2 years ago
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
continuing continuity can conceivably be complex
Continuity, the reason for this blog, has fallen into disrepair.
I tried to promise myself that I would write everyday, an excerpt, a vignette, something. I've done little in 7 days other than gorge myself on cheap wine, cheap cheese and great bread, all wrecking havoc on my anal fissure as fruit has been a lacking dietary priority.
A friend at All You Can Eat blog has provided me with the necessary push in inspiration by attempting, and so far, following through with his own promise of artistic continuity.
Therefor, I have set aside an hour each day, as I wake, to draw upon the experiences of the day past. To either write one short, shitty vignette, draw one terrible left handed atrocity, to be known as a sketch or to record one short piano piece on my two octave nano midi.
All of these will be under the title -Dailies. enjoy.
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Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Adding to the reference library.. Peter David.
I somewhat accidentally picked up another book to add to the reference library, Writing for Comics and Graphic Novels with Peter David.
I was reading a review concerning said book and hopped over to Amazon for a peek inside, then into the cart to see total costs including shipping for the UK. Wasn't paying attention and purchased the bloody thing as I was multi-tab-tasking. Two days later the thud of this book being squeezed through my doors mail slot wakes me from a 4 hour sleep.
Gotta say I'm not disappointed at all. I always fear books like these, that somehow no good information will be imparted and instead feel more patronizing than humbled. Not that I'm above being patronized, but it's just enjoyable on the receiving end.
Two days later I'm buried in a masterfully written reference on very close points that make me feel that I'm on the right track. At the same time he points out the pitfalls comic writers face by avoiding hard truths.
I'm currently carrying this around along with my dog eared script. Big stupid smile across my face. Got my pitch game in tact.
... Read more!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
V¡tne!, off to first draft review.
i've sent off issue one's first draft last night. 24 pages of, 'here goes what little esteem i have'. once i get some feedback, i'll be adding another two heads to the proofreaders list and so on.
i've also began final draft on the synopsis, which will be posted in its convoluted copy written glory. I look forward to its reaction, if any, it'll receive.
On an aside, i came across a great book at the central library today.
[The Storyboard Design Course] by [Giuseppe Cristiano]
very succinct, yet still very informative. kinda the way i like my reference books.
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Today I decided I was a penciler
Today was what you could call, a productive one. I've heard of these in forums and, like a female orgasm to the uninitiated, am confused when they occur.
Frequented the Edinburgh National Galleries and the Central Library where, upon requesting the requirements for a library card, was pleasantly surprised by "Just your name sir". Yes, that's right, no ID. It was like being a kid at the local library back in '88:
8 YEAR OLD ME: CAN I GET A LIBRARY CARD
LIBRARIAN: YOUR BILLY'S BROTHER AREN'T YOU?
8 YEAR OLD ME: YEAH
LIBRARIAN: OF COURSE
(note: in the interest of clarity, I have no brother.)
It gets better. Not only did I not require ID, but the card was also free. Free !?!?!?!?! Needless to say, I was jocund the rest of the day. That's right, jocund.
But I digress.
My excursion beyond the walls of my 400 sq ft. flat was for a brief art study at the galleries, and this, is the result below.
[The apotheosis of St.Jerome..] [Giovanni Battista Pittoni]
[faceless baby]
['Venus' of 'Mars & Venus with Cupid and a Dog' fame][Paolo Caliari]
[A burly man with burly needs]
[protocol]
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Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The world doesn't need another comic book writer.. but I digress.
It's true the world doesn't need another comic book writer. Not one that's mediocre and not one who thinks their different unless they can prove otherwise.
How about one who wants to prove otherwise but has no work to showcase right now? No, don't need them either.
So who am I bringing my style to the game? The answer: A nobody just like everyone who ever started.
I'm excited for two reasons.
1. It came to me, not in a vision, no no, but instead in simple terms. That this medium suits my perspective better than others, that of novel and short story. This statement alone will scare many, that's fine.
Yes, a good writer will tackle each cousin of this tree but what I'm saying is that of all the cousins, I find comic book writing to be the one that makes my heart feel good.
2. The layout, design and organization gives my nagging ocd a hard on.
Yeah, well that doesn't pay the bills nor does it get you a pitch. Heartstrings and trumpets over to the corner, assertiveness and talent other side.
Fair enough, I'll work my way to that end. Call me realistic.
Blasphemy some say, foolishness the others.
Nonetheless.
I've been translating a vignette to script these past few weeks, tentatively titled, V¡tne!. Its vision has mended well with the medium and i've found myself in utter disbelief at how quickly i've attached myself to its mouth.
The synopsis will be kept under wraps until i flesh out the first book, the artist to be desired is a friend of mine here in Edinburgh, a Mr. Paul Scott Canavan.
He's a conceptual artist by trade yet we've found a common ground on the visual appeal to this project. Egon Schiele meets Ashley Wood.
We'll see.
