I was sitting on a chair, before a glowing and humming screen, clicking on shifts of tonality and hue, moving them via a plastic blob under my hand. the blob measures the motion of my hand and correlated it to the screen. i do this often.
That I had been on a erroneous path for about 6 minutes became clear, I was following the instructions to nowhere and began to consider my retreat.
I moved my head,
there was something else now, still thinking of the error, now something else, a new thought sprouting, pushing past the glitch and blooming. a newer, better glitch.
confusion first. as a list of possibilities are considered and discarded in a breath.
there is not anything on my glasses, my eyes have not lost the ability to focus, there is not anything in my eye, eyelash or hovering before my eyes. rubbing is not helping, neither is closing my eyes.
it is another fucking migraine.
but this was different from last winter, when i previously experienced the "second migraine".
there was something like movement in this one.
but it wasn't motion, like a cat trotting by or a car bursting into flames. this was a movement so subtle and concrete, it is foreign to the world outside my head.
I started to complain verbally to my colleague. things like
"I think I am getting a migraine"
I get up and walked around. This is probably the second clearest thing I have ever seen. and like the second migraine it's characteristics are startling.
Inside the fault there is nothing. A gaping glitch that is being filled in by the surrounding fullness of the reflected world. not blackness, but colour and distortion.
It moves absence. It is like a hole in thought, this one moving quickly back and forth in my right eye. from the temple to nose. low.
but it was not rapidly like motion or anything else in the world, its light. that gave it a presences greater than observation, i felt a sickly awareness that i was witnessing a moment of brainworks.
This vacillating, swinging hole in my vision, mind, moved me to the sofa and some oft considered, rarely partaken workplace napping, which after a time, removed the light effects and replaced them with a subtle and pulsing pain inside my skull.
I lunched, thinking of last nights missed dinner, drank water and left my place of work, once the nausea rolled in, parked their vans and turned up the music.
I came home, surrounded by pillows, cats, blankets and rested. Thoughts piled up and scattered about and excavation of the discomfort began.
Walking back home with my laundry later at night, my head felt like a big, dark, mostly empty temple from a movie, filled with candles, thoughts, a few light bulbs and this afternoons pain was akin to a provisional pendulum set up by the local teenagers. Their crushed beer cans, litter and bruised tenderness remain.
The air poured out the the tyre like crazy. We read the manual, but could not remove the tyre from the vehicle, until the other truck, with a giant apparatus for lifting trucks arrived.
These last few days have seen me roll over the city like a sphere of heavy metal, I want to come to a rest, but the floor tilts again and I begin to roll.
Back in front of my tiny computer, after days way, on another part of this sphere.
The 2nd edition of Incidental Details is by my feet, in a box. I am thinking of it, quite a bit. (later: I have moved the box, so that now it hovers above my head)
A night spent installing a newer operating system and watching this moving picture show. I was jarred by the voices of the actors, some of their lines, and the general themes, but the narrative was so apt for this evening of install. The Bill Gates character looked like another television Andy Warhol!
This is one of the finest books I have ever encountered.
Today, on my bus ride home, from a chain restaurant gorging, moving my rotund frame towards the door, a man, who I earlier spied enjoying a can of beer, asked me my weight. I was struck silent for a moment, considering that weight measured newtons and mass was measured in kilograms, and how the two are often confused. 219 lbs., was my answer. Together we decided that I was going to trim down.
Today 6 people were shot and died of their perforations in the eastern suburbs, a small plane crashed into a building in the south and in the middle, an art show opened. The art show deserves your attention.
This knot of circuitry would graze comfortably in my ecosystem of wires and electron rivers and data bursts. Do I have room on my farm for a pet? I have been through drought and famine in the recent past. Will I need to shoot this pet, for lack of food in the near future?
Today the second edition of "Incidental Details" nears completion at the finishing shop. I wish to cover this edition in stamps and send it somewhere; perhaps a gallery, far from here. As I would my children, if this place involved in an armed conflict.
Today, after a long day in the office, as I prepared to egress its officious walls, I shook my jacket and dragged it on. Flying away from myself, was my lost bus pass. I filled with joy, like a bike tyre at a gas station air pump. Running around the office I waved the bus pass at my boss who endured the story, first thing in the morning of it departure. He and I shared a moment of happiness, before we were both overcome at the terrible sense of just how low my standards for happiness are.
