A Suite of Haikus

Amanda Baine


a fancy new job
big money, 4 week vacay
now i feel empty

eggs in one basket
for a guy who's unhappy
i really got hosed

your big pog slammer

for my shiny blue cat's eye

two eras collide

one more beer tonight
means a headache tomorrow
another round please

i love you Visa
and i live for the moment
bye bye good credit

long uni degree
for a job at blockbuster
this shit is so whack!

wild night last winter
pull out & pray not worth it
what should we name her?

Reason for Selling

Kai Nagata

A couple of weeks ago, I started poking around the online classifieds, looking for a used fish tank. I was hoping to resurrect the tropical aquariums of my boyhood, except for much less money. I cringe now when I think of the sums I spent in those days on proprietary European aquarium components, not to mention historically-authentic shades of model airplane paint, or Star Wars action figures, which I blithely took out of their packages and played with. Everything I bought with those long summers of lawn-mowing is now worth less than the effort of putting up a “free” posting online.

After a few fruitless days, I found an aquarium on craigslist that looked to be the right size. The poster claimed that it came with all the relevant accessories. I fired off a two-line message: Have you sold the fish tank. If not, can you tell me what models the filter and heater are. Then my name and phone number.

This is an excerpt from the poster’s reply:

The filter is ...I don't know...it's a big smoky colored and I just don't know. The heater is a Hagon Radiant.

"Kai, i don't know much about this, I never had to set it up, that was done by my wife who passed away and I am just cleaning up now.

As a matter of fact I had negelected to cover the tank and it's rather dusty inside.

You gave me your phone number, would you like me to call you? If so, when and what time. I don't want to bother you."

Horrified at my intrusion, I realized that this apologetic man probably had dozens of postings up, his late wife’s possessions now being pawed over by online scavengers. I had planned to nickel-and-dime him until he dropped his price, but the thought of a dead woman’s fingerprints on the glass killed my desire for the aquarium, much less the act of haggling over it. I sent the widower a lame email, trying to defer the matter to the weekend, “when we’ll both have more time”. At all costs I had to avoid that phone call.

Spooked, I turned to Kijiji, desperate to find something before the weekend. Success! I got a call from a quiet woman whom I was able to bully into dropping her price. She said that she and her husband were leaving the city and couldn’t take the aquarium with them, so whatever she could get for it would have to do.

A man’s voice buzzed me in to their apartment building. I waited for the elevator next to a woman and her tiny daughter. When the door slid open, a huge mastiff lunged out in a spiked collar. The little girl grabbed her mom’s leg. The dog’s owner hauled back and dragged it outside, hiking up the leash until the slavering animal was walking on two legs. In the elevator I remarked that it must be sad, being a big dog in a little apartment. The girl’s mother smiled and said that she thought fish were a much better pet in a building like this. We dinged to a stop on their floor. That’s funny, I said. That’s what I’m here for. She gave me a confused smile as she led her daughter away.

On the top floor, a husky man in his early thirties let me into the apartment. I took off my shoes. The living room was glass on two sides, offering a commanding view of the vast city cemetery. Row after row of headstones edged up against an expanse of fresh, undug turf still waiting for bodies. The house was full of packed and half-packed boxes. The man led me into a bedroom, where the fish tank was sitting on a cloud-print blue bedspread. Great, I said, passing him a handful of cash and opening up my backpack. He stood in silence, watching as I loaded up a container of catfish food, a plastic diver’s helmet, a pH testing kit, a gravel vacuum, one at a time. Holding up the fragile glass water heater, I asked if I could have some newspaper to wrap it in. Grateful for the distraction, he took the heater and disappeared into another part of the apartment.

I took a moment to look around the room. A polar bear on the lampshade. Small, white Ikea furniture, no sharp edges. I was in a child’s room, but it had been stripped of any toys or books. Just then the front door opened. It was the woman I had spoken to on the phone. She said hello and hung up her coat. Her husband reappeared, holding my safely wrapped heater. Thanks, I said. So which one of you was the household fishkeeper? “Uh, yeah,” said the man. “I mean I was. I just did it mostly for my son, but he—”

His unfinished sentence hung. I shouldered my pack and picked up the tank, making a parting handshake impossible. Thanks again, I said, scurrying like a crab toward the door. Bye, said his wife. Good luck with your move, I said, fumbling blindly with my feet, trying to jam my shoes on. Next to me in the entrance hall was a little side table that I hadn’t noticed on the way in. It was covered in photos showing a happy family: mom, dad, and young son. The biggest photo was an 8 by 10 studio portrait of the little boy. Next to the picture frame, a few tea-lights flickered in their glass holders. A stick of incense was burning away, the ash above the orange glow towering to an unlikely height. Before it could fall, I negotiated the doorknob and escaped with the fish tank in my arms.