Consider this the rantings of an aspiring comic book writer and his pronouncement.
... Read more!
a critic
I've stepped out of every restaurant.
From elegance to sacrilege and those that require the remedy of murder to cleanse the butcher who calls himself a restauranteur. There are 9 categories and I have walked out of all of them, every kind.
Today is much the same, though the surroundings change and this, truth be told, is what I am after. I don't seek the finest tartar nor gratuity seducing sycophantic service, care not for fresh baked stale or God forbid, Ale. The tangible is only a word, I search instead the perfect atmosphere to relinquish my hurried mind into.
Too many of this and not enough inspiration.
The step I place my girth upon this time is not stone this time but light marble and tile, not terra-cotta but a melange and speckled, like battleship linoleum of the forties. The tile mends the steps to the right and left of its stone railing brother, bringing yellow to the taupe as it meets the centering tiles, scaling like a centipede to the top of a head where I stand flanked by this monstrosity of modern gaelic architecture.
I stand in afternoon light, the sickly kind that fucks the smell of sweet stagnating hops on a Sunday, the same scent that currently lingers behind me, mmm..childhood.
On any given evening I could enjoy this décor, even accept the tenement stench. Today however, I walk out of this restaurant reminded only by the plump barkeep servicing an evening room to tourists. A room that could have tempered the walls with bullshit to prose but instead lays witness to a certain tourist; that with a unique sense of entitlement.
'Open on the end- of morning's hour,
if you crave the drunk-ens sour.
Or postpone well past a dinners quarrel,
to serve well- distinguished myrtle.'
... Read more!
mine delicate wraith
** Unfinished
** Following an older poor women through the streets of Edinburgh, a man tells the tale of what he sees as he does so for 3 hours.
It came from the corner of my eye while I walked to work last Sunday. I had in my right hand the dedication of a four year BA tangibly formed into the weakest coffee my tongue could fondle.
Standing amidst irritated passerby's by my slow going waltz, I tried to comprehend the exchange I’d just had when in shaking my head, turned upward to notice the subject of this story. The shell of a person is easier to notice, much easier to distinguish through the melee of fabricated here-says and second skins than most other forms of broken spirit.
I believe anyhow.
At 2 o'clock to my facing north she crossed the street on a vertical, ignored the rules of engagement and somehow, though I have never seen British cars stop for more than strollers and even then, managed them to cease their cacophony; like a modern day fem-Christ.
It felt, even from where I stood half a block away, that the weight of every sin must have laid into those shoulders, a walking sacrifice for all to see. It was obvious in how she held every single moment she had ever shared in each step while crossing the street. It was almost beautiful.
--
Propped in her bones she looked 50 some odd years, the face though awful hard spoke female, caucasian with a gypsy frame. Her girth told the possibility of childbirth which lead me to imagine that she had lost it somehow, dis-ownership, abuse or good ‘ol fashioned abortion, though its not the worst thing you know.
She wore layered frocks, not tattered but what you would imagine a 17th c. pauper to wear like armor. Her skirt moving above bare ankles only when they shifted, revealing thick bunched socks encased in heavy boot, lifting each in succession towards something, or nothing simultaneously.
If anyone around had taken notice of her they wouldn't have seen a destination. It reminded me of a friend who commented, “There’s something to say about a man who walks with purpose, that gives him soul.” This after he had finally found work after nearly 9 months of collecting the dole.
This situation differed.
I’ve seen most kinds of despondency try to sell itself. Gypsies, poor bastards and their dogs, charities for children, even charities by children for children with child-only-diseases paint the windows to the soul with ash covered melancholy. But this women made the memory of my own sorrow seem pale and anemic.
I have no idea what had eaten the human being that stood parallel to me, to steal her footing, to gnaw her bones to the spirit most of us agree exists. All I know is that it must have been a once gallant stroll for it to show through the wraith of a woman that now held it, and I say it showed else I shouldn’t have noticed it.
Watching her body motion southward had me become aware that my own walk was far too deliberate for its destination, I slowed, I stared like a crow to a mouse. I released my tension because she had none.
I looked at my watch. It was six minutes to the hour. I looked towards my work then back at her still focused on the same speed, still one foot over the other, still a shade. It felt as if no one else saw her, as if she was mine alone.
Before she arrived at the next corner to once again question the need for traffic lights, I started to follow.
Chapter 2
I threw the coffee into the bin, I no longer felt angry at its stale flavoring but a little sad that the guy who served me couldn’t make a good cup of coffee despite 4 years of academic prowess. It’s like learning to shoot without bullets and when the time comes to do so, you haven’t been prepared for the kickback. You’ve wasted all this time not learning the fundamentals is what I mean.
We sauntered down Castle st. where she turned east towards Waverley. I knew I was staring, locked so as to see more of this accidental story she exuded, any goal I may have had had not yet been established, right now it was just important that I kept track of her, until she moved out of the crowds.
