Nuit-Mort

I seriously think my bed is trying to kill me. I sleep in the same bed that my parents bought me when I was five years old, and have had the same mattress for roughly an equal amount of time. My feet hang over the end, and I am restricted in movement due to the tiny single frame which threatens to collapse at any minute. For years I coped by curling up into a tiny ball, adopting the fetal position to contain my limbs within the cruel boundaries, but as time went on this was no longer possible and I've had to develop various coping mechanisms which have probably stunted my growth.

People are always horrified to hear this, but in the past I've always shrugged it off. I sleep like I'm six feet under, and once my arms and legs go numb from the contortions I'm actually quite comfortable providing my body subconciously moves now and then to let a little blood flow to the extremities. I must also have developed a symbiotic relationship with the millions of micro-bugs that no doubt infest my tattered mattress from being dragged around the deserts of Arabia to the suburbia of Canada. You could say that in a very real sense every sleep is like a trip down memory lane.

For twenty-six years I have slept in this torture chamber and finally I think its given up on me. The past few weeks have not been the most restful, to say the very least. The weight of my tiny body curled up on the upper half of the mattress have caused the springs to give out, leaving an uneven sleeping surface that provides no support and makes resting in bed feel like hanging out with the Spanish Inquisition. Which bit of you is going to hurt next?

Every night I wake up at 4am, for no reason. By this time my neck is sore, shoulders are aching and one out of two of my arms is numb. If I move my back screams, and it is impossible to get comfortable. I can get back to sleep only by finding a position that doesn't hurt too much and lying absolutely still, hoping that sleep overcomes me before my muscles atrophy. I sleep lightly for maybe another hour or two, and finally give up and make coffee, tired and aching.

As I type this my right arm is sore, and has been for some time, and my shoulders need the attention of a masseuse. I don't know how much more I can take. My bed, which has been with me longer than my youngest sister's been alive, is not having it. It's old and tired, and is determined to turn me into a cripple despite us both wanting the same thing - a rest.

Happy people have no stories

I'm the kind of person that likes to listen to Massive Attack after dark, preferably loudly, while staring straight ahead at nothing. It's not a particularly happy past-time, but one I find immensely satisfying now and then. Something in the claustrophobic beats and paranoid mumblings stirs my blackened soul, and I can walk away feeling slightly more positive and upbeat. To steal a line from Bono (fuck, forgive me...), you can often find Jesus under the trash.

With the recent release of the new Beatles version of Rock Band, there's loads of yuppies running out to the nearest EBGames, pudgy faces contorted with glee as they rush back to their living rooms to play along with John, Paul, George and Ringo, rocking their hearts out to the happiest songs ever written. Predictably my first reaction is "bastards", but after some thought it turns to "how boring".

While there is no denying the talent and genius of The Beatles, I'm always amazed to find people so in love with them. Yes, they wrote happy songs, but often they were at their best when breaking the rules a bit and tripping out on drugs, and you'd be hard pressed to say that any of them had happy lives. While three minutes of singing about holding someone's hand may be a quick ray of sunshine, it doesn't really do much to move the soul. History was not made on niceties; there were no wars started over kindness, no great novels written on happiness, and nations never conquered through reasonable compromise.

No, because that would be far too boring. What we need as humans is deceit, betrayal, anger and lust, all very unhappy traits. Imagine a happier 'Romeo and Juliet':

"Father, I want to marry Romeo Montague!"
"Oh, all right then..."
"Thanks Daddy!"

So while all the idiots are playing along to 'Elanor Rigby' and blissfully ignoring the sadness of her situation, I'll be sitting here jealous of their fun, listening to 'Mezzanine' and playing along using all the black keys.

Heart-shaped box

'You're late,' she said. 'I've been waiting for you.'

It's been a long time, I thought. Have you been waiting all these years?

'It doesn't matter', she smiled. 'I'm here for the box.'

What box?

'The box', she patiently repeated.

