30 Nov 2007


An exercise in memory and analysis. Was drinking with M. We were having a good time and everything was groovy. I was sticking with plain, easy alcohol, no other drugs. But I asked him, out of curiosity, if he had any acid left. He checked his pockets and found nothing. Then he asked me if I wanted to smoke some crack. So I said, you have crack? Really? He said yeah, and put something into a pipe.

I had a brief glance. It was a little white something, looked like it could have been a crack rock, so I accepted that it was crack – hit the pipe and took as big a hit as I could. Didn’t really feel anything, but the initial taste reminded me of pot. Whatever that little white something he’d put into the pipe was, it had disappeared under the flame. He put some more in, this time registering to my eyes as a little white bubble. I hit it hard and asked him again, this is really crack? He said yeah. I was starting to feel tripped out. I got what was probably a placebo effect for a few seconds, felt a little stimulation and thought, oh, this is a crack high, I guess I’m high on crack! I wasn’t really feeling euphoric or anything though, so I questioned M again, and he told me that it was tree sap.

Then he went on some spiel about how it was the same as crack. So I thought, that white bubble thing, maybe that was sap, could have been sap. Then M told me there was DMT in the sap, and shamans use it. So I’m thinking, he’s really fucking with my head here. I definitely felt stoned, but on what? It definitely wasn’t crack, there was no euphoria or upper feeling. It felt like pot, but very strong pot. Was very tripped out, so it was plausible to me there could have been DMT, or 5meo in the mix. There weren’t any visuals, but I was stoned and suggestible all of a sudden, so part of my brain was open to the idea that I’d smoked crack or tree sap or tryptamines, and was thus coming up with wild theories about how it could be one or the other or all of the above. And another part of my brain was questioning whether I’d been deceived, and for what purpose, and was M trying to teach me some redundant lesson about the power of the mind, and placebo? And an ultra skeptical part was wondering if that white thing was something he’d put into the pipe to make it look like crack, and there just happened to be hash resin in there that got me stoned. Or if it was actual tree sap mixed with the resin. Or maybe he’d taken a chunk of hash and coated it with K. Or if, since I’d been expecting crack, my mind had just created the “white thing” for me. And he was going on these weird raps, trigging weird stoned thoughts. My head was chaos, trying to sort this out.

So then he started showing me this trippy visual software he’d created, spiraling patterns mapped over spheres, cool stuff. I was getting lost in the visuals, sitting in front of his monitor, but then he kept telling me to press certain keys, to do this and that, insistently. So I obliged, but his commands sounded increasingly tense and frustrated. I got the feeling he was upset that I couldn’t do what he wanted me to do with his software. He was saying that this and that controls the mouse sensitivity and you have to do it like this, etc, etc. I understood the specifics of what keys did what, and tried to tell him that, but I couldn’t understand why he was frustrated, and what he wanted me to do. It got really frentic and irritating, and I began to feel oppressed and overwhelmed. When he took over the mouse, he made the visualizer change much faster, and what I was seeing was tripping me out more and more, and making strange patterns in my brain that I didn’t know what to do with. His fragmentary raps had me thinking that he was trying to show me some new way of seeing, like his software had opened a window into another dimension, or something, and this was an initiation that I was failing, because I was a frustratingly clueless apprentice. Something in my reaction led him to say “I didn’t mean to offend you”. I felt like I was the one who had offended him. But I was also confused and irritated. I just wanted to play around with his cool visualizer, but he had some huge bug up his ass, and I couldn’t figure what it was all about, and what it had to do with me. So I said he could take the controls. He did K and I went home. The last thing he said was a comment on the quality of a house that I interpreted as meaning: “haha, you loser”.

Was hellishly paranoid the rest of the night. Went back to my old room, still stoned out of my mind, intense closed eye visuals. Listened to the fugue from Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata, indescribably beautiful and brilliant, blew my mind. But all the sound and visual sensory splender was gloss over the sick grinding paranoia. Probably had a lot to do with feeling like a failure, and being unable to cope. That was the psychological baseline the drug was working with. I decided what I’d smoked was definitely hash. Or pot resin. Nothing else. And M had been fucking with my head. Or was crazy, and actually thought it was crack or tree sap or something. I get paranoid and suggestible when I smoke THC, especially if it’s unexpectedly.