We passed a fellow to our left smoking dejectedly, a cup too small for the change he was silently requesting sat off to the side of his feet. He looked as if wishing the asphalt were a mirror so he could agree with someone else with the self-assessment his mind had conjured. He sat in his mid-twenties, a checkered t and loose jeans, his hair gelled and his posture weak. I would never become friends with this individual I thought to myself.
He felt weak, obsessed with consumption, he looked, for all intensive purposes stupid and I had no pity for his minor qualms even though they could be of varying enormity. For all I cared, he and his girlfriend could find others means by which to collect 40 quid for the abortion.
But as soon as I thought this, I recoiled. Not because of some deep seeded sense of morality, I didn’t feel bad for my thoughts or him. I thought, what if I’m right and he is panning for abortion monies. I stopped, quickly glancing ahead to make sure my specter was in place, looked at buddy who couldn’t even be bother to look up at a stranger who was feeding his dreams with pence.
Throwing 60p into his tiny fucking cup I muttered, “713 Ashcroft, corner to Minto”, the address to the cities only abortion clinic and kept moving.
I leaped back into the crowds queue forward and spotted my girl, I needn’t walk fast and she stood out well enough but it was her face I wanted to see again. The back of her vale had already told me its story.
It was dark grey covering another mahogany colored hood beneath it.
** unfinished
... Read more!
Two paragraphs concerning the penis., et al.
Two paragraphs concerning the penis
A flaccid fingered instrument operating much like a gauge for water pressure, the monitoring of this geyser lacks precision in its youth, needing guidance, aims for accuracy during mid-life and finally garners a stained apathy in its elder-hood.
Best held with a firm grasp, the tubes purpose doubles as a central ‘off’ button which can be ‘pushed’ by slapping it hard. Mine serves a second service as I hold it in my good hand, the right, and with my thumb on the base of the head and forefinger underneath, bend to make my puppet dance.
A paragraph concerning the penis [sexual]
A flaccid fingered instrument operating much like a divining rod, the male penis spends much of its youth searching to bury itself in the soft mound of pubescent earth. This stage does not yield but resembles the throws of rejection benzodiazepine addiction can induce upon its victims, ending with the hapless, shrinking retreat of curling into itself; sickness all over its thread.
A sentence concerning the penis [psycho-analysis]
Form and firmness are tantamount to its place amongst the herd, though the Armenians prefer to venture into tangible proof of this via the fighting style [...], it is unfortunately not practiced by many outside the culture.v
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The Untitled Belgium
unfinished...
I arrive at the airport without much thought.
It’s necessary that I don’t think, that I relinquish control and responsibility like the good Catholic I am not, this so that I can maintain composure to the upcoming and inevitable fear of my flight. I am headed to Belgium and it will not come quietly, not without stress.
The motions come easy. I try ignore the ticket desk and her check in. The girl serving me is just that, a girl, times are tough for those over forty I think. Questions come answered with instinct, no chit chat, I’m unsure if this pleases me but I survive the incongruity. At security, like a good citizen, I do pay attention, searching with my good eye closed for an untrustworthy face; then, when finding none, back again[I return] to ignoring the process of my departure.
I place within myself a sense of calm by false association, a game I play when needing to remove myself from a situation, much like a game of this is not rape.
I am the everyday traveller and this is just a part of my job.
Fear is the upcoming presentation, that prick Johnson at the office; cocky son of a bitch, Joanne my secretary sucking my prick with teeth exposed, I am annoyed at the inconvenience of this call out of town business. To supplement my self preservations attitude, I will adopt a sense of apathy, cross my legs, read the paper and order a scotch without looking up at the help. I am a busy man after all. This flight is my bitch but not quite.
This I convince myself while sitting aboard the abominating union of advancement & nature, let the pilot worry I say too many times, but as we rise and level off, I feel little fear.
Fuck I’m a good bullshitter.
My fear of flying can be explained quite easily in one sentence: I believe myself important enough to live. Not to anyone else, no, I’m not that self involved but to myself instead rather.
How selfish of me.
Who the fuck am I? I am a nobody I tell those with a chip on their shoulder, to help alleviate the thick air that sometimes manifests in debate. I place myself on their petty level to bring about a sense of tribe, of community. I loathe those I need coddle to serve a greater purpose, that of shifting the balance of stupidity amongst the layman. Losing battle that is.
Flying however, has me believing otherwise, that somehow I am worth my existence’s weight in gold, of which I am not only enthralled by but dually invested in. I’ve cultivated if you will, a deeper sense of its meaning. How typical of the living.
My death would serve no purpose I will say. Save to fulfill the balance & cycle of life, the less incongruous part of myself will rebuke.
I am a self involved man because all I have is my own life, a dangerous singularity by itself. A rather pathetic reason for existing if not for the large learning curve we are alloted at the onset of our conscientiousness.. the early 20’s.