Here in my living room, the dead boy’s aquarium has been disinfected and lined with fresh gravel. Live plants sway in the current. Minnows dart away from carnivorous shrimp. When I die, my will stipulates that it rejoin the fish tanks of the dead, passing online along with my oddly-tailored blazers and my deer head.

David O'Reilly: Dreamweaver?

Octocat Adventures (HD) from David OReilly on Vimeo.

I’ve never been partial to cats or eight legged creatures but I have to say, this video is one of the weirdest I’ve encountered and yet, it still manages to resonate with me. I’m not sure how David O’Reilly does it, but no matter how outlandish, or visually divorced from reality, his work manages to get into some real life emotions. It does really feel like someone out there is finding a way to squeeze the disjointed, scary and beautiful facets of their dream life out into the world for us to share, and that's pretty fun. Some of his other public samples are available on Vimeo and I would highly recommend you all check them out.

Dreams of the Future-- Jason Connell

I’m going to explain to you how the world ends.

The first step is heavy levels of well-intentioned deception about the end of it all. We will be led to expect something grandiose, something distracting. Something sexy. Think: melting polar icecaps that flood the earth or nuclear explosions that only leave beetles and microorganisms behind.

While we are distracted by portraits of the immanent and dire tomorrow, the world begins to end.

We will know that the world has begun to end, when our nightmares have cloaked themselves as immutable reality. There are a few signs: a hundred thousand dollar automobiles will roll past penniless beggars and no one will protest. People will use technology to self hypnotize for hours a day. Perpetual war zones will gently speckle the globe.

Eventually, the imagination will start to fade away. Humans will be charmed by the concept, but for some reason, fail to engage it.

Then, things will come full circle. With no imagination left, the grandiose nightmares of an apocalyptic tomorrow, refresh themselves as today’s neutral reality.

That is how the world ends.

31 Dreamers

There is this amazing man I know that had an idea. This idea was to catalgoue, analyze and share the dreams of 31 people (one a day for an entire month) online. It was a wildly successful journey and I figured it would be fitting, given our current theme to share it with those of you who have yet to check out the site.


http://31dreamers.blogspot.com/

Happy dreaming!

Dream for a Living--connor timmons

This piece is dedicated to my dear cousin Em who graduated today. I'm excited to see where her life will take her next and I look forward to many a colorful story as her dreams force their way into the 'real world'.

I guess I don't really understand the “graduation ceremony” experience as it exists in the western university context. Of course its a reflection of the general consensus we've established that the world of education is not just a preferred right of passage but a necessary pre-requisite for an appropriate entrance into the 'real world' of adulthood. But the ceremony is something more isn't it? Most of the folks I spoke to about this topic confessed that they really didn't care about it but they were walking under significant pressure from their parents. That seems fitting; a final cave in for the sake of ones elders, a capitulation of sorts. Not so very different from the forced piano recitals, begrudging Halloween costumes and ironically, the years spent on schoolwork so divorced from our everyday interests and experiences. I feel like this is a pretty jaded way of looking at the whole thing and it lends itself to a pretty depressive state of being, which, at the moment feels a little too close to home. And while this is definitely one way to look at it, I don't think its fair. So for the sake of fairness, and discovery, lets consider another angle.

At its heart, graduation is both the ending and the beginning. The last stretch of a jagged road as it merges into something new, something unknown. The image of an alarm clock lingers on the edges of my mind. The day they hand out the pricey pieces of paper represents the biggest, most intense wake up call in the young lives of many a student. The beginning of the 'real' and end of the 'dream'. While our bodies remain in a sleepy stupor, our minds are encouraged to dream. For decades we leap through one hoop or another in the name of preparation. We hone our skills, we try our hands, we learn a trade, we weigh our future options. Its a constant state of imagination and re-imagination of possible futures filled with adventurous travel, audacious research and financial windfalls, all of which we are said to expect at some point on the horizon. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the horizon creeps out from the shadows and presents itself in the form a cap and gown. RRRrrrrrrrinnnnng!!!!!

