Cold Bullets Inc.

2010-02-08T12:55:00.001-08:00

http://cailjudy.tumblr.com

American Indians

2009-11-04T00:12:00.000-08:00

We were American Indians
In the hot summer heat
Playing and dancing and
Stomping our feet.

We washed in the river
Got mud in our eyes
Stole feathers from pillows
We made our disguise.

The woods called to us
And to the woods we did run
Moccasins on our feet
Backs warmed by the sun.

With an old arrowhead
We bloodied our hands
Brothers forever
As tradition demands.

Crouched on a hill
In summer’s hot grasp,
We beat a toy drum
While burning sweet grass.

We played games ‘till the sky
Was tainted with red
Our mighty war cries
Could waken the dead.

American Indians
Now late in the night
Our war cries grow quiet
The moon gives us light.

With notepads and pens
We recount the day’s glory
So we’ll never forget
Our Indian story.

Submit to [spaces] Literary Journal

2009-10-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

Open to Trinity Western University alumni and current students.

http://www.twuspaces.com/

(The ladies love it when you're published, fellows. Get on it.)

Totalitarianism and Emotional Terrorism in Equilibrium

2009-10-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

Equilibrium is a dystopia-genre film based in a totalitarian society. The film is set in the year 2072, after the earth has experienced the Third World War. The leaders of the world decree that emotions are to blame for man’s “inhumanity to man”. In order to create a society free of war and human suffering, “emotionally stimulating material” is banned, along with all human emotions. A new city-state is formed: Libria. A totalitarian governing body is constructed, the Tetra Grammaton Council, run by a figure only known as Father. Equilibrium demonstrates the negatives aspects of totalitarian governments and urges that human existence is meaningless without emotion. The film focuses on how the totalitarian “Big Brother” government controls their populace, with positive intentions but in actuality strips individuals of their humanity and oppresses them.

Ironically, the city-state of Libria is devoid of all liberty. The supposedly humanistic society of Libria is created to keep humanity from destroying itself. All subjects of Libria are required to take a daily injection of Prozium, a drug that all but eliminates emotion. While the powers that be celebrate that Prozium has eliminated war, jealousy, hate and negative emotions, it also eliminates positive emotions. This leaves the citizens of Libria as vacuous drones, incapable of feeling anything. The emotional balance of the society is controlled by the Council and how much Prozium they determine people need. The government views their work as a success, in that the “disease of human emotion” no longer controls society. Individuals have the security of knowing that if they play by the rules and take their injection, they will be safe. They can take comfort in no longer needing to make their own decisions.

Like all totalitarian governments, the Council does not allow anyone to challenge their authority. In one scene, the protagonist John Preston argues against the decree that all Resistance fighters the Clerics encounter are to be killed on the spot. Preston, who has become able to feel emotion, states that he feels these people are being treated unjustly. He argues that they should be put on trial and given a change to re-enter society. Dupont, the voice of Father, states: “It is the order of Father that they are to be shot and killed on sight. Father’s word is law.” There is no justice system in place to challenge the decisions being made by the Librian’s government. Father’s word is Law, putting him in a Godlike position. How can an individual challenge God? They cannot, unless they form a body of resistance. Within the totalitarian government structure, there is no room for justice to parties outside Libria.

Thus, the Council leaves no room for diplomacy with the Resistance. The government devises a plan of action to rid Libria of anything that might stir emotion. The Council creates the Grammaton Clerics, who enforce and destroy any vestiges of emotional material. They also hunt down and kill “Sense Offenders”, individuals who have gone off their Prozium dose. This is a clear case of an extreme type of censorship, controlling every intake that the society has available. This is clearly evidenced in the monochromatic landscape and clothing that every individual is required to wear, eliminating individuality.

The emotionless humans in Equilibrium do not have the ability to discern what is right and wrong. The characters that are on the Prozium drug are unable to comprehend why the Resistance has such an attachment to art, books and even dogs. The film shows us that without the basic component of human emotion, we cannot fully understand what it means to be human. We have no ability to care for others. If we do not have some concern for others, we cannot truly discern what is right and wrong. We would have to base what is moral off what the government tells us is right.

In addition to being merciless towards humans with emotion, Libria is also a sexist society. Women do not have a role in the Council and are barely seen throughout the entire movie. The only female character with any screen time is Mary O’Brien, a resistance fighter who embodies human passion and love. Preyston is obsessed with a piece of red ribbon that contains her scent. A women’s only role is in the family structure, but since there is no love, they are not nurturing to their children or husbands. They are merely vehicles for human reproduction and child rearing.

In a larger context, Equilibrium is commenting on the role of censorship in our present society. Illegal materials are rated "EC-10" for "emotional content". This is an intentional reference to the MPAA film rating system by the director, Kurt Wimmer. The film borrows a great deal from other classic dystopian works. Equilibrium shares the idea of mass consumption with Brave New World. As well, the burning of books in Fahrenheit 451 echoes Father’s decree that all materials containing an emotional charge are to be eliminated. Complete conformity is promoted in the society. In all of these works, the governments control what we are and are not allowed to engage with. They take the idea of censorship to a new extreme, a warning to us to take notice of censorships placed on us in the present age.

Ultimately, the totalitarian state is toppled with the death of the Father Figure. Preston commits this murder as an act of individualism to regain emotion for his society. Without feelings, we would lead a meaningless existence. Free will and free thinking prevail over the dominant totalitarian ideology. The hope at the end of the film is if the Resistance can disrupt the flow of Prozium for even one day, the people will embrace their human emotion and revolt against the totalitarian structure of Libria. Equilibrium demonstrates the meaninglessness of human existence without emotion and the dangers of living in a totalitarian society.

New Blog

2009-10-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

Hello. I just wanted to let you know that Cold Bullets Inc. is still active.

I plan to continue using this site as a portfolio for my written work. I also started a new blog over at Tumblr for fun/intriguing/bizarre discoveries. It gets updated pretty much every day.

http://cailjudy.tumblr.com/

When I have new written work, I will post it here first. Thanks for reading!

-Management

September 14th, 2009

2009-09-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

Reading:

Listening:

Watching:

Enjoying: (parenthesis)

August 15th, 2009

2009-08-15T17:13:00.000-07:00

Listening to: Constantines - Kensington Heights

David Bazan - Curse Your Branches

Reading: The Mad Ones - Tom Folsom

The Walrus - July/Aug 2009 issue

Looking forward to: Writing a short story that I've been working on for a while, practicing guitar, getting ready for school and relaxing for the next couple weeks.

Recently enjoyed: Spending an amazing week-and-a-half with my wonderful, beautiful girlfriend in Montreal, Vermont and New York City.

August 3, 2009

2009-08-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

Listening to: The Velvet Underground - Loaded

Reading: David Boring and Sex God

Watching: Newest episode of Entourage and Blue Velvet

Looking forward to: Spending time with my girl. Visiting Montreal and NYC.

Vending Machine Blues

2009-07-30T15:38:00.000-07:00

I ate my last meal out of a vending machine today.

Some would say I'm a bit crazy, living on the wild side, eating out of a vending machine. Such blatant disregard for my own health.

It doesn't happen often, but sometimes you just don't have time to pack a lunch.

So you eat from the vending machine.

Today is my last day at the office.

The last day I will spend staring blankly into this computer screen.