I become most apologetic & retrospective in flight. I changed man.
...unfinished
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truth without numbers
"Wrapping my misgivings in a character allows me more grace to shoot from the hip, so to speak". He said this as he pulled a cheap cigar from his inside pocket. I say cheap because the paper wrapping had an advert on it, 'Seymours Car Diner': 241 Montgomery Road' .
Carl had a terrible ad on television, the kind filled with obvious family members and the obligatory hot niece and stupid uncle. Classy, you know. Made you want to take your grandmother in the hopes she would either choke on the salad or set off a diabetic attack due to the lemon pie she'd 'earned' due to her walking a quarter mile that week. Just give me my fucking inheritance.
1976 was an awful year and Milford Tajeadn, an Armenian no one had heard about, had written his peace of mind on the subject with the clarity of a sage, or if in Cleveland, a dope addict and I ain't talking green smoke either but rather black opium.
'Gracious be the poppy growers', the Asians must be praying every chopstick rice-ridden meal they ate by the docks.
But I digress. I do that.
I was tasked by the daily financially deprecated newspaper that is The Herald, to write a piece on Milton, the whole ‘What makes him tick?’ none sense. Bullshits a better word, but I’m trying to clean up my vocabulary.
We decided to meet in the Park by Simpsons department store where we currently sat and where, dear Mr.Tajeadn, a seventy-four year old with a prick meets sardonic wit was explaining to me how his characters transcend the Pinnochio syndrome, that of bringing them to life so fully and seemingly, so effortlessly.
My editor, a rotund piece of garbage named Olafmann said Milton’s gift was part Jew, his mothers side, and all connection. Olafmann was as classy as Carls commercial but without the underaged hot niece.
“I don’t write with any hard ideas in mind, the contrived nature of this craft should be left to the romance novelists shilling to add another bathroom to their cottages. My domicile has one shitter and two rooms, if I need another shitter I’ll kick the wife out and convert the living room.” He wasn’t kidding either.
His wife, Margerette, was a tall Dutch he had met while serving in the Armenian military as a stout 18 year old. She was a prostitute who hovered the local bar, yeah I said prostitute, and he had a spare four dollar in his pocket. He joked that, “Had the military hired Jews to run the numbers rather than crouts, I would have only had enough for blowjob from the fat girls. No Margerette.”
So Milton buys himself a drink, double cause he’s rich and tells the barkeep he wants the works from the nicest blonde they got. Barkeep calls Margerette over and voila! best arranged marriage story ever except it gets better.
M&M go upstairs, I call them that, do what they do, pay the four dollars and Tajaedn heads back to the barracks for his next run at trying to survive frontline only to return two months later to a, yup, you guessed it, knocked up prostitute. So Milton, the non-practicing good Jew he is, marries Margerette so as not to offend his mothers dignity or face at the synagogue. I’ve heard of Christian guilt, but Judaism guilt? Never before.
What you ask, was a Dutch doing in Armenia and better still, how do we know it was Milton’s kid stoking the the Dutche’s oven? I haven’t a fucking clue.. shit sorry, I haven’t a clue. Milton never spoke of it save to say his wife miscarried a month after the civil ceremony.
So why did he stay married to a prostitute. He allured to that answer as well in simple Milton fashion, “Free pussy from a vending machine?!” He looked at me perplexed. Classy.
Milton had, by all accounts, a typical war riddled upbringing. Once you've sat through several of these tear inducing, hearth wrenching to sometimes heart warming stories, you've heard most all of them. The enemies are always interchangeable, be it Nazis to Gooks or Russians to Columbians. Go ahead try it, grab any story set during any given war and replace all instances of race and military with that of your choice.. bam! different story, same shit.
The aggressors are all the same, the heroes as well. Hell, if you exchange the two you’re just reading their History books. You think the Reds would write a book calling out their failures?
“So why write a story about 1976?” I ask him looking down at a blank sheet of paper. I ain’t got no notes, I don’t believe in them.
“It’s a nice round number.”
“It’s a nice round number?”
“Yeah, I figured I should consider the marketing aspect. If I ain’t writing garbage like those fucking pseudo-smut novelists, I gotta find a way to catch the eye of the common reader. 1976. big white letters. Catches the eye doesn’t it?.” He says this as he holds a copy of the book up against the sky, either inspecting it or reveling in his genius I cannot tell.
“So you decided on the common theme of your book based on a marketing ploy?”
“Ploy sounds I should be rubbing my hands together with glee. I wrote a story concerning a theme that no matter what year you placed it in, whether it be today, September 4th 1976 or December 19th 1945, would resonate with thinkers. I can preach to the converted and I can try and reach another demographic as I do so. Maybe line the pocket book too.”
He was right. Hell it was my god damn philosophy.. dammit, sorry. We shared a philosophy.
This made me like Milton.