Ripped from this world of constant social interaction and shared experience, it's easy to get lost in the stunned silence that follows the end of decades of formal education. The sad part is that its not some overbearing force set to control us that so many struggle with, its the freedom. Where to go when there are no guidelines laid out for us to follow as we have been for so long. I suppose that's what the alarm clock rings in; a forceful recognition of the expectation to realize ones potential, NOW. Surely this is the definition of existential anguish on an epic scale. Having your life handed to you is enough to make you want to hand it right back, but is that the only thing to be done? I don't think so. Hopefully that state of dreaming for the future can be recaptured and smuggled into our 'real' present lives in ways that sustain faith in ourselves and those around us. This kind of endeavour can be tricky, its not easy dream in real time is it? But surely when we consider those who have accomplished this task we come up with a list of visionaries, heroines and individuals who made the world a better place, all with while with a smile on their faces.

But the people we are presented as role models aren't always those in touch with their dreams. All too often we allow ourselves to be wowed by the lives and choices of others. Whenever we look at those lives, be it on their resume or listening to them ramble on at graduation parties, its critical to recognize that the long view affords a particularly generous vantage point for evaluation and they too lost heart, got turned around and made mistakes. This forgiving perspective is lacking for so many of us in our day to day decision making or, more precisely our regular self evaluations. Instead we let this invisible pressure call into question the minutiae of our 'real' lives and call it mediocrity. How did Albert Einstien feel when he woke up each morning to ride his bicycle to the patent office? Feelings aside, we consider the activity in his head at those very moments to have been some of the most inspired and important thoughts in the modern age. His dreams, were worth more than anyone could have ever imagined.

So what do your dreams look like, what form do they take and what gifts do they hold in store for you and those around you? Give them the respect they beg for by recognizing that its ok for them to exist. No degree or diploma should swat the flies that whisper great things in your ears, no nay-saying banker should dry up the liquidity of your creativity. No real estate speculator has the power to sell off your dreamscape.

Dream well and dream often; dream for a living.

---Confessions of a Woman who can Dance---Nina Picard

I always said I could never marry a man who didn’t dance. Stuff that. I’ve since decided that I’ll dance enough for the both of us, as if there’s some quota of which we must all dance in our lifetime in order for the Earth to keep spinning. So yes I’ve decided to dance his share and mine therefore restoring the natural order of things, yet again. What is it they say? Oh yes, a woman’s job is never done.

My mother always said I had the feet of a dancer and I always responded that I didn’t have the heart. Or the discipline. Or the patience to stop talking long enough to let movement explain anything words can’t. I am learning that words aren’t everything, but it’s a slow process. Much longer and much more painful than ripping off a band aid in one pull. In fact, it’s like cementing your mouth closed and then digging at the cement with a spoon until your mouth can move again. If I’m only around for so long, I don’t want to waste my words.

I have a confession to make. I think I’m a really good dancer. Not as in classically trained or sensually inspiring or a salsa class whore or anything like that, but as in I can lose myself completely in the music. This relationship between music and dancing is sublime, unnecessary and indulgent, as movement exists without music and music without movement. Bu all the same, how lucky I am if I can get inside of it and move exactly how the music makes me feel. Sure everyone feels like this at 3am on a Saturday, but I also feel like this at 10am on Sunday mornings in the kitchen; 2pm on Tuesday afternoons at work; and always around 8:30pm on Thursdays. I come from a long line of women who move where the spirit takes them, often having to quiet our desires to leap through the streets. But what I like most is that we often don’t stifle these desires; we shout and leap and high kick just as often as we gracefully walk with well turned out feet. So even if we marry a man who can’t dance, even if we didn’t have the heart or the discipline or the patience to classically train, we can still think we’re pretty good dancers. This is a revolution of the hips my friend, so move them in time to the music playing and hope for the best.