The last day I will sit in this office chair into which I've passed gas many times.

The last day I will joke with the French guy and the Married guy who work with me.

The last day I will secretly write entries on this site at work, all the while trying to make it appear I'm writing emails.

No more cold stares from The Wolf.

I ate my last meal out of the vending machine.

Like a fat man in a hammoch, the burrito has nestled its way into my belly.

But soon, the feeling will pass.

And I'll be free.

Neither Here Nor There

2009-07-23T15:53:00.000-07:00

Like a thunderstorm in the midnight hour, you shocked me.

The words flew out of your mouth like caged canaries getting their first taste of freedom.

My voice rang out like a climber summiting his first mountain.

Easy and cool, you swayed in the wind of my compliments. Taking the hem of your dress, we danced softly in the breeze.

I was locked in place like a child in a very competitive game of Freeze Tag.

Young hearts were free that afternoon.

We took the clouds and saddled them, like a storybook where strangers aren't scary. Where the human heart leans towards better things.

It was easy when I could see your face. Now I see your words and I'm better for it.

I want to hold you like mine were the last arms in the world.

Note: The last line is lifted from a Shane Koyczan spoken word piece. Give credit where credit is due, I say.

Bullets

2009-06-04T11:36:00.000-07:00

Gravel crunches beneath my boots and buckshot ricochets off the cement wall beside me. I crouch down behind an overturned army truck, waiting for the next break in gunfire. I don’t even know if anyone else is alive in my squad. I lost radio contact a half hour ago. When we got seperated, Johnny and I circled back to the rendezvous point, but we’d already been cut off.

Sins of the Father (Part 2)

2009-05-29T12:18:00.000-07:00

I've been running my entire life.
Ran away from home when I was seven.
Cheated on my high school girlfriend
To push her away.
Now I'm walking out on my wife
My son.
I've never been good with words
And even less with goodbyes.
I packed my bags while my boy was at school.
At least I waited until he got home.
But now I'm leaving.
Don't ask my why.
Let's just say I'm cashing in my chips for a new hand.
This life was too small for me.
But the road ahead is wide open.
The freeway is calling my name
So I'm washing my hands of this life.
Maybe you'll understand when you're older, son.
Maybe not.
God, I pray you turn out to be a better man than me.

Sons of Nevada (Part 1)

2009-05-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

A heartless bastard
Is what I called him
When his feet hit the floor.
He headed out to his dirty blue pick-up
Where he'd already thrown
His army duffel bag
Filled with his flannel shirts
Marlboro cigarettes ("What a real man smokes, son")
Leatherman knife
And his compass.
My mother's tears stained the kitchen linoleum.
She asked him not to go
And I said he was
A heartless bastard and
Don't come around here anymore
Or I'll kill you.
Those were the last words I said to him.
He walked out the door
Taking my youth with him.
He drove off into the burning Mohave landscape.
I watched from our porch
And spat on the ground where his boots had tread.
I was nine years old
And more of a man
Then he would ever be.

Interview with Myk Roc of Sparrow Guitars

2009-04-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

Sparrow Guitars asked me to write an article about their resident pinstriper, Myk Roc. It was fascinating to research the history behind pinstriping and learn about the originators like Ed Roth and Von Dutch. Myk was a pleasure to interview. You can check out the article at Sparrow Guitars News (2009-04-21).

You can also visit Myk Roc's Pinheadlounge.com profile by clicking here.

Stone Rose

2009-03-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

I gave my love a stone rose. It was cold and beautiful.

She planted the rose in a concrete lot
in a New York City slum.

My love was like the stone rose. Cool to touch, with a beauty that could not fade.

I would hold my love's hand and tell her how beautiful she was. She would smile and whisper in my ear, her voice spiced with secrets, grown in a garden behind her eyes.

We lived in the heart of Brooklyn, above a soul food diner. We could see the river from the rooftop. In the summertime, we would bask in the heat, smoking cigarettes, listening to Marvin Gaye, high in the friendly sky.

Sometimes my love would ask about the stone rose.

Did you find it in a pawnshop? Was it abandoned in a dark alley?

No. I sang a ten-story love song to a gypsy in Central Park. She began to cry and showed me her wares. She kept them in a burlap sack, tied to her back.

Why did she cry?

She had never heard such a beautiful song.

That's a lie. You can’t sing.

It's a story. Let me finish. She tried to offer me fools gold. I said no. She could read my palm and tell me when I was going to die. I declined. She showed me the rose. It was the best she could offer. She told me to give it to my lover. And so I did.

That's very sweet.

It's the truth.

I still don't believe you.

That's okay.

And my love would wrap herself in my arms. I would hold her close, telling her secrets from a world only I could see. A world beneath the city streets, where myth and legend run rampant, like wild things.

She would laugh and tell me about her dreams. She would whisper her secrets in my ear, offering me an elephant stone or the words to songs sung in heaven. I would smile and hold her closer still, her hair across my chest, like a dismantled angel wing.

A stone rose is unfading, unchanging. Just like my love.

So I gave my love a stone rose, cold to the touch and beautiful.

Motorcycle

2009-02-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

A belated birthday present for my buddy Jordan. He enjoys motorcycles.

Tally Ho

2009-02-07T02:59:00.000-08:00

Inklings and Wild Things

2009-02-05T12:10:00.000-08:00

(Nick Cave is an anti-hero I value dearly.)

Already five days into February. It's amazing how quickly time is passing us by. I feel like each day follows a similar pattern and before my head can wrap around the clock another week is over and I'm sitting on my coach on a Sunday night, thinking about the upcoming week. It's perplexing and frightening.

I was able to meet most of my goals for January, the biggest being a new-found direction for the fall. The prospects of returning to university to study English is very exciting. Getting out the day-job-business-office-politics-water-cooler-talk-cliche will be great for my soul. For now, it's a good job and I'm earning a decent amount of bread. Also been doing research into MFA's for Creative Writing, but I know that my work is not up to snuff for acceptance at the school's I'd want to attend. Yet. I feel more motivated to write and push myself than I ever have before.

The coolest thing I've got planned for the coming week is a consultation with a Vancouver tattoo artist. I've wanted a tattoo for a long time, but never had a clear idea of what I'd want on my body. You know, permanently. At Christmastime, I was visiting my folks and re-read "Where the Wild Things Are." I've always cherished the book and the art of Maurice Sendak. I realized that an illustration from this book would be something I could live with and love having on my body forever. I'm going to meet with Jesse, the tattoo artist, and ask him if he thinks he could, for lack of a better way to put it, copy the illustration onto my arm. This is what I'm thinking of, where Max is being carried by the Wild Things, his scepter held high.

With you in mind, faithful reader, I plan to finish the first draft of a short story I've been writing on-and-off since the fall. I'll post an excerpt soon for your hungry eyes.

In the meantime, go see "Coraline" this weekend. I caught a pre-screening of it on Monday with my little brother and it is amazing. Catch it soon before it's no longer offered in 3D.

"Journal" sounds better than "Blog"

2009-01-28T12:52:00.000-08:00

Up to this point, my goal has been to avoid doing actual "blog" posts. I don't want to be a typical blogger who posts inane blathering about pets, trips to Gettysburg or office politics. No sir. My goal was to use this site solely for posting drafts of my writing.