Maybe it was the idea that something interesting and good could come of a fluke occurrence like my being assigned Milton Tajaedn as a story, that indeed it had nothing to do with the stars, with fate. That life was random and this was one of those events that gave an opportunity at friendship or a door to learn by, but I felt good that day. I felt warm that there wasn’t a deep seeded plan, that I wouldn’t miss the party just because I couldn’t follow orders without asking. That I wouldn’t suffer in some archaic hell due to ignorance, willful or other.
I was smiling and so was Milton.
... Read more!
Sunday
Fall has begun its decent on Scotland earlier than expected for us. Mid-August summer gave up a meager fight, where it’s entrails of green once patched the city, the bright colors of flora death can no longer be missed.
The early afternoon of a Sunday tricks you into a false comfort, warmth, almost due to the vehicular exhaust rather than the sun. It envelopes you but not like smog, cleaner, lighter even. By five the winds come in, they bring the same determined chill, changed only by the absence of drizzling water.
Everyday after work, I wish I had brought my jacket, more-so for the comfort of its size, as I sneak my body in like a non-existent, urban-fall turtle.
On this specific Sunday a Canadian Thanksgiving in Scotland has just come to pass. The company of nine guests included each of one Greek, Indian & British born, leaving seven Canadians to introduce the holiday and its gathering of family and friends as a gracious enemy to the bulimic.
In the ranks of said company stood three unique strangers.
The first was of British decent.
Having served as a nurse to paramilitary operations in Burma. She spoke of her given name being synonymous with the strict medical background of an Oxford education and the compassionate nature by which she would slip the dyings wishes between her legs, where they would pass without sufferings on their mind.
Hers was a gift where syphilis need not apply to the deads set of concerns.
The second was a Navy boy.
Serving three years within ranks one rung higher than cannon fodder, his OCD had never found a better home he would tell, lament on the tip of his tongue at home now being a traveled brigade.
In his second year of service the color major to his regiment called him into office. With grand fashion he spoke of the boy’s direction, the ambition he exemplified: The Navy spirit as it were.
He spoke of his own past, mirroring the boys own, stood solemn & proud as he faced him, told of his twenty some odd years in service. Smiled. He made the boy feel in his heart of hearts that he was on one of life's proper tracks, that is until the color major pulled a gun from his holster and shot himself upwards through the left cheek.
The last thing he told the boy was never to stay loyal to just one cause, an enigma awaited those who searched. Bang!
The boy has been traveling since. He’s just come back from S.Korea. He fucking hated it.
The third of the unique lay in the body of a light strawberry ginger, light milk in appearance, light effect in breasts.
She darted eyes to and from hosts then company, seeking to break solitudes from her tired searching fingers. She moved her skirt below her navel and found gazes in men that told her who she could place hurried interest in. She was only here for two more days.
We left without a suitable candidate writing scattered directions to their flat. She will sleep in her cot made for one again this evening, her fingers finding solitude again.
Thanksgiving had ended.
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bare with me as i update the coffers
Patience non existing reader, I'm update the bloggies with my plethora of loose leaf genius.. bare with me as I update the coffers.
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Thursday, August 27, 2009
One legged pigeons (the great unwashed)
I stood at Waverley Station yesterday taking in the hectic atmosphere of curtailed reunions from a precipice that allowed me such advantage.
I love the hybrid nature of architecture many European stations are created with. The amalgamation of people flocking to and from while everything around them whirls in synchronized bliss, all this as the sun tries to beat through frosted ceilings casting temporary shadows and temporary dials of light a strewn on threaded floors of both marble and stone.
This is a source of calm for me. The manic murmur is not directed at me thereby negating all rules my body signals as stress, and as no one is singled out, we are all subject to the interactions of this surrounding.
We become equal.
This is my 21st century meditation, holding the same limitations as its name presents, temporal. The effect is tantamount to the ability to remove yourself from any given situation and find peace in proper tranquility. I say proper as in the natural state of calm we accept as given, nothingness.
My escarpment is a walking bridge on what would be the second floor if it was not just a passageway, its rails are decorated by dark green colored patterns standing out, and adding to, the decorative allure of an older station by definition of its art nouveau styling.
In front of me, the electronic time boards now silently change where they once clicked slightly off from the next destination until a wash of clicking and clacking took over the air and overtook the stations buzz of indecipherable words, all was suddenly quiet in the clattering of the timetables chime. I believe Rome's Central Station still has theres. It would be worth the travel to hear the silencing of cacophony through cacophony.
My floor is currently marble, once I get to the platforms it will be stone and the feeling, despite my insular shoes and without regard to temperature, will change.
I decided after looking at the time board that I wanted to be underneath them, the colors and amount of sun were just right for whatever experience I was searching for. There was no need for analytical thinking, It was moments like these that I seeked, where I was lead by emotion without opening my mouth. A natural emotive response.