Schizophrenia, THC, paranoia, imagination, they’re all tightly tied together. A lot of my trip that night was paranoia, but I’m not convinced that all of it was. The real killer is that for every false positive, the rare time something happens that is the result of real, actual malice on someone’s part – confirmation of that could legitimize all the false positives, and keep the cycle of negativity going. Well, that’s my theory, anyway. I’d planned to stop by the house after work last night and simply ask M what was going on last night, and what he was frustrated about, and why he’d put something in the pipe and called it crack when it was pot… But I knocked on the door and he yelled “we’re closed”, so I thought, fuck him, and went home.

genetic defect

it’s not for lack of trying
it’s not for lack of knowledge
it’s not a lack of smarts
it’s not a lack of heart

it’s a fundamental flaw
it’s a fundamental flaw

it’s the
genetic defect

they gave me everything they could
but i’m stuck with my defect
the double whammy effect
but it worked for them
they found a context for their genes
i have none

where’s my defective counterpart?
is it diminishing returns?
devolution’s half-life?

destiny in loser-love
is to find one with the same set against them
the same double whammy
of ugly and awkward
to produce the next gen of loser
the quadruple whammy kid

i thought i met my defective counterpart
my insecure, neurotic soulmate
but at some point
she decided she was better

29 Nov 2007


it's not that bad
you've just got to hide
convince yourself under cover of darkness
then you might rest a while
it will have no connection to anyone else
it's okay

it's allowed to shift
amazing how much paranoia was present
but there was also reality, unfortunately, maybe, i don't know
nevermind virtual, jesus christ in a chicken basket

it's best to remain in stasis, in ravgravy, let's call it

i guess i'd rather sleep than anything else -- entrust my experience of life with the unconscious - give it over to that - nevermind the bright

25 Nov 2007

stupid goodbye song

listen (now, "scrapbook")

(i turned this into an instrumental, cause a friend of mine said it came off "whiny" with the vocals - so, there's no vocals anymore, but i still like the piano part)

you won't see me again
i made the big decision and
you won't see me again
i wouldn't take you back now and
you won't see me again
scrapped my fucking scrapbook and
you won't see me again

i just wish that you'd care

but i know that you're full
i'm the one who's empty
cause you finished needing me
i'm the one who's empty
cause you found somebody new
cut me off completely
isn't novelty such
ecstasy for you

i just wish that you'd care

don't it make you strong
i know just how weak you are
so let it make you strong
milk it milk it milk it milk it

take your fucking vitamins
and get your fucking fill of him
and i will take my drugs
and sing my stupid fucking song

stupid goodbye

and you won't see me again
cause i'm never coming back now
and you won't see me again

i just wish that you'd care

i'm wearing clothes you bought for me
i can't purge all the memories
i'm poisoned with nostalgia
and i scrapped my fucking scrapbook
yeah i scrapped my fucking scrapbook
and i tossed that stupid song i wrote for you
and now i'm singing something new
another stupid song

stupid goodbye

remember when we
remember when we
remember when
oh, nevermind

stupid goodbye

the crystal ship
is being filled
a thousand girls
oh fuck that shit

fucking score!
that's awesome
i never thought i'd actually do some real damage!
well thanks for letting me know i made a difference
i guess, whatever
i gotta go now

22 Nov 2007

hero generation

tall shot of new breed
same as the old breed
smart revolutionary's
waiting for apocalypse

21 Nov 2007

planning out a plateau

having to examine behavior - or wanting to? feeling/needing? maybe it isn't on the mend - maybe it scabbed over

now dissolved back into life again

nerf head, chatting with a cubicle

someday, it may be real - there's a precedent
but is there a future?

let it curl

19 Nov 2007

Hooked Up To Nothing

All Read7;;;;;;;
All righty?

that's how it goes. where;s the hook up? oh overhere in the slipchasm. Yeah. Done.

It's been done. In the sand, with the floor boards, I tried my part, my role, we'll see what this does. Was this in there for some. And I am Severed. Arbitraril lilly adrift rift raft abortofascetious, draw your own concluzionz. Yeah. You wood. She would call it the garbage room. Buried under layers of obfuscation, drugs and dialecs, checkers, they mix n match meet at the perfect apex, yeah, it is a distillation to choose, what to say, i guess, right now, wow.... this is ... one.... big plateau. i turned off the lights - it's like old times, but i'm not totally sure how to itegrate, do ya wanna, uh, didn't we just decide that music is the corner of a crumbling old fashioned way of speaking leaking okay, i will let the contours decide. it's now a crater not even any later than i think it is. Wow, who cares who this is, it works, as a grout, steam steamer meant everything not too long ago - it's chaos but i - well forget that - they got tired of the giving, can't follow - who the fuck is this? it's perfect prefect music, fucked, cracked, balanced, with a shot at the peak, maybe? don't ask me --

jesus, i guess chaos can only satisfy for so long and maybe i'm married to a floorboard but i wouldn't call a lawler, sounds meaningless, ground down, already, quickly, grizzly, guzzle, bustle... . ? any?