However, I've come to realize much of what makes a blog interesting to read is engaging in the personal life of the writer. Reading about what fuels someone to create can be as interesting as what they are creating. For example, I read Neil Gaiman's journal everyday. I'll poke around and read essays and things that he's written, but the most interesting part of his website is his online journal. It's fascinating to read about the day-to-day activities that comprise his life and the events surrounding his writing.

I will continue to post drafts of poems/short stories/essays that I'm working on, but I will also write more personal entries about how my writing is going, what I'm working on, life decisions, etc. It'll also encourage me to update Cold Bullets more frequently.

Currently I'm working on a review of the documentary Flow for the non-profit site WaterDrop and a short piece for Sparrow Guitar's website about their main pin-stripper. Kicking around a couple short stories as well. Also, I've been considering going back to school for a year of upper-level English courses and subsequently becoming an English teacher in the UK for a while.

Been reading Just After Sunset, the new short story collection by Stephen King. The writing is strong and it leans more on weird aspects of the human psyche than the supernatural. It's an engrossing read, like most of his writing.

Now, back to work. I'm still at the office.

Ramblings

2009-01-10T02:41:00.000-08:00

The old man sat beneath the porch light, rocking softly back and forth. He held his .44 caliber rifle in his lap, the creaking of his rocking chair lolling him back and forth into a state of Midwestern contentment. He let the doctors play their game inside, trying to revive the softly fading heartbeat of his aged wife. He felt very little inside, a small pit where his heart once beat steady and strong. He knew this was their last night together but he kept himself silent. He rocked back and forth. Waiting. The sky was unusually clear this warm August night, the crickets singing their rhythmic song, carried on a dusty breeze. He sat and waited, knowing nothing except that if he kept moving, her heart would keeping beating. His dinner was still on the table, untouched from their regular evening meal. He thought of all that they had shared together and would share no more. He thought of their children, grown and gone. He sat alone on this night, as he had so many evenings before. But tonight was different. There would be no hum of the refrigerator as he climbed the stairs, waiting for the cool sheets of his bed. He would not hear the soft sigh of his wife as he climbed into bed. He would only hear the beating of his own heart, beating alone.

Waiting.

North of 60

2008-12-15T21:15:00.000-08:00

Bury me with a cigarette in my hand and a leather jacket on my back.

A song in my head and my heart at Wounded Knee.

Raise a totem for my story, for the few who care to know.

Lower my body into reservation land. My eyes staring up at Heaven and my back to Hell.

Daily Dose

2008-12-14T23:25:00.001-08:00

The penguin is confused. All he wants is a hug.

Old sketches unearthed

2008-12-14T22:50:00.000-08:00

I drew these on a tour bus in Alaska, summer of 2006. I stumbled upon them recently as I rummaged through my closet, looking for a lint-brush.

Mo' tea, sah?

2008-12-03T12:37:00.000-08:00

Main Street Beat

2008-10-29T18:19:00.001-07:00

I walk across a dirty parking lot, cigarette between my fingers. I take a final drag and flick the butt on the asphalt, grinding it down with the point of my shoe. Wouldn't want a music flyer or discarded paperback to catch on fire. The night has set in and the stars are washed out by the light of the city. I soak in the nightlife of my neighborhood, Mt. Pleasant, the best part of Vancouver. Scattered up and down the sidewalks are people of all shapes, sizes and shades.

Coffee from local purveyors JJ Bean is consumed with utter rhapsody by several well-dressed twenty-something males walking behind me. Smoking cigarettes and stroking their beards, you'd never know these guys grew up in Langley and listened to Third Eye Blind religiously in junior high. Sitting at the bus stop, an old man smokes a joint, dressed in bright, tie-died clothing, reminiscing on the days of free love. I smile and continue walking, brushing shoulders with the hipster elite and hippies of a discarded generation.

I continue up Main. Overpriced leather jackets and flannel shirts litter the storefronts of upscale shops. At the crosswalk, I see a crusty man wearing the tightest jeans imaginable on someone above the age of 30. Wearing a matching denim jacket, he walks his bike across the street. He always has his bike with him. However, I’ve never once seen him ride it. As he reaches the other side, he stops and looks into the window of a pub. A passerby might think he was merely peering inside to see if he recognized anyone. I know better. Staring at his reflection, he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a comb and begins methodically running it through his hair. Black and shiny, it tumbles down his shoulders like wisps of smoke on a cold autumn morning. He is affectionately referred to by a nickname my roommates and I have blessed him with. We call him Moonboots, based entirely on his enormous ski footwear. He has become an omen of good luck, the guardian angel of Main Street. His perfect hair lifts our spirits.

Glancing up at a passing bus, I see Old Charlie with his face pressed against the window. Since moving to Main Street from the bowels of suburbia a year go, I have enjoyed the community this city has to offer. Public transit alone yields a multitude of stories involving seedy characters, like a Tom Waits song incarnated. Old Charlie is one such individual. I’ve seen him in every part of the city, from downtown Granville to the beaches of Kitsilano. In a past life, he could have been a Shakespearean actor. He once approached a friend of mine at the bus stop for change. As he began to speak, his warbled voice began to crack and tears formed in his eyes. Old Charlie went from an apathetic old man to train wreck in under forty seconds. The despair and hunger in his voice could have melted the coldest of hearts. He asked for money and my friend gave him a latte. A bawling mess, Old Charlie took it gratefully. George Clooney would be so lucky to have this man’s ability to conjure up emotion.

I light one last cigarette as I approach my apartment. I think back on my walk up Main Street and all the characters I’ve met since moving here. This city is very much alive. If Vancouver were a living being, Main Street would be the superior vena cavae, pumping blood straight to the heart of it all. Some might see the wild characters of our city streets as a nuisance, but I think they help keep Vancouver vibrant and alive. With a final drag on my cigarette, I head inside, content in the heart of the city.

Note: This piece is going to be published in the forthcoming issue of The Source, a Vancouver magazine on diversity.

Wasted and Wounded: A Work In Progress

2008-10-26T01:13:00.001-07:00

Jeremiah leaned against the blazing steel of the I-5 road sign. 80 miles to Portland. Heat simmered off the highway, giving the sense that each distant vehicle was a hallucination. He removed a pack of crumpled cigarettes from his jacket. His first hit of nicotine since breakfast. He pulled out a book of matches, lit his cigarette and smiled into the breeze as it cooled his brow. A glint of light caught his eye and he turned towards the road.

His vision was filled with the red truck screaming towards him.

A whiskered face behind the wheel and the sound of cracking bones were all he registered before light faded to black.

*****

Jeremiah awoke several hours later in a hospital. The first thing he noticed was the tightness in his arms and left leg.

New sketches

2008-09-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

This little arena of the web is generally dedicated to my writing, but here are a few sketches that I have done recently for your viewing pleasure.

Freewriting

2008-08-16T18:09:00.000-07:00

Dead weather. It opens its arms like a fog unannounced. It is trounced by the manly living that is partaking of the small animals in the fog. There is only one thing that matters and that is the living and the breathing the holy mother that sustains the blood within our veins. I hold tight to the fact that there is only one thing keeping this shipwreck from falling into the depths of the sea.

Dead weather. There is only one thing that hold me back from jumping over the edge into the storm gale that is circling around the recesses of harbored thoughts and forgotten dreams. The tale that is woven around my legs keeps me still and remembers that there are worse things than death. Life can take you down a dark path but there is one thing still gleaming in the sustaining glance.