Making my way through the only intersection of the walking bridge I kept to my right as I am supposed to. Veering to your left would lead you into oncoming traffic to which you had no respite. The vindictiveness of those trying very hard NOT to avoid you could ruin any semblance of tranquility you may have. I follow this rule to preserve my state of mind, it is after all my reverie I am seeking.
Following a second left turn I walk down the stairs at a pace quicker than I would like but not wise to attempt, I am after all within the blood flow of a beast I am foreign to. I can keep up. I observe and store this sequence of events as I do so.
At the bottom of the steps, stretching to the far end of the stations walls is a hall flanked by shops whose roofs do not reach to the ceilings, merely rising like a vaulted ceiling. The shops contain your quintessential sandwich fronts, a book store and express versions of larger establishments like M&S. The feeling this strip of mercantilism gave was a little darker than my timetable destination, perhaps due to the sun, it would serve as a port of call another time.
To the left, the stairs gave way to a platform and included its underbelly as part of this. Accumulated personages gave this away.
It took 37 steps to detail from the corner of my eye, the right side and store lined rampart that sat beneath the walkway. It faced the open aired square as it was beaten by the effulgent light of both robust and lissome nature that spilled over to the gathering audience who seemed as if paying homage to the silent timetable.
Their own silent upwards gaze could be misconstrued, if you were a romantic, as hundreds of plebeians waiting for the clickity-clack chime of father time. It was like a pilgrimage as I came to the foot and centered court of my stopping place. I did not look up when I arrived, instead I faced down at the marble floor absolutely fascinated by what I saw.
There hobbled before me, a one legged pigeon.
It held within it a grace I have never seen in a flying rat before. I could not tell if its stub, which took the place of his left foot, was cauterized from a womb long past or if it was born with the disability. What I gathered in my rubbernecking, were more question than answers. Not only did it bob front to back as pigeons do but it also had a slight wobble that lurched it to the left every time it did. It was cruelly put, fucking adorable. Completely taken, I ignored the passerby's suddenly faced with an insubordinate.
I felt humbled by the life of this wretched little creature. Lets face it, the life of a pigeon can not be a glamorous one. Born into filth, and left to fight for itself more often than not within scrounging cities amongst others of its kind, pigeondom has always mimicked human society at its worst. Its only saving grace being that it could fly away if it had the capacity to dream of greener pastures.
This little guy was forced to adapt to an even greater degree. There was something sweet about that, that he was somehow stronger, wiser than the others who pecked the ground around him, ignoring a king amongst pigeons. His demeanor did not give off an air of cockiness, if pigeons can even give off this characteristic. I swear to you his demeanor gave off a self-effacing, simple existence. So much so, that I would have gathered him into my hands and brought it home where I would have bathed it, washed it with fine oils and clothed him if only I knew it wouldn't have broken skin with a peck, sending me to the hospital for a rabies shot. The little fucker.
Humble or not, peck me and I'll evoke the experimental ten year old inside us all. You know, like that neighbor you had back in grade 5 when your parents moved to fort Francis for a year because Dad got transferred. You never really knew why you had to move but you had your ideas, but nothing would prepare you for the day, when at 19, still idealistic and young, you found out it was Dad's infidelity that sent you to that hell hole.
It all made sense now. The hushed, whispered fights, the loud make up sex and mom stabbing dad 'accidentally' on the first day of Lent screaming, "Why don't you give up red headed whores Walter, I gave up my dignity." <insert stab here>
This pigeon showed more pride in his stubbly walk than I could say for most men I've come across, and if that statement makes me look poor its only because I am not blessed with a sycophantic entourage to watch my every word.
I had found my destination for the day, it wasn't the center court or its timekeeper tenant. A one legged pigeon made my day, as he hobbled, hobbled away.
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Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Polish Sausage House
The adventure of a new city, where walking to the corner store can yield the results of a child like perspective, are bittersweet events.
New colors and packaging, names and logos of all sorts for what would usually be mundane products, now come to life in a sparkling new glory. And all at once your bombarded with sensory overload, looking like a loon trying to understand local colloquialisms like kitchen porter which is just a fancy name for a dishpig.
An example being last week as I stood in awe at the 14p can of beans whilst in Tesco.
This was a can of beans with a logo that had more than 2 colors on it, one of which did not entirely cover the can with its sickly blue. The can wasn't even dented! I was confused, giddy, even paranoid that someone else might see these very beans and take my joy away. I advanced on them, looked to right and left as quickly as I could and in one fell swoop like a majestic foreigner, grabbed the can.
I was- victorious.
Mind you there are times when my nonsensical interaction with cleaning product and canned food are interrupted by humans, this begets a new set of rules and requires thinking on ones toes.
Case in point, the Polish sausage house.
Yesterday I went to a lovely little Polish shop I pass from time to time. I thought to myself, tonight would be a good night to leave Edinburgh vicariously through a keilbasa. I would close my eyes and imagine I was elsewhere while I polished off the peppered Polish pork with a pleasant performance of palette pneumatics.