Let’s Take our Skin Off and Dance in our Souls---Katrina Heyde

Despite years of dance classes, recitals followed by competitions, followed by more classes, I didn’t really learn to dance until I was 18 and traveling in South East Asia. Having landed a job in Bangkok, I stuck around the city for much longer than I originally intended, and after three months I felt the noise and pollution weighing heavily on my soul. On a whim, I bought a train ticket to the South and after several days of travel and other adventures, ended up on Kho Phangan, the island that hosts the famous Full Moon Parties. I had heard wild stories of this epic party, and spent a good week enjoying the sun with new friends and eagerly awaiting the slowly changing phases of the moon. On the night of the party, we arrived at dusk, just in time to watch the moon come over the horizon and start to rise slowly. Within the hour, the enormous stretch of beach was transformed into a throbbing mass of tourists tripping on every imaginable drug, fire throwers, tricksters and those enterprising young men selling unmarked liquor in clear plastic bottles…

It surprised me greatly how quickly I grew bored with the scenario before me. Not too long after this realization, I wandered away from the beach with one thought before me. Where were the locals? At home in bed? Doubtful, the pulsing beat of the trance music coming from the beach reverberated through your body and could be felt in running through your bones and into your fingertips. I approached a street vendor, and asked in my halting Thai if he knew where I could get a quiet drink. He appraised me for a good minute before silently pointing me down a dark alley, indicating a closed red door. Was this a really bad idea?

Nevertheless, I followed my instinct and approached the red door. Ah, I thought upon entering, here are the locals. My white skin instantly marked me as a stranger, but I hoped my friendly face and open disposition would be enough to perhaps keep me safe. I hoped with a sudden and rather desperate abandon that I wasn’t committing a terrible cultural faux pas, and settled in. As it turned out, these men and women of the island, ranging from their early twenties to late seventies, were mostly affable and peaceful people, happy to share their stories. With a mix of translators, hand drawn pictures and my back pocket dictionary, they explained to me that although the tourists think they have invented the full moon party, the people Indigenous to the island have been celebrating the phases of the moon for as long as their stories go back. When the moon is full is when the spirit is at its wildest and most open and they dance to express this. They do not require the huge speakers or colorful lights. Quite literally, as translated to me, they “dance to the music they hear in their souls”.

Soon it was time; for what, I didn’t know. We left the bar and walked in near silence. Eventually we came upon a quiet corner of the beach where the noise of the party was dulled by the distance, water and lush vegetation between us. And then they started to dance.

I had never before seen anything quite like it, and probably never will again. The fifty odd people gathered before me danced to a beat I couldn’t hear, and I stood awkwardly on the edge, feeling like an intrusive observer. Suddenly, a woman with white hair and a face weathered from decades of both laughter and sadness approached and took me in hand. She led me to the center of the group and indicated I should move my arms, my legs, my entire body. I followed her lead and slowly, hesitantly, like a small child taking its first steps, began to feel what I had been missing. Expressions of sorrow and frustration poured forth, commingling with release, joy and outright ecstasy. These people I barely knew accepted me into their fold, and showed me how to dance with everything I had in me. Through a haze of exhaustion I watched the sun come up. Without ceremony, people quietly disappeared in groups of twos and threes. When I finally made my way back to my bungalow, the now dried sweat that covered my entire body was a sticky reminder of the nights events.

I still love to dance, and will do so with any opportunity. Dancing with friends or strangers, I have learned that we can build communication, strengthen ties and create bonds where before there were none. Although I dearly love music and jive off the feel of a good song flowing through my veins, I try to find my own beat whenever I’m moving my body. When I dance now, I look hard for the place within me where that inexhaustible energy is stored.

--- Shake a Leg Young Fella! ---connor timmons

A couple of years ago I spent a couple of hours discussing the difference between a hootenanny, a hoe down, a clambake, and a shindig with a good friend. I remember we both left the conversation exhausted and completely perplexed at our inability to create some kind of taxonomy of festive gatherings. For years I let the question fiddle and fidget on the corner of one of the slower intersections of my neural pathways.

Only recently have I taken it up again and even then it only came up because I found a place that successfully straddles any and all classifications of hootin' hollerin' good times. This place is a lovely little spot where line dancing is ok and hipsters and spinsters link arms to do-si-do till the wee hours of the morn'. Here are some pics from my latest visit, sorry they aren't more clear, photographing line dancing is second only to underwater welding in the "skills I don't have" department.