Here again?

saved waves
sorted out
as a weekend trip out


what are you doing

for fun? yeah? really?
well then

i’m going into the hoolleee’

the holy hole.

that’s where i’ve been
at times.



Have fun with that chunk of real life I’m not sure I’m typing right and is somehow wreapped ujp in some non carnivrerious ocmomsicnmoafdosdojwhajjs okay,

ah fuck that.

save some slaved savedes
and laugh at nothing peeling down tghew walls that is what it is good foralibe.

O good god glory holy motherfuck botttom buckets do I like to comprehends.

You are so good to bring all this to me, in all seriousness, what the hell am I doing with myself? Hmmm…. OPPPPOpoooooooooWOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOwo

heh, tgea.

TthATS WHATs uou get when people take it upon themselves/////////////////G


Twisty fisty don’t add up to mch but we take the trip anyway,,,,, hey here we go hahhahahaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

it’s the dregs, it’s the end, it’s my reality, but whateveverererererer, i’m the man who supplanteddddtehaaaaaooooooooooooocccccoaaaaaookkk fucil sakkkkso it’s oikay then rigt? ssssssssss Nevermind the pulse. Was I paying a mind, an engineer? Fuck, I got a payroll. Well. We’lll see how it pans out.
yeyehayahm htgerfycvkjakaka


lichen is ,lo st
I am having a dialog with merz

what else is there to do?

confuse and fuse forward - yes
don't bring your goddamned emotions, just learn to live in noise, say i! Have I got it out of my system? Hmmm.. Not sure. Think I turned the pixel corner. Oh yes. I'm the pixel pixie. Waiting for it to all happen to me. Wow. When bored
m and energy catches up with you here we are WOW. wired. A,MBAM MEWABAWQMXS
Yes, fuck, create I guess, love the floorboards you're with, and merzbow is fellating my mind, i love this thistle of mmmmmmswizzzies, yes underline blogger, fine with me, and dandy

this was a premeditated trip, so what is the point? well the point is that it is premeditated, it feels like shambhala, robotic, herky, jerky, dancing for the moment, not seeding anything, no cosmic cause, tho the walls are getting concave, my whole head, can i call it that? let's, alright, very oceanic, letting in the chaos, i am very centered and rational right now, and just accurately transcribing the modulating visions and sounds around me, it's distored, and merzd, but it could use a lil more, probably time for that bump, wtf, fuck it up.

There we go, I did a line for Jesus, let's see what he has to say. I mean, the point was to tweak my head, so squeeze something new out of the universe, and I've got to say, merz is helping me along the way, and values are gravelletronic, fucking daylight is three sheets to the wind, seven horses off the mark, and i'm still writing, so i'm not as high as i intended to get, yet...

But I am getting weird vision and syncronicity -- yeah, colors go pale, i love that - haha - dance monkey - love being in my chemical command fortress - all the way - obituary - i'm starting to like the taste... hey... the flavor is fun and flavorful and fun and funderful and flavorful and the colors are pulsing, one last party leadsto one last party leads to one last party leads to

Keep {Unsold}

Those old dissoc days. Let it pile on in plainchantique and common table lather. That sort of goes together checkered detritus. Yes. I've lost, I've gained, courting Becky's amplifier, alright, I'll throw it in there. Precise Detritus. Yes. There's a band name, for 2 seconds. What is it about? It's not like I'm trying to cut to the chase of perception. I've been bubbling and bouncing around the boil of the mystik truth, stiky and ugly - is it too hot? What do you think? I think I carved a whole into the tree just for me, white blur, too freeeel. Freellly mee. Yeah. Kreal. So should I just keep this draingame going? Yes, of course. Sproiyoiyoiyoiyoi

ya, and so forthumanting

Dayaman bitmonxicrantzethx. Worz occurz. You knew what wouldhappen were I left to me own devices. Cares would sit unsold. Unsold. I have no conviction, but plenty of chaos. Lets call it rocket fuel. Was gonna write songs, instead skirted this checkered and pulsed ambient freefreeefrickin fallin , not getin across, must transcribe chaos