I entered the store front and was greated by inanimate joys from left to right, shit I couldn't pronounce, shit that was dead and shit that was cheap. I was loving it.
I wondered around, observing and touching everything but the open aired bread, that would just be fucked up. I just imagine chlamyidia fingers back at the mall, 'waz iz dis ai see 'ere, is dis braid. is all funnay looki'n. Jeezus turned into braid, did yu know that?'. So I do the next person a favour and opt out of turning the showcase bread into a touch museum. I'll keep my bacterium to myself until I shake your hand, you do the same.
As these and other thoughts concerning alternative uses for topical creams rushed me like a river I came to the back of the shop, and while bringing my head up to help guide my direction into the next aisle, I made an uncertain amount of eye contact with an individual standing at the back door. I say uncertain because I did not know if the interim was less or more than what was needed for me to 'politely' turn away. I felt locked, wonderfully awkward.
She was shocked, bothered that I had stumbled across her hidden keilbasa stash or something to the equivalent. She actually gave me a dirty look, this fucked me up. Still locked in gaze, I was officially unsure of the next move, now more concerned with frightening the mare that stood 7 feet away, for fear she might charge. The Polish are resilient folk you know.
Between mountain lions and a mob of Polish kurwa, I would choose the mountain lion.
So there I stood, feeling like I'd caught her stroking her own kielbasa when we decide to break the ice simultaneously. Me with a kurt, 'hello', and she by rushing passed me without so much as a kurt hello! I felt cheated, like I deserved an explanation. Why did I feel awkward here? I'm the customer, the foreign kind that asks how to pronounce everything in your language, thinking I'm being worldly and polite when truly your thinking, 'fucking stupid american', despite the fact that you know I'm Canadian. We all sound alike.
I still bought her sausage with some bread and cheese, it was fantastic. But that moment we shared, that will haunt me forever.
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Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I am a peeping tom but only in UK changing rooms
As we perused, much like we are want to do, I noticed a girl standing by the changing rooms fixated to a mirror and giving the kind of attention to her forwhead it seemed other parts of her anatomy did not receive often. How you ask, could I know this simply by looking at her?
Mostly due to the fact that she was ugly.
She was trying to put her eyebrow ring back into its hole. I found this to be a little disgusting but not by much, not until we approached the changing rooms with clothing to try and she, it turns out, is the help.
Now I'm disgusted, only because I don't want to touch her clammy little hands and its accompanying forehead puss, agreed?
Jack proceeds to enter the changing room while I assume the typical male posture of slightly interested in my surroundings but truly I'm just checking out the manikin's bust.
After a short period Jack emerges and decides the size she has on is too small, would I fetch a size up for her? Of course. I dutifully do as I am told, secretly enjoying that I can outfit my wife in whatever attire I deem sexy. A man should know his advantages.
I gather the required garment and proceed into the changing room where I am stopped by chlamydia fingers and told that I could not enter the changing hall. ??.
I stare at her blankly waiting for an explanation, none. This one's gonna be a pregnant teen statistic, you can just smell the lack of achievement on her. I retort irritated, 'Are we in the 21st century?'.
No reply. Shit, shouldn't have thrown numbers at her, its all confused now.
So I dumb it down.
'Why not'? I ask.
'It's UK law', she replies smiling.
I find that in my old age, the older I get that is, I find acceptance in the lack of words that describe my disillusion. Much like a man who understands his limits, knows when he faces greater odds than can justify the sacrifice. The man who is wise enough to just turn and walk away is the brother of the man I am becoming, I get snarky.
I sigh a 21 century acceptance. 'mmmm..', I muster.
I pass her the garment and tell her to give it to my wife. She does without apprehension or thought. She'll make a good unwilling concubine to a bastard child one day.
As Jack finishes this now un-enjoyable endeavor thanks to succubus of chlamydia over there, not even an accidental manikin nipple could make me smile. But I am then once again brought to my knees in 'what the fuck!' when as we approach the counter, who is on the phone shoving her thumb nail down into her throat trying to scratch out what I can only imagine is last nights semen fiesta but the fucking manager. While talking on the phone. While looking at us from the corner of her eye.
I hand over my debit card making a mental note to use the hand sanitizer I have in my bag after our transaction. Looking down to key in my pin I suddenly stand in awe. I look at what must be the dirtiest, darkest, overused number pad in all of Great Britain.
I've since sanitized my card.
I've since resigned at human faith.
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A stick that breaks up shit.. not a plunger.
It is the retarded cousin of toilets from around the world. The one who lives in a trailer on the edge of Tornado Valley.
Before I begin I must tell you that the toilet itself is so far off the cuff, that it has been designated a completely separate room from the rest of a conventional washroom. The bathtub, shower and sink, are in another room entirely.
Why you may ask?
I haven't a fucking clue... to make you talk. But it sure does add to the allure and romance when drunk and stumbling through the dark corridors of your apartment.
