LET THE GOLDEN AGE BEGIN

littlekismet.tumblr.com

( SUMMER 2010 CHAIKA 3 )

"If we dedicate ourselves to sacredness in our vocations, the world will rise to meet us."
Joel Salatin

It has become increasingly clear to me that somewhere along the line, I have stumbled down the wrong path.

At the Rehearsal Factory the lobby smells like stale cigarettes and sativa, a thin layer of beer washing the floors with pale green pallor. A bulletin board begs for bassists, vocalists, rent payments. I ask if the walls are soundproof. The answer is no, and as the hours tick by you can hear an increasing number of voices, drumkits, electric guitars, all muffled through the carpeted walls. Our room is dark and small, decorated with a single string of multicoloured lights and a star that clicks on and off. My hands sweat.

Upstairs the bathroom is like an airplane bathroom, all stainless steel and dark blue tile. A mirror that tilts towards the floor. To enter and exit I pass an enormous room with the door ajar, it is bigger than my apartment. Against a wall the drumkit is forward-faced, backed with blue velvet. I hear footsteps on concrete. The humming of amplifiers. I can barely make out voices but I know the conversation so well.

I'm not going to kid myself, I want to make art, and this feels like the mecca of hedonism. I imagine these musicians exist in a state of self-love, their affection turned inward at themselves or outward at their music, and they perfect some small part of themselves every time they play. They oscillate their passion. There is a creative energy and simultaneously destructive tendency that seeps out of every note. Every strained syllable. That perfect pitch.

In submitting myself to the monotony of a daily hustle and grind I find that I have forgotten that these palaces of leisure exist. That it is possible to make a living doing something that gives you immense pleasure, that opens the doors to stimulation. It is in these pockets of creativity, these sensual traps that I am reminded of what I have wanted for so long.

I want not to be trodden down by the ever-present weight of reality. I will not let what I have gradually become result in the infertility of my words. I will live and speak with meaning. I will be prolific.

At the Horseshoe Tavern I move through a throng of people and their growing, glowing heat to get closer to the stage. The Beauties invite Jason Colett on stage and he sings "It may be the devil, or it may be the lord, but you're gonna have to serve somebody" real Bob Dylan like, right down to the pouf of curly black hair wiggling at the top of his head like a folk-singer's crown. Friends line the stage- Ron Sexsmith and his characteristic hump, a fiddle player from the opening act. A backup singer from Nashville. It all stinks of The Last Waltz, Scorsese's two-hour chronicle of a period in music that we will never have the pleasure to experience. The only choices that we have left are to create, or to imitate, and though both of these tasks require finesse, I'm sure you know which one I prefer. The music was good, anyway.

On nights like these, I love this city. Dallas and I sit on the curb of the Metro parkade picking at blueberries and California strawberries, watching stilettos stumble past. The salt and vinegar chips sting my lips but I don't mind, licking my fingertips. Giant inflatable castles slump over the street in piles of circus-coloured rubber. We talk about anything that crosses our minds, and on the walk home, I pass a lowrise where I can hear a group of people singing along to a record player through an open window. They clap in unison.

I'm big on intimacy. It surprises and baffles me when people walk around with walls built so solidly around them; why anyone in the world would prefer defensive privacy over generous connectivity. What is there to hide? What do we protect when we keep ourselves tucked away? I'd rather we be transparent, in the most genuine way. To have people see into me. To see into others. To exchange life in fragments, selfless. I gush at the sight of physical manifestations of a human desire to reach out-expansive bridges, telephone poles, train tracks- like fingers entrapping the planet. Cutting the distance. I'm all about it.

I think I want to be more honest. Less self-involved. More aware. I think I want to know more about myself so that when I meet someone, I can be totally upfront. So I can spend less time battling questions in my mind and more time elevating the experience that another person's presence creates. To be fully appreciative of what we have to offer each other. Which is more than we can ever know.

( Summer so far: Large scans from my Chaika III )

Was it you who first introduced me to the Rolling Stones' Moonlight Mile? I still get chills when I listen to the deliberate strumming of sticky fingers, Mick Jagger's ragged voice singing about warmed bones, and the colossal impact that distance has on intimacy. Longing. The idea of coming home. I think about those nights on the lake with your parents at a rented cottage- the golden retriever returning with burrs in his silky fur. Twigs and bush. Sitting cross-legged rolling joints under a lazy ceiling fan in the basement bedroom, a straw-hatted marionette staring me down. Listening to a stereo so fuzzy we almost believed we had a record player.

Mostly I remember the brisk wind that rolled in off the lake, brushing against our toes beneath the most serene sky. The audible chill. Now that I think about it, there was always something cold about you. Your curt response to my emotional aggression. Your inability to be swayed. This song makes me think about you because it expresses how I wanted you to be. How I wanted you to think of me. To miss me. To find your surroundings strange without me. But instead you brandished the distance that you fostered between us, as though you feared any closeness that involved an understanding of who you were and who you didn't want to be. I wish you had just told me.

I guess what I'm saying is, you were never going to come home. I knew that. It didn't matter if coming home meant living with your parents in Mississauga, or staying in Canada, or being near someone you led to believe you needed. It wasn't part of the plan. We were so fundamentally different; your yearning for transplantation overshadowed my desire to grow roots. And while I commend your ability to commit to your wanderlust, I can't help but think that it's the only thing under which you could ever submit.

Forget about us. Enjoy Japan. You don't belong here.