A quiet moment passed and I left.
Still jolly in the knowledge of my single zone transportation possibilities in Metro Vancouver for the remainder of this month.
Desiring to pay for my flights with cash, I boarded a bus and rolled towards the South Terminal of the local aeroplane hangout.
In my ears iPod earphones helping me ignore the sounds and noises that make the urban environment cacophonous. A little boy sitting before me is licking the window and farting. the man taking care of him, tried all sorts of forms of reasoning to alter this behaviour, reasoning that I could not hear, and they all failed. the little boy expressed his self in ways impossible to blot out with musical ear plugs. Just a little distressing.
Arriving at a juncture of buses, I search and locate my stop. It is immediately clear that the final bus to South Terminal has left 5 minutes previous to my arrival.
I board another big, blue bus to the Regular Terminal, frowning.
At the Regular Terminal, I found a sign, outside, next to a road that had the words "South Terminal" written on it. I stood under this reassuring sign. Next to that sign was another, smaller sign, on a nearby wall. Printed on a sheet of letter paper, landscape, this sheet of paper, in a clear loose plastic envelope had the name of the airline that I wished to buy tickets from, and this sign expressed, in military time, that a shuttle would drive, open its doors and usher me in, every 30 minutes. Military time is always reassuring, none of that weak civilian "am, pm" nonsense.
55 minutes later, after a short phone call with Laurie at the airline, she lets me know that the shuttle was a problem all day long and assured that it is on its way.
I think for a while that it might be possible that traveling out of the city will be easier than this experience, though I worry about being infected with optimism and instead ignore these thoughts by watch an aerobatic bird display. I took pictures of the birds and other important looking structures, hoping a security guard will drive me to the South Terminal.
Later the shuttle arrives and we are on course to the South Terminal. The driver is complaining on his cell phone, how long this day is, how there will be further delays, he is telling his friends to meet him at Boston Pizza, I wanted to shout out that it was Ribragious at Boston Pizza, but did not. There is a hockey game playing on the radio, local team is loosing.
I arrive at the South Terminal.
Striding to the counter, I encounter 2 women, in suits. I explain that I want to buy tickets to the first one. She looks at me like I am wearing a hat made of jello. I end up speaking to the other woman. I tell her all about my trip and when i want to go, where I want to be and everything. She tells me I am not buying a "ticket", but a "booking", she tells me is is $81 dollars more than I had established using the internet.
Eighty one dollars, I feel uncomfortable, pained.
I complain, explain about what I found on, "the internet"
She tells me about the long weekend, how it adds costs to tickets and that they can change price at any moment.
I give her a confused look.
I decide to put off that transaction for a moment.
I book the return flight booking, it is the usual cost. The internet one.
We return to the contentious first leg of my journey.
I accept the pain and suffering that comes with the extra costs, I use a secret Visa that I have for emergencies. I begin notice something in her behaviour, unease grows around my ankles, snaking slowly upwards, looking for jello.
She whispers to her suited associate, "I have something to tell you". My disquiet grows. She has a secret, I am sure it it concerns me. I have so much disquiet I can harvest it and sell it in markets, overseas, where this airline cannot fly.
"This is an open booking" she informs me as I prepare to leave the counter, "you can change it, if you need to" I give her a funny look.
"I won't," I say, slowly, leaving.
There is a taxi outside the terminal, the driver is treating me like a normal person, I concluded that my suit wearing friend could not have noticed something peculiar on my person. I review my bookings, again and once more. I am set to travel in 1 day, rather than 32 day as I have planned. I feel a number of complex emotion move over one another. The home team is down 3.
I get out at the bus cluster, get on another bus, pointing north and begin rumbling to my home. At the first stop, I get out, find a pay phone and call the number on the booking paper, it is not longer active. I get my quarter back and call the toll free number. We converse, I am absolved of all responsibility by the voice on the sticky receiver. The flight is changed to the one I was thinking of. The $81 is heading back to the secret Visa.
Later I have an enchilada and a beer at a prize winning mexican restaurant.
I am excited about travelling in a month or so. I will sit in a boat, inside of a plane and in the miniature seats offered on a bus. By a window if at all possible.
My laptop has recently halted its internal flow of electrons leaving me with no portable computing options.