Dead weather. Don’t park your car near the sidewalk where the marmots play. They will take your keys when you’re not looking and swap them for cold beer and a pack of cigarettes. You have to be careful not to keep your keys in your back pocket. Their quick little fingers are nimble and will snatch them right out of your pants before you can say “Hello sah!”

Dead weather. Jeremy wanted to go fishing but his father said no. There wasn’t enough time before the sun was going to rise and besides, father had to work on his car. It was an old 63 convertible he’d bought in Portland. He only paid $30,000 for it and he figured if he put enough work into it he could up the resale value ten fold. Jeremy went back to his room and began working on a model airplane. He imagined that he was trapped inside the bosom of the plane as giant hands worked magic goo over the hull and pieced the plane back together, like a demolition video in reverse.

Dead weather. It’s dark nights and stormy frights the like of which you’ve never seen. There are ghost towns with robot crowns awaiting a new festivity. People don’t walk here much anymore, they’ve seen the lies that perpetrate the moors of their unbridled hearts. They chainsmoke to forget the smell of the grass and the first crack of the window on a dewy morning. They can’t remember the smells, only the charred feeling in the back of their throats. They can’t feel it. They can’t touch it. They can’t see it. Does it matter?

Dead weather. Fuck this idle hand and the booming megaphone. I can’t lift my little pinky and it’s all your fault. You should’ve checked your mirrors before you crashed into the curb and took out my good side. My money maker is fucked.

Dead weather.

Note: This was a stream-of-consciousness piece, written in one sitting with no breaks in the writting process. The only editing was for grammar. Try it out, it is wild what you conjure up.

The Late Night Fright

2008-07-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

The wind is howling late tonight
And I must say, there is a slight
Uneasiness in how I feel
As if my stomach were an eel.

My room is dark, the colors muted
But suddenly, as if recruited
Thunder, lightening, hitting fast
Strike with great electric wrath.

Blankets pulled around my face
My parents gone, without a trace.
Out to visit Granny dear
Leaving me alone in here.

We live on Hollow Crescent Lane
A dreary street with loads of rain.
A creepy place to raise a child
And here's the kicker (this is wild)
My backyard is a cemetery
"All who enter, be ye wary."
Reads the sign above the gates
Perhaps some evil perpetrates
Cruel acts of malice with intent.
At least this place is cheap on rent.

I venture forth out from my room
For if I stay I could be doomed
What if a tree branch crashed and fell
Onto my bed, I could not tell
Would I live or maybe perish?
If only I lived near a parish.

I reach the kitchen, bathed in black
And almost have a heart attack.
Two eyes burn yellow in the night
Giving me an awful fright.

Before my knees give out and buckle
I catch myself and have a chuckle.
For sitting on our kitchen table
Is our cat, Sir Henry Fable.

I grab Sir Henry, milk and cookie
And head upstairs, the house less spooky.
I snuggle down and before long
My snores ring steady, like a song.

Review: The Haunted Computer and the Android Pope

2008-07-02T12:30:00.001-07:00

The Haunted Computer and the Android Pope: Poems by Ray Bradbury

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
A very interesting look into the mind of Ray Bradbury. While he has many poems dedicated to infinite space and wild beings, much of the material is based off his travels to ancient ruins or ruminations on childhood summers. I digested this book over the course of two months, partaking with other reads. The poems require care and attention, as the layers and imagery Bradbury evokes are substantial.

View all my reviews.

2008-06-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Where the wild heart of the night meets the cold morning song, that is where you will find her. She keeps watch over the tired people of the midday sun.

Brother, Brother

2008-06-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

There were crisp autumn afternoons
Playing football near the garden
Where our ambitions grew tall.
Rhubarb in the corner, useful
for whipping each other
like boy kings flogging unruly subjects.

In our small prairie town
We rode our bicycles down back alleys
By nature ponds where geese would rest
after long flights across painted landscapes.

We played ice hockey and surprisingly
The smell of fresh ice and the sound of
taping up a pair of skates were golden moments
Turned nostalgic dreams.

Running down the single main street
Visiting the few friends we possessed
Going bowling at the five-pin
With the video cassette section, filled with
Movies were weren't old enough to see.

You and I had each other
And that made all the difference.
We made the most of a small town
That didn't make the most of us.

Patchwork Hollow

2008-06-18T10:06:00.000-07:00

I lay down my head
and my thoughts grow quiet.
Columns of light burst forth like a phoenix
Behind my eyes
A final exhale and my lungs are spent.

I am a captive
A prisoner
In the recesses of foreign relms
with echoes of thunder.

I am still and silence grows around me
like a dense forest
Great oaks burst from the earth
and shadows abound.
There is a majesty to the woodland
that dwarfs my being.

I run wild through the trees but
A thicket of bristles and thorns block my path.
I clap my hands together
raise my arms to the sky
And my body becomes concrete.
I bear lightening in my hands
Striking down the brambles and burning the trees
To their very roots.

I am still and a path shows me the way
Through the woods afire
I walk for miles and enter
a dark field.
There is a door in a stone wall
That ascends to the heavens.
Patchwork Hollow
is carved above the doorway.
I knock once
Twice
Thrice
And enter.

There Is A Rumor

2008-06-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

There’s a rumor that started tonight
Three girls were drinking whiskey and talking about the
Harmful effects of the sun
Skin cancer
It kills
But the moon doesn’t burn.

But anyway, this rumor
It seems the new boy at school
Jeremy Fredrick
Isn’t all he appears.

He’s been spotted late at night
In the woods by the edge of town
Late in the midnight hours
When it is especially dark
The black sky heavy
Truly
The dead of night.

I wonder what he’s doing out there
Says a rather petite blonde.
Probably hooking up with some girl
Quips a sassy brunette
As she samples a strawberry lemonade cooler.
Apparently
Pipes in the third
He stripes down naked.
I went out once
To spy
And I found his clothes in a pile
Beneath an oak tree.
He must have a dog of some kind
Because his clothes were covered
In hair.

A stony cry breaks the silence
Of a rather ominous night.
As if someone had
Chopped off
The tail of a mongrel.

What was that
The girls wonder
As they huddle close
for comfort.

The night tonight
Is not dark at all
It is in fact
bright
In the light
Of the full yellow moon.

"Device To Root Out Evil"

2008-04-22T23:25:00.000-07:00

We held our weekly small group discussion in the courtyard where this church is planted. Here are some words and phrases that came to mind as we engaged with this structure:

*Transparent
*Tumbled out of the sky
*Different perspectives
*You can see high-rises from each angle except when you're looking out on the harbour
*The cross is buried in the ground
*It is anchored
*Non-traditional
*Made with purpose/intent
*Inaccessible

We walked away from it with the sense that if the church is going to engage with the city so that people take notice, the church must be radical. Not the building, but the individuals who make up the church.

What are your thoughts? Are you offended? Inspired? How does the image of an upside-down church sit with you?

Make a trip down to Coal Harbour and experience this for yourself so you can better formulate your own opinion.

I find this to be a beautiful and engaging piece of art.

Upside-down church sculpture on hit list

Christina Montgomery, The Province

Published: Sunday, March 30, 2008

Vancouverites may not know art, but they know what they want in their public parks -- and it apparently doesn't include a sculpture of a church driven upside-down into the ground by its steeple.

