n: vb: the spice of imagination
via Scott:
I chose to start with my books for a few reasons. For one, I have more books than I have anything else. There are more of them in my room than there are places to put them. They stack in piles, some here, some there, and they take up the entire top quarter of my closet, which could be better used for other things. For another, even though books are wonderful, they are heavy, bulky, and cantankerous to move. It was also a test of my determination. Few things carry as much resonance as a well loved book, so perhaps if I can be ruthless with my library, I can be ruthless with everything else as well. If I am to escape Vancouver, I will need to travel light.
I went through all of the books I own today and put most of them for sale on my new blog, minimalfox. (See Books: The First Wave for a glimpse into my long, long day). Deciding what to keep out of the wealth of words was a difficult process, as many of these books have been with me a decade, well loved and repeatedly read. The Summer/Winter Queen books, for example, would make such a perfect gift for Tony that I wince to put them available on-line, while it is only through sheer obstinacy that I managed to list my Kurt Vonnegut at all. But still, I was weak. Of the books from the closet, I listed only fifty. Of the books from the bookcase, I’ve set aside almost a third to keep.
If they all sell, however, I may barely have enough books to fill one small shelf, but I will have enough money to buy a winter coat, pay off the threatening part of my credit card, and save my web hosting.
That said, please take a look at what I’m trying to fund-raise with. Everything on offer can be found on my Sale Listings page.
I am a shipwreck. My sorrow sits on my tongue with all the delicate heft of a humming bird’s skull, graceful bone, fluted lines, sharp enough to slaughter the heart of a flower, sweet as a metal pike. I wander my files, catalogue my house, looking for more things to sell, searching for a way to break through the notion that I will be trapped here past thirty, past every promise I’ve ever made. I do not sleep through the night.
Brian Eno on framing improvisations:
And some of the other structuring ideas are completely conceptual in the sense that I might say, “Imagine it’s the year 2064 and all digital music has been destroyed in a huge digital accident, an electromagnetic pulse or something like that. So, all we know about the music between 2010 or 2030 is hearsay. There don’t exist any recordings. We’ve read about a kind of music that existed in the suburbs of Shanghai in 2015 to 2018, and this music was played on–” then you specify a group of instruments– “was played on, say, industrial tools, such as steel hammers, and augmented with samplers and various electronic versions of some Chinese instruments. And it was intensely repetitive and played at ear-splitting volume,” for example. So, we then, taking that brief, try to imagine what that music would be like, and we try to make it.
Found via Warren.
Someone said we were dressed as city workers when we were out last night, to which I said, “No! Cosmonauts!”.
They replied, “But cosmonauts aren’t real, city workers are, so you’re city workers.”
“What do you mean cosmonauts aren’t real?” “There’s no such thing as a cosmonaut!”
Originally we were going to spend Halloween in Seattle again, but this year it’s Vancouver that’s got the parties. Here’s our schedule:
Friday
Saturday
Also, they’re still looking for volunteers: Join in Secret Souls Walk (Parade of Lost Souls). An inspiring awakening of neighbourly souls – already neighbours are pledging their homes to the underworld. Please come along to be a helping hand on this journey! Want to operate a giant puppet, perform, or just pitch in to help out with the myriad of jobs we need covered to make it all happen? We really need your help and hey – you’ll be let in on the secrets way before anyone else! On October 30th this community collaboration will come together- it wouldn’t happen without you! We’re looking for some benevolent souls to help us with setup, set dec, performing, strike, donations, and generally creating magic in the neighbourhood of Commercial Drive. Your involvement counts in bringing the community together to make magic. To volunteer, contact Public Dreams – volunteer@publicdreams.org.
Sunday
The hardest part of driving school so far has been the cold echo of homesickness that blows through my chest whenever the instructional videos or slides feature Toronto. Trying to concentrate through the ache feels like trying to swallow the rattle of stones. Young Drivers of Canada is based in Ontario, so the majority of their materials are shot in towns and cities near their main office, very near where I used to live and love.
A new image on the screen, near the X, facing downtown. I have been on that highway, I think, when I was younger, before so much damage. The pink freeway lights were new, newer than in that photograph. I was with my boyfriend, met only the night before. He was sweet and smart, handsome and talented. He might be shorter than I am, now, but then he was two inches taller. His black-red hair was as long as my arm. His eyes were gold, so unlikely. He made me laugh. He gave me some of the best advice of my life. I had never been so happy before. I wish he would still talk to me. How many times have I felt like that since? A copy of his old band poster still sits, rolled and ignored, on my bedroom floor.
Later he stood with me on the roof of our strange apartment building, leaning into the hot, summer wind of a lightning storm as the sky flashed and thunder rolled so hard it made the sheet metal walls shake with fear. I laughed, though he worried and eventually lured me down. It was okay. We were together. We were safe.
The next shot: a residential street, coincidentally near a favourite bakery. The chocolate icing, one inch thick. I’d smear my finger through the top and lick it off, sitting in a nearby park, watching little girls dance in bathing suits next to a shallow community pool, copying some music video, all in time, singing along to the new Spice Girls track. The birth of prostitots, I thought, examining the parents, who clapped along. I wondered if it was a new trend or simply something that had been there all along. The chocolate frosting was so rich that it was almost black, the same colour as rich soil or well tended earth. The sun was bright, and I had my bike. I could go anywhere. And I did.
Burrs in back the building, glass shard sharp, spiny as dried up sea creatures, something ancient, full of dusty venom, and camoflaged, invisible on the rough brown ground. The washroom was back there, a gray cinderblock building as inviting as a brick to the head, but my shoes were in the van. He found me there, helpless, caught like a confused fox in a trap, both feet pierced, and picked me up and put me on the stairs, where I could safely sit and pluck the curved thorns from my abused feet with my fingernails. My Sir Walter Raleigh, story told and modern, with a black knit hoodie instead of a cloak, a gesture as comfortable sweet as sitting by a fire.
They blow in from the neighbors, said the woman inside, as she handed us plates of box-mix flapjacks, weak eggs, and hard, greasy bacon. Her eyelids were painted an oddly stereotypical blue, the living memory of an old TV show, her hair styled like she attends a christian church. We use chemical weed killer, she continued, but there’s no stopping the wind. You’re lucky it’s not spring.
Outside, after, as I gingerly stood on the gravel shoulder of the road, trying not to regret breakfast, I saw an RV drive by towing a tall net cube full of colourful plastic balls behind it on a trailer. It was familiar, as we had paced it on the drive down, neighbors on the highway, stopping in almost all the same places. The driver smiled at me in recognition, and waved, and it was like we were friends.
It was warm there, once the sun came up, as wet as it is here.