Oh, I replied. I think I lost it a long time ago.

'No,' she said. 'You still have it. You have to look for it.'

And then I remembered. I had put it in a safe place, buried deep where no-one could find it.

'Where is it?' she asked.

Suddenly I could feel a shape and presence, and the memory of it's form almost felt solid in my gut.

'What does it look like?' She was smiling.

It's Dad's old money box, I said in a half daze. A small brown wooden chest with heavy metal hinges and an equally heavy lock. The sides were scuffed and worn, but the lid always remained firmly closed.

'What's inside?' she asked.

Long nights alone, I wanted to say. Long days alone too. Everything that was too heavy to be lifted, and too frightful to share. Everything I wanted to forget, and everything I needed to remember. For something that lay untouched for so long, the thought of disturbing it now was too terrifying to consider.

'You have to open the box,' she urged.

But I'm scared.

'Open the box,' she repeated. 'Let it out,' she said, and slowly I felt the hinges give way.

Who are you? I asked, and she smiled the same smile and said 'I think you know'.

We sat for a while and said nothing. The box was now empty, it's secrets returned to their rightful place. I felt heavier, and lighter, and awake, and wondered how I could have forgotten it for so long. Perhaps the former contents were only noticeable when restored.

Can you see it? I asked. But when I turned around, she was gone.

Hard Talk

Everyone knows that all politicians are lying bastards, but for some reason we all like to pretend they're not. Once every few years when it's election time they all come out of the shadows and launch energetic and completely false campaigns to get re-elected, having photo's taken with babies, making outrageous promises and launching scathing personal attacks on all the other candidates. None of this comes to a surprise to anyone, and we expect it in the same way as the occasional bout of diherrea - unpleasant, occasionally unavoidable, and best forgotten.

What does surprise me is that some people fail to spot the shit and mistake it for gold. The empty promises made by these manicured heads get lodged in their brain, and they become convinced that this person, THIS PERSON will change their life! Which makes it all the more satisfying to see them crumble when the inevidible scandal is uncovered by the opposition; an illicit affair, personal indiscretion, or a rather disturbing fondness for barn animals. The soul-crushing realization that your Member of Parliament took bribes, lied, or exchanged blow-jobs for Raptors tickets, that he/she is, you know, a fucking human being and not the next coming of christ. You might even get upset enough to write a really angry letter about it.

So what's infinitely gratifying is seeing these politicians exposed outside the media friendly campaign trail, like, in newspapers, or on TV. It's called Journalism, and even though it's a dying trade you can still find enough of it if you look hard enough. We need it, if for no other reason than to piss off the smug power hoarding bastards who make up governments across the globe. They know they're corrupt lying fuck-heads, and we know that they're corrupt lying fuck-heads, but it doesn't hurt to remind everyone about it know and then.

Shouts out to my boy Jacob Zuma, currently dealing with mass rioting from the population who elected him 3 months ago based on his false promises.

Shouts out to Ayatollah Khamenei, who forgot that just because he says something it doesn't make it true, no matter how impressive his beard it.

Shouts out to the Burmese government for being offensively blatant, oppressive and scared shit-less.

And finally, shouts out to Steven Sackur. I'll never get tired of watching you make these bastards squirm.

...

There's something about the inky blackness of night that brings out introspection, as the stars of missed opportunities shine bright. How far can you go down one road before you can no longer turn back? Is it still possible to change, despite the weight of wasted years on your shoulders?

Much is made of seizing the present and pursuing the future, but just for tonight lets have a moment of silence for all the mistakes, regrets and lost experiences we've accumulated. Maybe only then we can let them go.

