Tag: r.i.p.

obit: abrupt but not unpredictable

I haven’t heard back from the prospective buyer yet. Which makes me think my business whiz hasn’t sent him the model yet. Which is bad.

http://noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com/


At the bottom of their deepest hearts of hearts, at the level of instinct, people seem to carry a sticky expectation of spontaneous combustion, mothers who pluck cars off of their threatened children, visits from celestial beings, shapechangers, and animals who speak human languages. It’s in the blood, these vagaries of of human history, and while they are alarming, they feel appropriate. (Possibly not the bit with the car, but metaphorically I’m fairly certain I’m still on solid ground.) Death, however, we don’t seem to properly fathom death. It shocks us into denial, into a rejection of facts, on a level that is almost the antithesis of every day miracles. Nobody apparently expects death, even when seen approaching from far away. There just doesn’t seem to be a framework in place, so instead we gather in loose groups, wear culture appropriate colours that feel outdated and fail utterly to write the music we need to capture our fallen friends.

Part of me wishes to hide inside gaudy and glaring jokes about how T. Paul still owes me money or that now we’ll never move in together because I could never introduce my mother to a dead man, but they’re all the same – dishonest escapes shutting away what I will only have to deal with later. Really I already miss him in ways that will never noted in any obituary. Yes, people will benevolently talk about how wrenchingly he’s influenced Vancouver with his events, MC’ing, poetry and black-coffee solicitousness, his shining rhinestone humour, his unexpected grace with children, and the fun trapped in his Tom Waits paintings or even his retro trademark hair, (mentioned in the first piece of my writing ever properly published), but his cologne will go unacknowledged, the way it would scoff at showers, insisting on clinging for days, after even the briefest hug. It used to drive me crazy later, how I would turn and expect to see him, only to discover he was merely a rockabilly ghost fighting to haunt my clothing.

I caught myself wishing today that there was some way to publicily wear what I’m carrying in my heart, that we had an updated version of shaving off eyebrows, just to make this day different. Some way to mark the change in my life. My friend is dead, I want there to be a ripple, an outward effect that is more than his invisible absence. Otherwise it will only be like he has moved away, taken up residence in some other city, and that isn’t fair at all. He was a rarity, a revelation of whack-job positive influence, more Vegas than Vegas, baby. He deserves to be missed.

goodbye t. paul


goodbye t. paul
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

A friend of ours has recently died – T. Paul St. Marie.

“Everyone,

T. Paul passed away in his home in his home in the last 24 hrs. His good friend Ru found him this morning in his house on his couch. It looked like another anuerism or possibly a stroke. Not much is known at this time.

Arrangements are being made and you will all be informed about any services or gatherings held on his behalf.

It is a loss to the community and to all the people who knew him. Please spread the word to anyone not on this list. I know you will all do so. He knew so many people that it would be impossible for any one individual to contact all of them. Thank you.

– Bill Mc.”

It’s heart-breaking. People have been posting messages to his Facebook Profile like flowers left at the scene of a lethal car accident. I’m not sure I have words yet, as it hasn’t properly become real yet, his passing. He’s always just too angry at the world to die.

Word says his unofficial memorial will be at Cafe Du Soleix this Monday, usurping the usual 8 pm poetry slam. I hope to see many of you there.

KURT VONNEGUT, 1922-2007 “make me young, make me young, make me young!”

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.'”

I received a dozen e-mail this morning regarding Kurt Vonnegut’s death and today it is all my friends-list is writing about. Thank you. I found out last night, almost as the last conscious in-put I managed. Dark, brilliant, cherished, he died last night in his home in Manhattan at age 84. He had fallen several weeks ago and received brain injuries. I hope it was as peaceful can be.

I thought, as I slipped into sleep, that I wanted to hold him close a moment, and then I was gone. Waking, he was my first muzzy thought. I do not feel bereft, as thousands are today, but I do feel unsettled, as if something essential has gone missing. His easy, beautiful writing was unique, (a good trick if you can manage it), and everywhere today are stories about how his books changed lives for the better. 14 astonishing novels in 84 years. One of which, the semiautobiographical Slaughterhouse Five, (he was one of just seven American prisoners of war to survive the Dresden Fire Bombing, an act he later described as “a work of art.”), is considered one of the best American novels of the 20th century, appearing on the 100 best lists of Time magazine and the Modern Library. Go, read them all, for they are all gifts to the world. There was never an artist quite like him, his lyricism should never be neglected. It is with regret that I say I have not given away his books enough.