---The Dance Revolution--- connor timmons

I don't know if its the rash of ridiculous dance parties that I've found myself part of but I've been feeling the need to start a dance revolution. Its hard to deny that learning to dance is so much more than physical coordination.

You start out with timid steps across the kitchen floor clumsily stumbling through the stunned silence from your parents, aunts and grandparents. By the time you've reached elementary school your limbs have decided to express themselves independently whenever you're excited. Your teenage years bring you both dexterity and a painful sense of conformity, these twisted sisters conspire to pull you in opposite directions; effectively turning your body into soap opera love triangle. But out of the rubble your feet have the tenacity to drag your stumbling psyche to the dance floor once more and if you're lucky, you let them teach you. Jitterbug, Tango, Salsa, Charleston, Foxtrot and if you dare...Fandango.

Dancing isn't a passion for everyone...but darned if it isn't there when we need it most. A lot of people dance to communicate things to the public that would otherwise be lost. There are plenty of people that dance to express their carnal intentions without words. A host of others enter the world of dance like a cold pool on a not so warm day, one toe at a time. I've had political histories, religious ceremonies and cultural intricacies explained to me through the power of dance and I imagine I am not alone. No matter which of these you might be, chances are you have some thoughts, theories, musings or elementary school dance recitals that are worth representing or recreating in your favourite medium.

Consider this post a welcoming hand extended from the exhibitionist in all of us to the wallflower in all of us. Lace up you tap shoes and take the floor, it may take two to tango and last time I checked there are about 40 people who check the site, so whether you're dancing your personal pain away or staring deeply into the eyes of your Meringue instructor...we want to know about it! Share your stories of dance revolution soon, May has arrived and the dancefloor awaits!

--The Precariously Balanced Life of a Garbage Man-- Kat Heyde

People watching never ceases to amaze me. From your neighbors across the way to the daycare kids picking their street crossing buddy, the small glimpses of other peoples lives continuously fascinates me. I am lucky enough to have an excellent perch above a busy street corner making it an ideal place for people spotting. Walking to the metro the other day, I watched a garbage truck for quite some time. With their frequent stops, they were moving about the same pace as me, so I got to follow their progress for several blocks. The two men hanging off the back of the truck were polar opposites. One older man, who was rocking a drooping handlebar mustache, carried the slightly jaded air of someone who had been on the job for too many years. The other, a tall handsome man in his early twenties exuded energy and constantly teased his co-worker. Stopped at a light, the older man listened with a patient grin as the other told an extravagant story about last night’s shenanigans. Tossing his arms in the air and gesturing wildly, he failed to notice the light go green. The driver, apparently bored with their slow process, shot into the intersection with impressive speed and the young man bailed off the back of the truck. Picking his self up as gracefully as possible in the given situation, he chased the garbage truck. His co-worker, bent double with laughter, pounded on the back of the truck, trying unsuccessfully to gain the attention of the driver. A two block chase ensued. When the young man finally reached the truck, it was just preparing to turn down decarie. The older man, still laughing hysterically, reached out his hand and pulled him up onto his own tiny perch, where the two nestled close together and rode off into the sunset.

-----The Day Jesus Came Back to Life---- Jason Connell

When I was 19 I went to Hong Kong on my own. The potent mix of teenage over confidence and fresh testosterone led me to believe I needed to visit a small Chinese industrial town alone to celebrate Chinese New Years amongst the people. So I got on a bus that drove through the day and into the night and at 4:00am it dropped me off just past nowhere. Eventually a man picked me up in his car. I didn’t want to go, but I could not imagine any other thing to do - I don’t speak Chinese, I have no cell phone, and I don’t even know where I am. So the car drives me around and the guy doesn’t speak English. A big hotel appears on the horizon like a gleaming mirage answering all of my western, white boy prayers. I thought “awesome, I can’t believe this guy is taking me to a hotel!” We drove up and I started to feel relaxed already. He slowed down at the entrance and I began to unbuckle. Before I could open the door though, he sped back up and drove down a long dark alley. The car stopped and he dragged me out. I was thinking I’m going to die. Thoughts like “I wish I had some more Yuan in my fucking wallet to give this guy – I hope he’ll take what I have and leave me alone” criss crossed my mind. I’d heard of this shit happening to tourists before, and I knew he had a gun. I weighed the situation and figured that if he beat me up I’d consider myself lucky. It seemed to make more sense for him to kill me and strip me of my ID then it did for him to beat me up and let me run to the police. I’m fucking dead. 19 and dead.

