that are commensurable in the hopes that out of them a coherent fabric can begin to emerge.
The language is fighting the ideas, but hopefully you can meet me at the front.