“I am, incidentally, Honorary President of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that totally functionless capacity. We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, ‘Isaac is up in heaven now.’ It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, ‘Kurt is up in heaven now.’ That’s my favorite joke.”

highly unlikely

A “data cable” made from stretched nerve cells could someday help connect computers to the human nervous system.

Turn off the lights, it’s morning, my hair is tangled. Waking up, I’m going to a memorial right across the street for Zayn Ali, found dead only a few blocks away. Either murder or a running jump from his apartment window. I feel like I should have said hello more, but don’t know why. Appropriation, this inability to touch any grief, this length of bed under me, these red sheets, the rain hissing through traffic outside. The newspaper got the name of his brother wrong. Outside the box, I don’t know if I’m going to see anyone else I know.

Work later, the Dance Centre. Dropping by Kitsilano, staying for dinner, trying to get away before it gets too late. Something to keep the weather off, photographs of Vegas, my house after midnight.

Heart of the World continues Monday. This is all regularly scheduled programming.

oops, wrong speed on that one

Peel’s comparing debut on Top Of The Pops: “In case you’re wondering who this funny old bloke is, I’m the one who comes on Radio 1 late at night and plays records made by sulky Belgian art students in basements dying of TB.”

What sound does not create the grandest of consequence? This October 13th was the one year anniversary of the very last session played by the late John Peel. For you in the Americas, John Peel was the man whose tastes dictated law in the land of new music. Your media failed you if you didn’t know this already. He died of a heart attack last October while on vacation with his family in Peru, a tragedy. The BBC has been putting together tribute concerts for him all week.

Here are some of Peel’s stories, collected from a series of interviews with Simon Garfield.

Here is a collection of legally free downloads of music that he’s played, as well as a toss of links relating to other pages of Peel and information.

Here is his list of twenty favourite albums, with a bit of Peel information on each. There is a BBC list of links at the bottom of the page that are well worth going through.

Speech-only MP3s of Peel standing in for Mark Radclffe in October 1996, with guests Lee & Herring and Stuart Maconie. Nearly all the music has been edited out (bar a Swedish Elvis impersonator), leaving 50 minutes’ worth of deadly genius. All reports agree that Peel’s contributions on the second MP3 are particularly fine.

A comprehensive list of his Festive 50’s, a yearly listener’s poll of favourite records.

“I know that I’m going to die trying to read the name of some band in the headlights of a car behind me, and then drive into a truck in front. People will say, ‘Oh, this is the way he would have wanted to go.'”

tag “john peel” should make this easier

Mark on the calendar, October 13th 2005 is the date of the first John Peel Day. Later I hope to have time enough and the inclination of the awake to collect together as much John Peel as I can to share with you all. audiography has dedicated this week to him and has already been posting some very choice music. However, my main contribution to the discovery of new music will be slightly early, as Nicholas has pointed me to loveliness this evening.

The artist is that 1 guy, and he is the best one man music I’ve ever heard. His lyrics are superb, his wacky home-made instrument intimidating awesome. It’s called “The Magic Pipe” because it is. I’m not sure I know of anything so captivatingly versatile. There’s a Listen To Entire Album button. I highly recommend it and also say, watch the video too.

I’ve discovered that I’m still twanging in dangerous ways from my dancing binge. It’s effort to turn my head, it goes against the natural reaction of my body complaint. I’m impressed. I walked away from an afternoon a few weeks ago attempting to teach Graham and Ryan how to use a sword with less bruises. (And Graham catches on quick to the idea of being hit without being hit). Course, part of it is the stupidly long walk I took with Alastair earlier today. He’s only in Vancouver a few days before leaving for San Francisco and Fiji, so we went for breakfast at Slickety Jim’s Chat & Chew this afternoon. My first mistake was expecting service on a holiday, my second was walking with him from there to Commercial and First, then up to Broadway. My eyes waved at some houses I knew and some interesting landmark graveyards, but the blisters are trying to argue that it wasn’t worth it. Lying on the couch at Korean Movie Monday was like sinking into hot chocolate on a cold day.