The controversial Coal Harbour sculpture, titled Device to Root Out Evil, is on the hit list in a report heading for the parks board next week.

If the board approves the staff recommendation, the seven-storey sculpture could be carted off

The work, the creation of American artist Dennis Oppenheim, was placed in Harbour Green Park on Cordova Street as part of the Vancouver Biennale sculpture festival in 2005.

It was put on display for 18 months under the board's standard terms for public-art displays, and critics of the piece have been assured the display was only short-term.

But it has now been offered on loan to the city for an extended period -- much to the horror of some area residents, who made impassioned pleas to the board to remove the work that offends both their religious and aesthetic sensibilities.

Another of the 2005 works proved more popular. The board will debate making finding a permanent spot for the piece known as Echoes. The stainless-steel chairs, each with an evocative word etched into their seats, have been on display at Sunset Beach.

The staff report recommends against extending Device's 18-month period and notes that "public response to the work has been mixed, with a greater proportion of the response being negative." It also says that "a technical analysis of the siting has determined the work is not comfortably accommodated for an extended period."

Complaints included that the piece blocked views of the water and took up too much of the tiny green space on which it sits. Other residents said it simply offended their Christian beliefs to see a church turned upside-down.

Michaela Frosch, chairwoman of the Vancouver Biennale, has said the group is working with the foundation that owns it to find another public setting.

A Personal Response to 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly'

2008-03-29T23:50:00.001-07:00

Picture, if you would, your bed. Imagine yourself propped up by your pillows, lying still. Your head is turned slightly to the left. Sunlight streams in through your bedroom window. A face appears at your door. You arise to greet your visitor, but find you cannot. You raise your voice to speak, but no sounds form. You try to raise your head, but can’t move your neck. You’re writhing inside, but your body is still. The face speaks.

“I wonder when he’s going to wake up.”

********

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly sits on my bedside table. It has been a full day since I finished it. I am struggling with how to best express the appreciation I feel for Jean-Dominique Bauby, the book’s author. Like a French dessert, each exquisitely crafted sentence calls for the reader’s attention. The book is best slowly digested, allowing the flavor to unfold. His writing carries a sense of humor, intermingled with melancholy. I think he was a fan of Morrissey.

For those not familiar with Mr. Bauby, he was the editor-in-chief of Elle magazine in Paris. Bauby lived a full life, filled with women, fashion and writing. He was toying with adapting Alexandre Dumas’s classic tale, The Count of Monte Cristo. He states that “vengeance, of course, remained the driving force of the action, but the plot took place in our era, and Monte Cristo was a woman.” He was a man of culture and romance. But at the age of 43, Bauby suffered a massive stroke that left him in a coma for twenty days. Upon awakening, he found himself mentally sound, but had no control over his body. He was suffering from Locked-in Syndrome, a rare condition, which leaves the body paralyzed, but the brain fully functioning. Bauby was trapped in his own body and this is where his begins his story. At the time he wrote The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Bauby was only able to blink his left eyelid and nothing more.

Bauby begins by describing how he woke from his coma to a room full of doctors and nurses, explaining to him that his life was changed. The person he was before was no longer. He was to be confined to a bed and a wheelchair, forever a prisoner in his own body. While there were plenty of dark times, Bauby does not focus on them very often. Many of the chapters are spent describing the hospital he lived at, past joys, his visitors and the nurses who cared for him.

Bauby maintains a cognitive, positive tone throughout the book, laced with sadness. He explains how the inability to stroke his son’s hair or kiss his daughter on Father’s Day leaves him feeling helpless. “I am torn between joy at seeing them living, moving, laughing or crying for a few hours, and fear that the sight of all these sufferings – beginning with mine – is not the ideal entertainment for a boy of ten and his eight-year-old sister.” I was moved by Bauby’s simple yet eloquent use of language. He is able to take simple moments and express them with gratitude and longing. Gratitude for the moments his has been given and longing to live them again.

Most of the chapters in the book are fairly short, the longest at nine and a quarter pages. The manner in which Bauby dictated his memoir is simply incredible. A therapist assigned to rehabilitate him rearranged the French alphabet, from the most commonly used letters to the least. Bauby would blink when the nurse would utter the desired letter, allowing him to communicate with people in the outside world. Thus, he composed and edited his entire book in his head. Each day he would create, edit and memorize everything he wanted to say before his nurse arrived, allowing him to dictate each sentence perfectly. When visitors would come to see him, Bauby humorously describes their attempts at using this alphabet but not paying attention to when he would blink. Often, they would be too focused on saying the letters in the correct order to pay attention. Ironic.

I had seen the film adaptation of Diving Bell in theatres just before Christmas and found it powerfully affecting. The film is what stirred my interest in reading the book and discovering more about Bauby’s life. In rare form, I found my reading of Diving Bell to be enhanced by having viewed the film. Approximately forty minutes of the film is shot soley from the perspective of Bauby’s left eye. It’s gives you an entirely new appreciation for how he saw the world.

In preparing this response, I struggled with how to best relate my own life’s experiences to those of Bauby’s. His life is completely altered by this incredibly traumatic event. While I have never weathered a storm of that magnitude, I can relate to the hopes and fears he speaks of in his writing. For instance, I am quite claustrophobic. When I was nine years old, Mason and I were playing in a large snow bank, creating tunnels and forts like most bored prairie kids in the wintertime. I was attempting to tunnel through one side of the snow bank to the other. It was about five feet in depth. I managed to get most of the way in, burrowing my way through like a badger. As my digging neared completion, I came to realization I was stuck, firmly wedged into the tunnel and unable to back out. I will never forget the icy fear cutting through my veins. I panicked and started shouting and thrashing about, trying to free myself. Luckily, Mason came to my aid and helped pull me out. That was a small childhood terror, but it is a tiny sip of the cup Bauby had to drink from each and every day.

I find that Bauby speaks from a profound place of wisdom. He speaks from the place of a man who had much and had it taken away, but still found so much to live for. I found his voice to be a powerful example of the human spirit. Bauby is challenging the way we live our lives. I was wowed with the fact that in his condition, Bauby still did so much, including one of the things that I hope to accomplish: to author a book. His memoir does what any good memoir should: it expresses the beauty in life and the lessons learned. For a while, I’ve wanted to find a mentor, someone I could meet with once a month and glean wisdom from. Time waits for no one and soemtimes I fear that life will leave me behind before I get the hang of it. Bauby’s words ring especially true in this season of my life. When he was my age, he was working on an up-and-coming newspaper, living in Paris and boldly pursuing his career. I feel that my life is slowly taking semblance and shape. I want more. I want to taste the marrow of life, to suck it right out of the bone. I can feel Bauby engaging with my mind from the grave, watching me as I turn each page of his book.

I’d like to finish by looking at title of the book itself: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Bauby does not discuss why he chose this title, but I think it speaks for itself. Diving bells were used to submerg people into the ocean depths. A person was locked inside, unable to move or see outside the porthole provided. Now imagine a butterfly inside, a creature built for flight and beauty. A beautiful being trapped inside an iron shell. The diving bell is his body and the butterfly is his mind. The written word is Bauby’s lifeline to the shore and to others. The written word give him air to breath.

Good writing gives me excitement for life. I am touched by the words and experiences Bauby describes in his book. What touches me most is now that I’ve read his words, how will I live them out?