I'm not here, this isn't happening

Tired thoughts this evening, to match a tiring week. Not much energy left to do much other than contemplate the madness that is our working week, and how so much time and effort can go into so little that feels satisfying. I suppose my chance to be a dirty bohemian is gone - but I enjoy plumbing, regular meals, fresh food and four walls with a ceiling to really be a pretentious bastard and 'leave it all behind'. As much as I'd love to gaze haughtily from my compost-heap ivory tower situated on my free-range self-sufficient small holding, eating only the finest home grown organic foods while being cooled by my wind and solar powered fans, the sheer annoyance of my existence would force me to punch myself repeatedly until I needed serious medical care (the kind that comes in hospitals with heavy prescription drugs - not herbal tea's and petal poultices).

Stuck on 'Kid A' for the drive home today and had a very strange moment on the 403 just before Mavis. "Treefingers" started playing and in my half-crazed state of tiredness and frustration time suddenly slowed down and I felt as if I was walking on the moon. Colours were momentarily more vivid, and a strange sense of peace and understanding washed over me. What the christ...?

Just where do ideas come from?

Apparently this puzzles a lot of people, usually the kind that enjoys mathematics, stamp collecting, and watching NASCAR. How does a juicy big idea plop into someone's head, resulting in an award winning novel, film, or patent? How can I have one of these ideas, and become famous and successful? Why do all these clever ideas-bastards never share their secret? Happily, I have found the answer.

Having an idea is a lot like having a poo; there are multiple stages to creating the next big revelation, which boils down to a study of cause and effect. Much like poo, you must feed yourself in order to hatch an idea. This is a metaphorical feeding of your brain, scrounging off the plate of life and if possible asking for seconds. What you see, hear and touch every day is actually stored somewhere deep inside the stomach of your subconcious, where it slowly digests and transfers to the bowels of your mind. It is here that dreams are made by the slow decomposition of interactions settling in your brain as you sleep, filtering sounds and images to either be stored or scorned in a process so complex we'll probably never be able to understand it.

Eventually you're left with a crazed slideshow of images and sounds floating in your subconcious, just waiting to be released. In order to do this, you must concentrate. The moment of release after a bowel movement is often described as 'ecstatic' for a reason, and some would say it's similar to an orgasm. At this point your body takes over, and things start to happen. You feel a rumble, a heavyness and a general sense of panic. The demented wastes of life rushing through you make their presence known, and all you can do is find a suitable outlet. Rushing to a computer, voice recorder, or pen and paper before the idea bursts uncontrolably from within, exploding shamefully down your leg and ruining your favourite pair of pants. If you're lucky, you make it in time and are saved the humiliation of making a mess of things, capturing the snap-shot of genius in it's proper place where you can study it at your own leisure, expanding, making changes, and refining. Sometimes you only manage to capture a little of it as it slides out unexpectedly, and afterwards cry in dismay at the shameful stains dribbled down your favourite pair of pants.

My advice to you is to eat up, and prepare yourself. Go out and talk to everyone you can, smell every flower, listen to every bird, then wait. When you feel like you can no longer hold it in, let go. I promise you that you'll have an original idea of your very own in no time.

Pheonix

Last Monday I managed to shed the burden of being a despicable stain on society's fragile fabric, and once again became a productive member of society. The feelings of success are only slightly offset by the feelings of exhaustion, but that's a small price to pay for my ticket back to happiness.

The road of unemployment is a deceiving one, filled with traps and false hopes. You start with endless optimism, bursting with hope for a better job and the excitement of new possibilities. But as the days turn into weeks the excitement sours to boredom, and the optimism gives way to despair. One minute you're opening RSP accounts and debating which credit card will give you the most airmiles, the next you're waddling through the frozen aisles of Food Basics with a meaty fistful of food vouchers, getting excited by the ice-cream displays before keeling head first through the thick paned glass, smashing your skull and collpasing into an icy grave of choc ice and popsicles.

You start to lose grip on the very fabric of reality. Through jaded dole scum eyes you peer through job boards and contemptuously dismiss postings you deem to be beneath you (the number mysteriously grows the more you look), and begin to think that maybe, just maybe, not working isn't so bad after all.