Well look, I’m not here to tell that story, and it’s a weird one, but I’ll leave it at this: I got away with my life and ended up getting a decent nights rest, though not at the hotel. The important part, is that you understand, I am acquainted with the edge.

So today is Easter. About 1,000,000 years ago, the only son of God died and came back to life. I’m not religious, but this is undeniably an impressive trick. My family lives in a different country, so I was going to spend the holiday alone. The plan was this: gorge myself on Easter candy and try not to feel too alone. My plans were foiled when my friend invited me to his folk’s house for Easter dinner. Nothing fancy, but a way better option than spending the day alone, trying not to feel alone.

We had all been chatting for a few hours before the roast was put out on the table. It was delicious. I don’t eat much meat, so I’m not an expert on this one, but as far as I know, that was a great hunk of meat. Anyways this is what its like to live on the edge: I’m a guest at friend’s parents house on the holiest day of the year. I’d had a bit to drink, but in no way was I drunk. Then, there it was: the set up for the most perfect penis joke. If I were with my boys on a night out I wouldn’t hesitate for a second; but this was not a night out, it’s was holiday dinner with a friend and his parents. But this was too good a chance to let slide by. Without much hesitation, I slowly delivered the penis joke. It’s not that I was confident that this was the right thing to do. In fact, I knew it was the wrong thing to do. But this isn’t about etiquette at tea parties, this is about finding the edge in a boring life, a life riddled by inane paradoxes like, “how can I watch House and the Office if they are both showing at 8:00pm.” That’s what this is about, looking at that edge, and saying “fuck you” as you slowly cross it.

The joke went over well. It was one of those times when the half seconds felt like weeks. I didn’t think that they were going to laugh. They didn’t laugh for about two long seconds, but then it clicked. They got it. That moment when you smoothly get away with something that everyone knows you shouldn’t be doing and everyone is slightly better off for it; that’s life on the edge.

--Narc in the Water--Connor Timmons

I was drawn back into stories of Peter Cotton tail on our way to the show, “through the yard, across the muddy parking lot, along the chain link fence to where the hole is.” Rather specific and shockingly accurate directions got us to the industrial space turned squat where Jesse made his home. Clusters of pin cushioned metal enthusiasts lined the stretch of fence leading to the entrance, providing a preview of the scrutiny we were to encounter for the rest of the night. “I should have worn more black...and leather” whispered my date, nailing my sentiments squarely on the head, “and tattoos” I added. We joked about how we could find a pair of scissors somewhere and lop off a couple of tufts of hair from our heads if we felt the need to fit in. Indeed we began to focus our anthropological lenses around the comically cramped space, noting, cataloguing and sharing the more insightful of our observations during lulls in the music/feedback.

It was only when Prevenge, the third group on the bill, began setting up that we were able to hopscotch our way into the back of the space and establish a good view. I began to notice the crowd reacting to me in a uncomfortable and unfamiliar manner. Ordinarily I have a knack for blending into the background, not reclusively, but the term “confidently unremarkable” does seem to sum up large swathes of my party going experiences. This was different, there was some attention being sent my way. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but there it was-like an unclaimed bag on an airport carousel; skirting from pair of eyes to pair of eyes, a look of uncertainty and distrust.

The lead singer began singing and I was lost in his voice, which sounded something like a cross between an industrial drill and a blow dryer. I spent the better part of the first song attempting to decipher the words of Prevenge's lyrics. I ultimately decided that they were either about hating ones lot in life or were a recipe for chocolate raspberry cake. Given that 99.9% of the were white males, I couldn't bring myself to believe that they would have much to complain about so passionately; so I asked the next logical question of myself, jam or fresh raspberries?