Summer in a Slaughterhouse

2008-03-29T23:36:00.000-07:00

It’s the smell that hits you first. Even before you get out of the car, the stench is there. Pigs. Thousands of them. You’ve signed your life away for the next three months and it’s getting harder to remember why. You park the car and head towards the building with the Maple Leaf logo emblazoned on the front.

You get suited up: One shirt, white. One pair of pants, white. One full body slicker, yellow. One face mask, check. Ear plugs. Double check.

The smell of chemicals wafts up the corridor. The hum of machinery rings in your ears like a hummingbird. You walk down a long corridor towards the “Dirty Kill” side of the plant, as it’s affectionately known. That’s where you work. You see a freezer door is ajar, so you peek inside. Hundreds of pigs hang from the rafters, gutless, strung up by their jaws. Sweat beads on your forehead. You know this place better than you’d like. It fills your nights and haunts your days. This is a hard place, where time moves on its own accord. You’ve only been working the night shift for a month, but it feels like a lifetime.

You did it for the money. That’s the honest truth. You finished your freshman year at university and you were flat broke. An education doesn’t leave much room for financial security these days. Dad told you Maple Leaf was the best paying outfit in town and you really didn’t have many other options, unless you thought working for minimum wage bagging groceries sounded profitable. It didn’t and you knew that cash was a key concern in returning to school. You knew the quality summer jobs had already been snatched up and Maple Leaf really didn’t sound so bad in theory. You’ll probably end up packaging cuts of meat, like some giant delicatessen. It could be fun.

You hit a switch and the turbines start spinning. It takes them a second, but once they’re going you sure as hell better stand back and watch your step. The firehose is draped over a railing five feet away, awaiting use. You’re not really supposed to clean the machine with the turbines spinning. You could potentially trip and get your head slapped off by the rotating rubber paddles. Thing is, the boss has been checking up on you at the end of every shift and you haven’t been getting all your work done on time. Spraying down the machine while it’s running shaves off a good half hour, plus you don’t have to use the pitchfork nearly as much. So you turn on the hose and begin the grueling task of cleaning the dehairing machine. It’s spitting out clumps of hair fast and furious, splattering your faceguard. You wipe it away, keeping your hose on the massive spinning cylinders. For some reason, “Sweet Home Alabama” is stuck in your head.

You think back to your first day. Mac, a portly man with an offbeat charm, was assigned to train you. You remember him eating a sandwich, lazily sauntering as he showed you around. “It sh’all about spheed and effith-ciencthy”, he explained with a mouth full of ham. “This ma-sheen--”, big swallow “--dehairs almost twelve hundred pigs a day. You’ll only have two tools at your disposal for cleaning: a pitchfork and a firehose. Make sure to shut off the machine when you’re cleaning. God knows the last thing we need is some kid getting killed on the job. Make sure to use your time wisely or the boss’ll ride your ass hard.”

Mac reminds you of a sweaty John Goodman with a moustache. He doesn’t bother wearing a protective jacket or facemask, when both are required. You ask him why. “I could be covered in hog sauce or chocolate pudding, I really don’t give two shits either way.”

You take a look at the machine you’ve been assigned to clean. It’s large, almost two stories high. It looms over you, like a giant carinvore, hungry for sustenance. It’s a giant mouth and you’re the dental floss, doomed to clean its teeth, night after night.

Mac tells you that the dehairing machine is a necessity for any “self-respecting” hog plant. It has three large cylinders with rotating rubber paddles that remove the hair from a hog’s carcass. As the hogs are stripped bare, their hair is churned by a giant auger. It is moved and discarded through a chute at the end of auger’s run. There are three sections: the first is the tallest. You have to climb three sets of stairs to reach the platform on the top. On either side of the machine there are platforms you have to climb, one platform for cylinder needing cleaning. Once you’re on the platform, you open up the panel that covers the paddles and start scrapping out the hair (and whatever else is stuck inside) with a pitchfork.

*****

It’s time for your dinner break. You don’t wear a watch and for some reason, there are no clocks to found anywhere the plant, expect for one in the mess hall. You’ve started to rely on your body clock to determine what time it is. You’re getting pretty good at it. Your guess is never more than ten minutes off the current time (it’s a skill you’ll retain your entire life). You shut off the dehairing machine and head towards the dining area. You step inside a small white room filled with benches and remove your helmet. It almost feels cozy in here, compared to the high ceilings and cold steel found in the rest of the plant. There are three or four guys sitting in the corner, swapping stories about their weekends spent with their “bitches”. The dining area is divided into two sections: smoking and non-smoking. Smoking is one excess the peons at Maple Leaf allow themselves, since their nihts are otherwise filled with chemicals and hog shit. The smoking room is packed, but since you don’t smoke, you enjoy a quiet dinner alone in the opposite room. You like it better this way. Your pull out the food your mother prepared for you: leftover lasagna, tossed salad, some chocolate cake and a can of Diet Dr. Pepper.

You borrowed a copy of Crossfire Trail by Louis L’Amour from the library and you’ve been reading it with dinner. The bi-weekly community newspapers were getting stale. For thirty minutes a day, you’re completely removed for the hog plant in mind and soul, leaving the body behind. You exist in a band of hopeful Northerners, blazing a trail to the Californian plains. The protagonist, James Lyndon, is a lone rider, helping caravanning Northerners at his own whim. He allows himself no excess but deals with the cards life’s dealt him. You can relate to that. You pulled a mean hand when you took this job and you draw the same cards each night.

It’s time to return to work. You look at the clock. It’s a quarter to ten. You really should have thought through working a night shift. Many variables should have been taken into consideration before accepting this role: the chemicals, the hours, the people. You’re trying not feel bitter because your boss is trying to crack your spirit.

Krishan is your boss. You can tell he’s been working here for too long because he’s always pissed off. Always. His brow is constantly furrowed and he has a penetrating stare. At almost six foot six, he’s a tall man. He looks down on you literally and figuratively. His being exists in a constant state of criticism. You’re pretty sure the only time you’ve seen him smile was a week ago. You were walking towards the bathroom and didn’t notice an oily pig liver on the floor. You slipped, landed on your side and got the wind knocked out of you. You looked around to see if anybody noticed and saw Krishan standing in a doorway. A smug look sat perched on his face. Then he turned and walked away.

You hate that man.

*****

The amount of deadly chemicals at your disposal is frightening. A Native man who works a few stations down once told you that if you mixed hydrochloric acid and ammonia, you’d create mustard gas. It’d be as potent as anything used in World War I, he’d said. Both of those chemicals can be found in the storage room. It’s unnerving because you have to use hydrochloric acid each night to sanitize the dehairing machine. What if you were careless one night and accidentally poured the unused chemicals down the wrong drain, creating a massive cloud of yellow gas, leaving you deformed and begging for death? That’s some scary shit.

You can feel the clock closing in on the eight hour mark, so your night is almost over. You wrap up the firehose and tuck it behind a large pillar. You close all the doors on the dehairing machine and power down the machine. You look up and see Krishan walking towards your station. He greets you with a curt nod and begins a slow walk around the dehairing machine, looking it up and down. He stops and stoops down near one of the large pillars. He beckons you over. He looks perturbed. You’d think someone just took a shit on the hood of his car.

“Tell me, what is this?” He points to a clump of hair tucked behind the base of a pillar.