Now that we have a broader picture as to the dysfunction within our toilets family, let us delve into the psychosis of the toilet itself.
The toilet has a wide mouth, with which one would think can contain and swallow even the fiercest of shits.. Haggis shits.
It does no such thing.
It's just for looks and what's bloody amazing is that the plungers available, those that I have seen, have a smaller circumference than the mouth of the toilets itself, proving that you can't fuck with geometry. It is not a plunger but a stick that breaks up your shit.
Now if this were not enough, we also have what at first seems to be an attempt at water conservation.
That the toilet cannot be flushed twice within 4 minutes is a Scottish riddle. That is correct, flush once... wait. Just had a big shit, need to flush twice.. sorry, you have to wait.
Like that cocksucker bouncer at the bar, this toilet makes you wait, but even better, it makes you look at your shit while it insults you.
Now that we've established the inferiority of Scottish toilets to that of even Southern India shit pits, I wish to show you the sink your grandparents used as children.
Not only is the sink an antiquated albatross but the shower, a failed attempt at 21st century technology.
You may notice 4 settings on the left, they are meant to provide you with the false hope of pressure settings. To the far right are the temperature settings which, if set to maximum create a unique hybrid of hot and cold in turn. It's much like an epic battle between good and evil where your shriveling nuts are the prize to be won.
That is all.
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Edinburgh
We decided Scotland because in all fairness, we couldn't afford London, therefor we picked the second most expensive city in the UK. Had we no budgetary sense, Edinburgh wouldn't be blessed with our stumbling avoidance of speeding lothian buses.
We interwebbed our way into knowledge where history and the landscape of D&D played a significantly nerdy role in choosing Scotland. The highlands and its unadulterated avoidance of consonants made for a unique blend of oxymoron's, that of foreign English culture and that I, wanted to ride a fucking dragon.
The choice for Edinburgh as opposed to lets say, any other British colonial setting was partly due to our naivety of the British Isle. We didn't have a lot of friends, so we didn't have a lot of informed options.
Somehow we felt a larger city would be of benefit, considering work as a need and not an option meant we favored greater odds in larger populations to help in our begging of menial payed tasks. So a larger city rather than geological preference set the tone for Edinburgh.
You may ask, what about Glasgow? Well, simply put, the wife & I were blessed by A&E Programing some 9 months ago with a documentary on the roaming violent gangs of Glasgow. You may think, 'But you've placed your assumptions on the fine content that is A&E, what if you were wrong?'. If we were wrong, we were a 1 hour choo choo ride away from another major city. 1 hour. This is something Canadian cities have no concept of, like that one girlfriend you had some years back and her definition of monogamy. no clue.
If we were right and still moved there, well then a good old fashioned Glaswegian beating certainly wouldn't have stirred in me the words, 'well at least i was right'. I'm not a sadist by nature you see. I kid, I kid. I like a little biting.
Now you say, 'but chopchop, Glasgow has a great music scene', and you would be right. But there's a fucking castle here.
Our arrival to Edinburgh was marred with the kind of fatigue that affords us the title of properly wonky. We hadn't slept in 29 hrs, the schedule was as follows:
Wake up at 10:00|EST
DEP OTT JUL28 1300
ARR WAS 1630|EST
DEP WAS 18:30
ARR LON 0720|GMT JUL29(0220|EST) - (16.5 hrs)
DEP LON 1300 ARR EDI 1730GMT - (28.5 hrs)
Sleep at 2200|GMT - (33 hrs)
I'm sure others have done worse/ more, but this was still a minor script with 5 time zones, 2 days, 3 countries and 29 hrs later.
Edinburgh's first impression on me was that of a city rushing to get, I don't know where the fuck, but doing it quickly. What baffled me is that the city only has 500k within its limits, albeit within 100.00 sq mi (259 km2)[1]. By comparison, Saskatoon is half the area 144 km2 (55.6 sq mi) and half the population at 202,340.[2]
If you've ever been to Saskatoon you know it isn't the hustle and bustle kind, so why does Edinburgh follow the rule of New York? I would venture to say its the same reason there is no right of way for pedestrians, good 'ol fashioned 'just cause'.
There is that and the fact that we came at the beginning of Edinburgh's festival season. Three weeks of tourists, Scottish tourists, English tourists, Scandinavian tourists. They come with stars in their eyes, wanting to see the greatest in low costs theater and share in the maddening walk that is the tourist lurch. Walk..Slow down a littl..STOP! Walk..Slow down a lit.. STOP!
It is also compulsory to stare up at nothing in particular and everything simultaneously. Very important etiquette.
Now this leaves us in a peculiar place as we, ourselves, are foreigners. Are we as bad as tourists? Depends on if stealing your higher end jobs like cleaning love stained sheets or pulling pints in sultry pubs for minimum wage gets your facism on.
Nonetheless we have arrived and the stories will continue..
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