What would be great is if I could connect my iPod to a tiny, folding keyboard and then connect one of those LCD picture frames to the iPod. This would be an exquisite machine for travel writing, blog entries and other important stories in this improvisational computer.
to complain about, there has been another machine in my realm of broken contraptions, an ink-jet printer, made by the fine people and robots of the outsource company hired by HP to do thier work for them. This printer after about one year of picking up paper, coating the sheets with rare and expensive dyes, has decided to stop picking up the paper I leave for it. Derision for the shareholders and board of directors of Hewlett Packard, they are responsible for the inabilities of the 1660, may they feel deep and lasting shame.
today a new, small machine has entered my computing world, it is a mini mac. it is like a sandwich, one day i will eat it. I have also scanned a collections of books and magazines, to lighten my physical burden of material and visited pals and strangers and evaded sunday morning sleep by watching a dramatic moving picture program called the Wire.
the delicate lattice of wires in my household have begun to unravel. since I've moved last spring. 3 hard drive have crashed, my ipod logic board has become irrational, wireless router, routes no more and now it seems, the memory in my laptop has developed dementia and cannot remember a thing. the small folding computer remains silent when the "on" button is pressed. at this time the laptop is being prodded by teenaged experts while i type on another's computer.
searching for a cause to this serial disaster, i have come up with some options: i have acquired a curse? i forgotten to provide a offering to a secular god? all the people i've ever annoyed have set up an electromagnetic pulse device in my neighbours apartment? perhaps an UPS is to be added to the house wires to deal with power fluctuations.
I have decided to move this button to another part of the screen, here in the blog. So when people want to give me money, I will just say. "Go to September the 10th of 2007 and send it to me from there.
and he said, "we are all nobodies here" ripped his head off to only have it grow back in a second
Today was a day of relentless good sprits and jolliness. Though a number of daunting problems manifested like a pox on unblemished skin, a quick dose of scrutiny caused these boils to disorganise, loose redness and fall back into the structure of unending bliss.
Though not the only person to have ever used the term "political" pejoratively, This usage must stop. How can an individual claim that the name of their vocation is a bad thing. That and the term "playing politics", which is a minor deviation on the same theme. Politicians are using all of the tools available to accomplish the tasks they deem important in the context of what they are doing. Who avoids acting in the manner of their vocation, in their vocation? How could the utterance of the vocation possible diminish a rival. It in not like the rivals we playing "murder", "dismemberment" or "grave-robbing" all vocations that are socially a crater. Misleading language and complaining are not part of a civil servants job description, no one is interested. It is a distraction and evidence of negligence.
A woman I work with complained about the top of my web sight, i fixed it up for her, and then stole her pen. It is a great pen, uni-ball "vision" micro. That's a long name for a pen, practically Iberian. Today while thinking of my fathers heritage I imagined a bull fighter with a machine gun on a tripod.
Over breakfast, in the recent past, a shocking the tale was told.
A cultural worker in our tiny, far flung collection of houses told us that the computers in Vancouver Art Gallery are not permitted to access web sites that contain images of alcohol or of nude human beings.
This has been explained to us, that the VAG wants to protect it self from potential litigation. the situation described to us, was that. What if someone where to see over our shoulder of a cultural worker and see an image that offends their eye and mind. Then this offended person were to begin an unlikely lawsuit against the poor gallery. The laws they would use would have to come from some iconoclastic culture of the past. Laws that grew out of the desire to halt the fecundity of images. To our benefit that we do not live in place like that.
Casually dressed, on a cool, late summer, late afternoon, a young man with a cast on his right fore-arm is hitting his neck with a rolled up column of newspaper as he exits the establishment. Shortly afterwards a pigeon walks in.
Chewing a lot of gum lately.
I am in another cafe, listening to this talk. I have walked away from my cell phone, and its high cost, interruptions and previously mentioned truncations.
My home number is below if you don't have it. Talk to you later.
I am sitting in a cafe working on a book, called Copy Work. There are a lot of letters in play, but I think I have wrangled them all. The next step is hanging out with service providers like paper vendors, printers, binders and foil stampers. I will have a good time with them, as they need company and a dose of human kindness. The music being played here is terrible.
Soon I will be in Toronto, feeling all happy as my friends wed, visiting the mini bar and buffet table. Hopefully dropping in on family and browsing around.