The horror! Thank goodness then, that I was lucky enough to nip it in the bud before things progressed further. Now that I no longer have time to ponder these distasteful questions, I can focus on what's really important. My airmiles, and getting my RSP funds back on track.

Susan Williams

I'd like to take a slightly serious moment to link the obituary of the late journalist Steven Wells. It wasn't until I stumbled upon his obituary in the Guardian that I became aware of his work, but I was soon reading through his archived material with increasing excitement.

For many years he wrote articles for NME, but crossed over recently into sports columns. More importantly he penned the most foul-mouthed, aggressive and hilarious rants I've ever seen in print, but did so creatively and intelligently (and sometimes even compassionately). It's very rare to find writing so expressive and unique, and even rarer to find a man so uncompromising in his opinions and beliefs. In an age of sponsorship deals, corporate marketing and political correctness, I wish there were more writers like Wells who had the talent to ram the big black dildo of dissent up our collective asses.

Rage in Peace.

Free food makes me giddy

Strolling through Ikea, window shopping for furniture I can't afford for a place that I don't yet have a mortgage for, I was impressed with the ideas the Swedes have for maximizing every last inch of space available. Since my in-limbo condo is pretty small, if I ever do manage to gain employment and erase my dole scum status I'll likely end up ordering an Ikea bedroom in its entirety. Walking through the the showrooms I saw beds that had hidden compartments, sliding doors, even little hooks to hang clothes on that retract into the wall when not in use, and started wondering how to improve on the experience. Just imagine: walking into a crisply minimalist room with linen sheets stretched tight across a harsh Malm bedframe. Sliding carefully under the cool covers so as to not create wrinkles on my starched sheets, then having the bed fold silently into the wall with me in it, leaving my bedroom gleamly empty. The silence is broken only by the gentle exhaust of a humidifier, and perhaps my muffled sigh of suffocation.

Much later I was struck with similar glee as I came across raspberry bushes, and stopped for a moment to realize how amazing free food is. We get so used to the idea that food costs money that we often forget that our species somehow managed to scrape by for a few million years before having a grocery store. The raspberries were still not large enough to pick, but in another month or so they should be ripe and I'm going to have a field day. Yes, some bastard kids wills probably get to the best ones first, and the location besides a public footpath means they're probably not the cleanest, but screw all that... I will pick free raspberries. They will likely make me sick. They will likely taste of dog piss. They will definitely taste of success.

Cashews and C.V.'s

I'm sitting on the sofa munching cashew nuts and dried apricots, slightly exhausted and yet slightly wired after a long day of not doing very much (it's an enjoyable experience).

No job leads for me yet, although I've been to quite a few resume critique sessions and I think that my resume is now so amazing that the next HR drone that looks it over will immediately break down weeping at the sheer overwhelming perfection that they have just witnessed. It is the Michelangelo of resumes, sculpted through democratic lobbying and varied advice from the nice women working at The Centre (the 'C' is capitalized reverentially) in Burlington - Halton region's proverbial Mecca for the unemployed. There I have focused my C.V. skills and have prepared myself in body and mind for the rigours and hardships of finding a job. I will not be deferred by any obstacle that may land in my way, and will turn every problem into a solution that can only lead to the orgasmic conclusion of being hired.
In-between the fevered job hunt I also found time to cook a chicken tikka masala from scratch. I usually don't do it too often, as it takes hours, involves multiple stages of prep, and never quite turns out the way I want it to. But a strange urge gripped me in the early afternoon when I saw a lone piece of ginger at the bottom of my crisper compartment, and I vowed that I would perfect my curry making skills. Perhaps my positive attitude to employment is leaking into other facets of my life?

To cut a long story short I spent nearly 3 hours cooking the bastard, carefully following a recipe and throwing in every last ounce of personal flair for full effect. Unfortunately the tikka was just OK. I did forget the crushed cashews and was too lazy to cut some coriander from my herb garden in the back, but I feel that I'm still missing some vital essence of curry. It didn't stop me from eating it until my tongue burnt though.