Mid way through the third song/recipe at the lyric (“you can never escape me/chill and serve with tea”) I noticed more looks and recognized them. I tugged on my date's sleeve, “Holy fuck! They think I'm a narc!” She turned, looked me top to bottom, giggled and replied “they totally do!” Here's what she saw: an unpierced short guy in his late twenties wearing a relatively new pair of New Balance 578s, brown work pants, a soft hemp hoodie and what looked to be a tuque from the Gap (it was). Then there's the mustache, at the time of this event I was sporting what I affectionately referred to as “a rather tremendous mustache”. The fact that the stache was an attempt to raise money for charity would be lost on this crowd, I might as well have entered the place, badge in hand and pepper spray at the ready. There are few things that drive home the fact that you are getting older than being identified as a narc at a party. In fact I'm not sure there are any other social phenomena which can parallel the avalanche of self doubt and insecurity that it triggered. I can confidently state that in spite of those feelings, a level of calm washed over me just in time to save the night. I took stock of myself and quickly realized there was absolutely nothing I could do to prove I was in fact, not a narc and settled back into the driving rhythms and screeching serenity of what seemed to be the most enthusiastic recipe for Key Lime Pie in modern history.

---Spellers do it on stage (excerpt)---Connor Timmons

“I look forward to seeing you naked” she smiled sweetly at me as she handed me the program for the evening's activities. I racked my brain for some clever yet erotic witticism that might somehow coax the lovely young hostess into more discussions of nudity. Of course there was nothing there worth repeating. I ravenously digested the contents of the page, half hiding my blushing cheeks, half hoping there would be some admission that this event was something other than what I knew it to be. After scouring the pamphlet for about ten minutes I realized this was exactly what it claimed to be, a strip spelling bee.

I first heard about the Honeysuckle Strip Spelling Bee from a friend living in another city. He had seen something about it on a friend's Facebook account and so he sent me the link. He knew me pretty well because my first instinct was “fuck yeah, I am so there”. As the date approached however, I began to second guess my initial reaction. I went through phases of doubt: first I would exercise furiously for a week or two trying to tighten my stomach, create some semblance of shoulders on my sickly frame. After bringing myself back to reality (rather, back to the reason I have a Woody Allen physique and its called laziness), I tried to focus on more practical preparations. I started to spell things. I did several whirlwind tours of the OED with the help of my roommates and felt moderately more comfortable with the impending challenges to my grey matter. This faded when I caught of glimpse of the movie Spellbound one evening. Its a movie I'd already seen, but the collected stories of young spelling dorks reminded me that signing up for the bee might place me more than just a little out of my league. Then there were those dark times when I doubted the less tangible but critical elements of a strip spellers character...moxie, balls, chutzpah, joie de vivre. Every culture seems to have an appropriate term for personal fundamentals to be admired and all are equally effective at reminding people, such as myself, that they are lacking this element.

Some days I woke knowing I needed to end up naked on stage and that it would present an opportunity to wash away any sexual demons I had recently encountered; a chance to kick my baggage to the curb and get back to the sex positive person I knew I was/am. Those days were counterbalanced by nightmarish scenarios of the theatre filling with disapproving ex girlfriends or family members all of whom would heckle me into the floor. The battle for control of my dignity was waged for weeks until out of nowhere the day came for the bee.

I did my best to sabotage my own plans by drinking myself into a stupor the night before, and for the better part of the day the hangover was enough to convince me to attend, but remain fully clothed. I met my friends on the way in the door and felt a nervous excitement creep along my skin. Had the exhibitionist in me done such a good job convincing my inner wallflower to partake that my body had been caught up in the fervor? Sitting there listening to the two of them bicker over questions of decency, youth and the like, my body had apparently decided that it was tickled pink over the notion of being ogled by a room of under-sexed bookworms. So my name found itself on the “spellers” list and the free drink that went along with that honor found itself in the bottom of my belly within seconds.

I was at the bar when the lovely lady handed me the brochure, effectively sealing my fate.

“what name did you put down?” my friend asked with wicked anticipation in his eyes.

“what do you mean?”

“well, I just assumed you'd use a fake name...tell me you used a fake name”

I blinked at him as if to say, 'you might have mentioned that when I wrote my legit name down RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU ten minutes ago!' A young woman squeezed past us toward the hostess to ask a question.