“It appears to be a clump of hair,” you reply.

“It does, doesn’t it? And so it appears that you were unable to do your job properly! Why don’t you take some pride in your work instead of wastin’ my time here!”

He rants and raves and all you can think about is going home. In this job, you deal with shit on all ends of the spectrum. Then something peculiar happens. As the spittle sprays and his eyes rage, you realize that Krishan is getting smaller. With each heated word, his body is slowly withering and shrinking.
He’s barely five foot.
Now he’s three feet high.
Two feet.
One.
His tiny eyes are bulging. He raises his arms up and own, as if trying to emphasize a point. You raise your boot and bring it down hard on the tiny figure beneath you. A squeal erupts from his body, along with a murky red mush, like you stepped on a tomato. You grind your foot down hard, like you’re putting out a stubborn cigarette butt.

You look up and realize you’re alone. You turn your head and see Krishan walking away, trench coat billowing, clipboard by his side. It seems your whimsical daydream blocked out the majority of his tirade. As much as Krishan tries to beat you down, you’ll see this job through to the end and by God, you’ll conquer this bastard.

Your shift is over. You head to the locker room, shed your yellow slicker and toss your undershirt into the laundry bin. A dull pain crackles up and down your spine. You roll your shoulders, providing a small comfort. You get dressed. It was a long night but you survived. You exit the building, leaving the long sterile corridors, hog carcasses and inflated egos behind you.

A cool summer breeze greets your face.

Whale Rider

2008-01-17T20:58:00.000-08:00

I had almost forgotten about this little side project. This was the musical brainchild I created while attending Trinity Western. Enjoy.

"In Which Herbert Discovers a Haunted House and An Unfortunate Mishap Occurs" Part I

2008-01-17T00:34:00.000-08:00

On a blustery afternoon in the English countryside, Mr. Herbert Railton felt in need of adventure. He had been enjoying a glass of tea in his study, when it dawned upon him that he was turning thirty-seven on Saturday. He didn't particularly feel like a thirty-seven year old. He was still quite active, he reasoned to himself. He enjoyed a good round of cricket when the mood struck. He still raced his horses on Sundays and organized fox hunting weekends with the boys from Skunk Hollow.

Herbert did not think he looked any older and certainly paid no acknowledgment to his fading hair colour. A quick glance in the mirror would say otherwise, but Herbert felt his grey hairs were nonexistent (unless friends brought it up at a dinner party, in which case he would state they gave him distinction).

But on this particular day (which happened to be a Tuesday), Herbert was feeling restless. He knew he wasn't ancient but he certainly wasn't getting any younger.
"It's time I make the most of my days. Carpe diem, tally-ho, as it were," he muttered with a bemused stare at his reflection. "I wonder what ol' Chauncy is getting up to."

Chauncy was Herbert's childhood friend and fox hunting partner. In their younger days, when Herbert had been chasing girls around the schoolyard, Chauncy was sneaking into the cook's quarters to steal sweets. Chauncy had grown into a bulbous man, with a deep laugh that could shake the furniture in your home. It was whispered among Chauncy's friends that he had once eaten an entire roasted boar at the age of fourteen, and that he could drink a full barrel of wine in a single meal. In any case, Herbert thought quite highly of Chauncy and decided to give him a ring.

Herbert dialed. He heard the receiver being picked up on the other end. He began to say "Hello--", but a loud belch cut him off. "Mrphf, 'ello, who's there?" said Chauncy, his mouth full of truffles.

"Chauncy, my good man, it's Herbert. What say you put down the refreshments you're devouring and join me in some good ol' fashioned tomfoolery. I'm turning thirty-seven on Saturday and it's got me quite down in the doldrums. I believe some carousing could lift my spirits."

"Well, Herbert old chap, I'd quite like to join you, but I've got my hands full at the moment. Later this afternoon, I plan on taking the Duchess of Bristol out for a stroll around my gardens. I need to satisfy this raging hunger in my belly, so that I can satisfy the hunger in my loins, if you catch my drift."

"Chauncy, you are a foul creature indeed," laughed Herbert. "Very well, I will continue seeking new company for my adventure."

"Righteo, Herbert," said Chauncy, proceeding to belch again. "I am so looking forward to your birthday party. Make sure you have lots of those chocolate truffles, you know they're my favorite. Cheers!"

Herbert hung up the phone and proceeded to light his pipe. "Well, if Chauncy is out, perhaps I should try Gregory," he said aloud. "He's always up for a good row. I shall take a stroll over to his place and speak with him directly."

As Herbert closed the door upon his magnificent manor, a cold breeze swept up and caught him by surprise. "I say! This is quite the blustery afternoon I've stumbled upon."

He shivered.

Herbert left for Gregory's, smoking his pipe in a futile attempt to warm his bones. He began walking though the countryside and the temperature continued to drop. It was not long before Herbert began shaking like the bare branches he was walking beneath.

"If the weather continues on like this, I might not survive to see my thirty-seventh birthday at all," he joked half-hearted. Herbert was rather sensitive to the cold. "Blast and damnation! If only I had the motor car this weekend, I wouldn't have to travel by foot in this blasted weather." He stamped his feet, shivering. "If I'd known the weather would be this balmy, I would have insisted on keeping the auto myself instead of lending it to Martha. I do hope she is enjoying it," he muttered under his breath.

Martha was Herbert's eldest sister and a good deal older than he. In the story of Herbert's life, Martha was the antagonist. When they were youngsters, she baited Herbert with practical jokes and terrified him with tales of ghosts and goblins.

She would often frighten him with the story of Jeremy Soothsayer, a goblin that was capable of bewitching animals and even humans when he desired. She would tell him about the goblin's exploits up and down the English countryside, turning farm animals upon their masters and playing dark tricks on country folk. When Herbert's parents would punish him for misbehaving, Martha would tell him it was really Jeremy Soothsayer controlling their mother and father's minds and that Herbert should be wary of the goblin's wrath. Despite her rather horrific tales, however, Martha was not an evil sister, simply mischievous. It was from Martha that Herbert felt his adventurous streak had been culled at an early age. For though she teased him, she also inspired him.

In any case, Martha had the motor car and he did not. He had forgotten how far Gregory's home was from his own and he felt that he might not be up to the task of walking the entire distance. "Blast it all, I am acting like an old codger. I shall attempt to find a shorter route to Gregory's. Perhaps there is a shortcut." And then Herbert stopped dead in his tracks. He had been deep in thought and had not realized where his path had taken him. Herbert gazed ahead and gasped.

Away in the distance, Herbert could see a rather decrepit building rising from the gloom. It was the dreaded House of Mordecai. Herbert's sister had told him tales of this place, and it was these stories that chilled him far worse than any of the others. For it was said that the House of Mordecai was haunted by the living dead...

Love from Pete and Jo

2008-01-06T16:30:00.000-08:00

Two good friends of mine, Peter and Joyelle, (who happen to be married) are also great artists. Check out their website. It's a visual delight, a treat.

April Listening Pleasures

2007-04-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

Hey gang,

As per my last post, here is a fresh and happenin' playlist for April. If you'd like a copy, please let me know and I will hook you up, as the saying goes. Ladies, treat me right and I might make you one all your own.