The film tonight wasn’t astonishing, My Beautiful Girl Mari was too mellow for that, but it was legitimately beautiful. The IMDB summary tells you nothing of use. What’s needed is an appreciation for magic realism, for the illusion of edgeless animation, and a commiseration with the logic of children. There is no painfully basic plot, only a gentle climb into a remembered summer that unwinds into terrifically averted disaster and cleverly prosaic goodbyes. The alternate world the boys enter is deeply reminiscent of dreaming, (that the cat also visits this world, they do not bother to explain, and nor will I, as it should be evident), being a place of clouds and peculiar consequences that drops them back into the real world without any warning, though certainly with the sadness of parting.

same week as the anniversary of the nuclear age


Cello… er not Viola
Originally uploaded by DantesFedora.

James Doohan, the man who played Scotty on Star Trek, died Wednesday.

It’s thirty-six years ago today that our species managed to touch booted foot to the moon. I remember framed newspaper articles on the walls of motels of that moment, the same picture of Armstrong next to the lander repeated in aged yellow in hundreds of small towns. I was never old enough to remember it, never could be, but that didn’t stop me from reading the words. “THIS DAY IS A MARKED DAY IN HUMAN HISTORY” Headlines all echoing each other, reverberating from dingy bar to dingy bar. One stool always patched with worn silver tape.

Let’s theme tonight’s party, shall we? People who arrive with tinfoil on their heads get extra style points.

Happy birthday Sarah. We love you.

the picture links to the SimNuke photopool.

this parade of lost souls



Yesterday I want you. Waking up early to a clear day. Cold gravel field and a borrowed black toque looking over the skyline like fall was newly invented. Camaraderie carrying cases of mortarshells and wooden triangles. A pyramid scheme delight getting closer to a climactic brawl of shimmering light. Took my pain and chilled it from me. The alcohol hate evaporating in no glare at all. Happy to be standing around, not knowing what to do. Assuming responsibility the way I like best. I spraypainted the wall behind the boxes by accident.

Home was my noon computer. Invent the wheel. Catching up skip=800 page worth it for the glory of planet information. Scintillating click click click. Umbrella showers of mesmeristic data flow. I’m sad my friends are far away. Tear me a new heart, a hole to put you all in. Keep this close.

It was dark when I left again. A deep breath of sodium lamps and the sound of the parade band coursing down the road towards our feet. A gush of far away celebration living without you. Broken song, a thud boom boom, whistle clear run across the street when the little white man says walk. This is the first time in a long time I wasn’t in the parade. Dancing in the front lines, waving to the girls with their fire hula-hoops. I can only assume that Lust, Greed, and Apathy were in their usual spots, harassing the crowd with almighty Wrath. It was strange not to be in costume. Not to drift in convenctive spirals around the harmony altars.

From above there was darkness. Creatures yelling and screaming and the murmur of a hundred throats talking. Watching my bedroom of starlit torches. At the fence twenty feet up, not in black but close, I flapped like a bat in my too-big trenchcoat. No one asked for my pass because I owned the place. I walk like I order you around. Asked to dance by the man I met in morning, I swirled in ballroom, the crowd still growing. Roman candles flaring above us, lighting our messy steps and his so strong stance. Cigarette breath, it’s different because I’m a girl. Rich night experience, like me, this language is detached. Performers curse, you can’t see the show. It’s weary, empty and grand.

I took my own insides out

My flare wouldn’t light, I sat and swore as I scratched it’s lightning eyes out. Light the skulls, with me in not my clothes. Long sleeve suddenly, red jumper heat.

I didn’t light a candlewick for Jon. I lit ten and twenty cascades of whistling light. One. Two. Three. Touch metal to metal, close circuit and DIE. Injection of the saddest joy – exploding into the air, the sky crying with it. Electric tears dripping to earth, I wanted to dance in it. Chemical fire for me, for him, for all of us. I miss you, hanged by your own hand behind your bedroom door. I loved you, you know. If you’d asked me to.