“excuse me...there's something in here about a striptease...I hope that's not what it sounds like,"

Perfect, another doubter, I could piggy back on her uneasiness. We would form a bond based on our mutual reservations and sashay our way out of there, possibly with a date...

"...because I haven't brought my music”

“oh not to worry we've taken care of the musical arrangements” answered the hostess reassuringly.

“Great, I would hate to have to deal with that” she said, genuinely relieved.

The room started to spin.

Staying Alive

For the first piece of the month we've decided to share a story from the CBC's Fifth Estate. This is a particularly important piece about life on the edge for a couple of reasons, the first should be obvious once you watch the video, the second pertains more to the recent fallout from funding lapses in the federal budget for the CBC. 600 jobs have been lost and radio and television programming will be suffering signifigant setbacks because of it. This is the kind of investigative journalism that has put Canadian journalists on the map. Love or hate the CBC its pretty sad to see that it has to walk a tightrope for the difference between 35$ and 40$/taxpayer.

The synopsis of the episode is below the link. Be sure to read this to know what you're getting into as some of the images can be very disturbing to some. The entire content of the video and synopsis is CBC content, I'm just trying to draw attention to how a local population can be living life on the edge.

http://www.cbc.ca/fifth/2008-2009/staying_alive/video.html

Staying Alive
The federal government wants it shut down. The people who use it and who work there say it is saving lives. It is Insite, provincially-funded, and the first and only supervised injection site in North America where addicts can bring their drug of choice and, with the clean needles provided, can inject themselves. Insite's clients are some of the most desperate who live on Vancouver's downtown east side. Now, for the first time, cameras have been allowed inside the facility for an exclusive look at the place and the people. Follow Hana Gartner inside and make up your own mind about whether Insite is, as one federal politician has said, an "abomination", or whether there should be more of them in this country.

All our contributors get emails to let them know about new themes on the horizon, we'll post these emails a couple of days before we start posting their submissions. Here is the latest for next week's theme of life on the edge. If you would like to added to our list of contributors, email connor@thefirewire.ca


Sometimes we tip toe along the side of a pool to ensure we get a maximum surprise splash factor on a friend napping in the sun. Other times we cry ourselves to sleep knowing that our children's college fund has to be converted to our family's food fund. While individual people may deny it vehemently, as a species we have a tendency to move toward the precipice even if its just to see whats at the bottom. Looking for an example?

http://www.tarsandswatch.org/
http://www.forbes.com/2009/03/05/general-motors-auditors-markets-equity_manufacturing_autos.html
www.pbs.org/independentlens/kingcorn/

Here in Montreal the urban masses file in and out of the metro tunnels each day knowing they have the power to hurl themselves on to the tracks, and many do. I sometimes have that inclination myself, not as a suicide attempt as much as a statement of control, "all those other things are beyond me, but THIS I can determine all on my own." I have yet to act on this but its an interesting thought experiment all the same. This little group we have is a similar experiment and so I think this next theme and the context it comes in are appropriate. Starting next week we will be posting submissions rooted in life on the edge. Walk the tight rope, skip across the balance beam, hang your head off the end of your bed until your room is in a different country do it all and share it with us.

I'll try to have things up for your late night sunday surf or your monday morning escape from work. If you haven't checked out the new url yet, have a gander...

http://thefirewirecollective.blogspot.com/

DJ shadow - The Outsider (Typographic animation) from remote on Vimeo.

Here is a great little vid that I ripped from another blog (FOR SHAME!) I promise the posts will resume more regular schedule once the intranet gets sorted at the Treehouse.

Found Dotted Line!

I was cruising around Missed Connections on Craigslist the other day ('cause I DO ok?!) and I saw this little unassuming post. It seems to fit our theme so I wanted to include it. I like to think its author enjoys dried mango and dances when everyone is looking.

--------------------------------------------- - w4m - 21

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Date: 2009-02-22, 10:20PM EST

so much I couldn't even fit in a craigslist post.


nbd.
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1046279380

New Digs!

Hey All!

We are trying out this new fangled blogspot business to make things a little easier from week to week. Hopefully this does the trick, it should make my web illiteracy somewhat less obvious!

Hopefully we'll be seeing you folks posting regularly.

peace

ct