Today, time and my thoughts dragged, as if lubricated by honey. Vegetation of silence grew slowly through the cracks of conversation. Seeds spilled around and I got a great idea for a movie about eating. I am very close to getting rid of my pocket phone.
Ohno! he died before I could chat with him, cursed finite!
It is 10pm, feeling sleepy.
Telephones truncate nice, normal people into a range of sound frequency that is skipped along the earth and then, jammed into another's ear via an electronic fist wrapped in plastic. This violent interaction must stop. Destroy all Phones!
In Vancouver, Canada a new branch of law enforcement has been established they are called the Greater Vancouver Transportation Authority Police Service, and I am dismayed to announce that they are an aesthetic failure. The GVTAPS have strayed too far from their history of the paramilitary into the dubious territory of ski jacket bully with a heavy belt of torture devices.
I say "NAY!" to this perversion of civil defence.
These tubby individuals, do not give me with a sensation of security. Why do they lumber so, why is their motion laconic, why do they look so glum and frumpy.
I demand a new police force, the
Sharp, immaculate uniforms sewn by local tailors from the wool of the Stanley Park sheep and dyed with the jet black ooligan ink; an attitude implacable seriousness, a less populous belt, a natty cap, killer whale leather boots, conspicious marching and a 5.56 mm SFW made by Colt Canada with the bayonet option.
A bloody corpse, laying just outside of the Fare Paid Zone will clearly express that, $2 and 25 cents is not a large amount for 90 minutes of travel in 1 zone of Metro Vancouver.
Behavioural deviation are the vocational concerns of psychology and psychiatry. Rivulets of chemicals cure and manage individuals who exhibit traits which harm, bother and irritate others. Our world no longer contains individuals who are mad.
Except for welders.
These men and women bond and cut metal; in their hands, metal tubes and rubber hoses, festooned with valves, clamps and nozzles, coupled to tubes or wires, that reach to great collections of electricity or pressurised gas. These handles repress, direct and caress the heat and force that is usually found deep under the soil of this planet or far off the world in avoidable places. The places where this heat and force exist, humans cannot live, when the soil ruptures, myths of hell spill out with the pressure. With this compact tool; welders spark, ignite and press heat into the dense, metal before them.
Explosions, instantaneous liquefaction and jettisoning gas of the once heavy, cold material, now spattering and fluid, vapourous. Welders use these liquid moments to transform and bond.
They stare directly into the minor suns, sitting in primordial mists of metal particulate. Their bodies slowing coming to terms with the heat, mist and bright flooding into their thoughts. Welders are adjuncts to disaster, with this power before and through them, their humanity lies spattered, spotted with steel and with small yellow blisters on their eyes.
I ate pizza, drank beer and walked in the rain. I was listening to the Real Tuesday Weld, sing "I Love the Rain". I know writing about the weather is not exciting, but the atmosphere is a timely topic all over the world. It is my favourite mist between all of that liquid rock under our feet and nowhere.
Oh wait this might be interesting, I was thinking today that "Self Help" is to Philosophy, what "Rock n' Roll" is to Music. A chart is forthcoming.
I am concerned that I might have left the door unlocked today.
Falling from the sky, water. these conditions limits my bike riding. curses.
I read a number of articles as the sun poured into a south facing, empty room this morning. This room held a bench that I stood up right on its end, and a humming refrigerator. I sat in a chair sold to the fella who was going to be living the suite next month.
Right now, my sister and I are twins. For eleven days every year we share our age, from the 7th day of March until the 18th day of the same month.
I have had a number of questions, but no buyers for the stuff below. Don't be shy, just buy. I will have a bonfire for the goods if they don't sell. Just like a cattle farmer who cannot see a return on investment.
Today, for sale
my bed, my cot and my table. Also I am looking for a graphics card for a Apple G4.
Today I made memo pads in a place where time is exchanged for small value documents. Then I did some editing, over coffee, bought another kind of money, in order to get some mobility. Then I continued to with my important brooding, pondering and considerations. As I was heating my dinner I was told to nap more by television scientists. I am ending the night with Rist.
Hungover all day today - pantomimed being awake.
I ate a can of salmon while reading this article.
Don't take the silence of the yams as a sign that they have nothing valuable to say about health.
I wanted to post this earlier.