Listening Pleasures April 2007

Brianstorm - Arctic Monkeys
Better Love - Steel Train
Never Forever - The Working Title
Shadowland - Youth Group
Blue Orchid - The White Stripes
Claudia & Klaus - Valley Of The Giants
Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
Shine A Light - The Constantines
Broadcasting - Comeback Kid
Fire It Up - Modest Mouse
Barbed Wire Love - Stiff Little Fingers
Drive There Now - The Almost
Party Hard - Andrew W.K.

Brianstorm - Arctic Monkeys
New single from a band that I really enjoy, even though I don't listen to them as much as I think I should. I listened to them a lot last year and I think their debut was one of last year's strongest albums. "Brianstorm" is a bit faster and heavier and bodes well for their upcoming disc "Favorite Worst Nightmare".

Better Love - Steel Train
First track off their latest album and it's one of their best. These guys sound like their really, really bummed about being born in the 80's instead of the 60's. They have a vintage sound that works well for the band and espcially this song.

Never Forever - The Working Title
One of the only love songs I've ever heard about Rhode Island. It's a catchy, straightforwrad rock-ballad.

Shadowland - Youth Group
Just recently got into these guys and I must say I'm impressed with their sound. They're mellow enough to chill to but emotive enough to hold your attention. This track captures a lot of what I look for in music: quality songwriting.

Blue Orchid - The White Stripes
Probably my favorite Stripes song ever. The video is really nifty as well.

Claudia & Klaus - Valley Of The Giants
Basically the concept behind this band's whole album is robots in the desert. Awesome. They're on Arts&Crafts so you know it's gotta be interesting.

Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
I always thought of Bruce Springsteen as that guy with the most patriotic ass in America (thanks "Born in the USA"). But I recently bought the aforementioned album on vinyl and I love it. But I love "Nebraska" even more. Recorded on a four-track in Bruce's kitchen, it's raw storytelling at its finest.

Shine A Light - The Constantines
Great band that I thank Mason for getting me into. I've found that I really enjoy songs that are recorded with less-then-stellar-production. Makes the song feel more alive and raw, with "Shine A Light" being a great example.

Broadcasting - Comeback Kid
A band I've enjoyed since high school, probably one of the first hardcore bands I really got into. This is the first single off their new album and it's delicious, in a break-your-face kind of way.

Fire It Up - Modest Mouse
Never been huge on Modest Mouse, but with the addition of Johnny Marr and a sailor vibe on the new album, I'm just a big fan all around. This is one of my favorite tracks so far, with more to follow.

Barbed Wire Love - Stiff Little Fingers
Classic 70's punk band with a Beach Boy's vibe that I was not expecting when I first spun them. This song is off "Inflammable Material", which I think is their best album. Walko, bittorrent this shiz.

Drive There Now - The Almost
Drummer from Underoath with a side project that's doing well. Solid album, nothing to exactly crap your pants over, but very enjoyable. This song will stick in your head for days.

Party Hard - Andrew W.K.
No longer being a student makes the coming of April less special. However, DVS's birthday/end of finals means plenty of excuses to party it up with my former school chums. And let's be honest, nobody writes a better party anthem than Andrew W.K.

As always, if you'd like a copy of this mix, holla at'cha boi.

Apropos of March's Listening Pleasures

2007-03-12T01:20:00.000-07:00

My good buddy Ma-T Walkeezy recently discussed with me his practice of making a playlist for each month. He said it allows him to give voice to what he enjoys about a particular song. It also documents his listening patterns, should he ever feel the need to see what he was spinning in June of 05, per chance. What a simple and novel idea. Naturally, I had to steal it and create my own. If you'd like a copy of "Apropos of March's Listening Pleasures", please let me know.

Apropos of March's Listening Pleasures

Wow, I Can Get Sexual Too Say Anything
We Just Won't Be Defeated The Go! Team
Summer of '98 The Secret Handshake
Daft Punk Is Playing At My House LCD Soundsystem
She Doesn't Get It The Format
There Now I've Said It (Rough) Further Seems Forever
Disappointment Rock Bent Outta Shape
No Cigar Millencolin
Accident Waiting To Happen Billy Bragg
Vogt Dig for Kloppervok The Books
Clouds The Submarines
The Night's Disguise Rocky Votolato
I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You Tom Waits
Hurt Johnny Cash
Hidden Track Hit The Lights

Wow, I Can Get Sexual Too - Say Anything
This song is both fun and a bit sexually deviant. Max Bemis crafts a simple but compelling tune. I especially enjoy the very tasty guitar lick that kicks in half-way through.

We Just Won't Be Defeated - The Go! Team
I had The Go! Team on my iPod forever and for some reason I never took the time to listen to them. Tasty songs, great for sitting alone on a ferry and staring at the ocean.

Summer of '98 - The Secret Handshake
Dude did his whole album on his Mac, pretty cool. Fun song that makes it seem less grey outside.

Daft Punk Is Playing At My House - LCD Soundsystem
Just getting into these guys. If you can't groove to this, you can't groove. I first heard this song on the OC last year. What's that, you say? The OC?? Yea bitch, the OC. Got a problem?

She Doesn't Get It - The Format
This band really won me over with their new album, Dog Problems. This is their current single and it's catchy-stick-in-your head-greatness is hard to pass on.

There Now I've Said It (Gleason era) - Further Seems Forever
A rare song with Jason Gleason, possibly the last song he ever recorded with Further Seems Forever. This was recorded while the band was working on their third album, before Jason left. A million times better than Jon Bunch's version, the third and final vocalist for the band.

Disappointment Rock - Bent Outta Shape
The vocalist sounds like he swallowed a bunch of glass before recording the song. Love it. Dirty 'n' catchy punk that needs to be cranked loud.

No Cigar - Millencolin
A classic from back in the day for me. I found this song on an old mix CD I made myself back in high school. This song brought back many fond memories of driving around Manitoba in my Isuzu truck. The song is fast, catchy and fun to sing with.

Vogt Dig for Kloppervok - The Books
Stumbled onto these guys when I was downloaded Neon Bible from a friend's site. Hard to describe, but somewhat similar to Death Cab and Kid Koala: fuzzy samples with atmospheric guitars and wavering vocals.

Accident Waiting To Happen - Billy Bragg
He's just the man. Great lyrics and cool delivery. Makes me feel like I'm in a Scottish pub, drinking a Guinness and sitting by a crackling fireplace.

Clouds - The Submarines
Matt just introduced these guys to me. The duel guy/girl vocals are warm and dreamy, making this a great rainy day song and thus perfect for this time of year.

The Night's Disguise - Rocky Votolato
Great storyteller, that Rocky. You feel his pain and his struggle through his earnest words and compelling writing.

I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You - Tom Waits
When the mood strikes, Tom Waits' growling delivery and blues-based songwriting goes down smooth.

Hurt - Johnny Cash
Heard Colin Janz cover this song and reminded me of how much I enjoyed the American sessions, this song being one of my favorites. It's stripped down and raw, much like Johnny Cash. You feel every word and strum in this song.

Hidden Track - Hit The Lights
I'm just a sucker for heartbroken dudes writing about how their girlfriends left them. This song is a great example of much of the music I've enjoyed since high school that falls into the category of "pop-punk" or "emotional music".

Drawings

2007-02-27T00:27:00.000-08:00

These are a few rough sketches I've done in the past week.

Apologies for the low quality of these pictures. I'm working on getting a scanner.