Yeah, I know. It's sketchy. But it's so much bigger than me or you. Okay. But that lends itself to artistic filters and headtrips. Jesuscorpus what does it matter anyway? Well, lets not drag pointscars into this fucking nexuois, or why not, it's just me and my music, and maybe i'll fiddle with the concoction, add more k, in a sec... but everything is practically perfect

i'm grilling myself - why - what is the - bounce - 6 - 9 - 60 - 90 - 00 - 2000ummmm, okay, am i recreating, mining, what the fuck am i doing? When I join myself in heaven with jimi on guitar - who has the mantra? Just checked in. Okay, more K. Cause if I can write, then I'm not tripping right. Right? Even if my overall sense of gravity is spinning to the left and down and around and wow, lol, that's pretty cool, okay, nevermind, it's cool.


Rapidiment, enter the queue.

A certain confine, comfy, can type fairly well, still ---

Purposefully on a lonely mythovibe. Not much ration. Still. Dunno if I could carry on a conversation. What is the point of the party?

Tissue is comfortable. Aphex is also. As well.

Well I'm kind of sinewed between agendas, itinerary stretched immediately, what was I doing? Trying to do?

Gravelicon lining grouts in the arbitrary grot. Got. Gotten. Self experiment? Resonance for the good of genetic and millenarian lineagons, polyonal, plattitudes? Placement with the bending basements of the wending floorboards? Need drip dilution. Water.

No more feeling freaked. Found a new place in chronically out. Uh oh, here we go. That pro stuff. Professionally sound. And around. Wound. Wind? I am? Me? I dunno. But here we go. Rational factions splintered. It's interesting.

The cassock, tattering in the wind, who said I would scrape the void on to you? Scrape it out of that, scrape it on to -- the cassock, when losing touch was a natural way to go. Hey, it's what I wanted.

Opium and water. It's a touch stone. Here we go. Around this merry go round. It's a touchstone. It's television. It's quality. It's something to do in this weekend spackle. It matters little. Means nothing. But everything, right now, the grotto. Lined with owls and analazers, alls well. Lono. Botdrommo. Forchrostrockcho. Kandalacka. Dex kept me flaquered with reinbows... This? Getting wild and flunged. Would flunge. Should. Wille. Yeah, but not necessary, right? Conventions, soaked to aesthetics, a little spackle of resonance, these cosmic cause dances in my life, people I know, survey says, survey, sajak?

The white blur goes, along, and I wonder how I can exploit my position here in this strange damp and electronically warm corner of the floorboards, most people are asleep, I picked a weird and perfect time to lacquer the keys, maybe, let's hope it works with the rest of this mechanism, I'm not abandoning control, trying to work with, with, you know? So I guess that means more snow on the brain is necessary, to work with, even given the graven comfort and nursery siness and finess thatsnecessary to play the wrong notes intentionally, like those grey fyukin stripes, verbatumb, heh, the crumbs of this special place on the floorbored, thinking, maybe maybe

well, the raison of another paragraph, there is some kind of amnesia renewal, maybe that is what is going on, like dipolar circuits on an old growth forest, i'd arrest and traverse the larval grains if i had my limbs on the panel, but we're standing in a matrix that is very compartimanenalized, why not lose and lope, my people, i related to the off and on, one of who i was, one of those, hey ha, yeah

people who used chaos drive me now

don't ask me for a reading, i'm the wavesaver, enjoy the butterskotch flavor, remember the good times we had, i will throw in the towel when the art fuzz triad reveals tingling self-obsessed mold dartistry, like peaches. Yeah. You know what I'm talking about? I figured you would. Even though I'm in quicksand. Decisions. Should I pursue this line of questioning, and insufflate atop cioran? I'm not sure. When you get into the thick of it, punctuates, and paradigms shlurn, and new words form, and hey, where's that randomnity i ordered? I remember why I liked fucking around with this in the first place, the chaos, something I wasn't always connected to - sometimes it comes around again, gravity waves. There's more. To come. Mmm, it's hack time. It's not all rehash. Mostly though. That's what you find here. I'm amused I can pull on some strings. Baby let me follow you down.

14 Nov 2007

Rain Tour

Re-ordered the set list in Whistler and got a good response. Good way to end the tour after the lackluster crowds in Van, Vic, and Tof. That got Mike down, but we played well in any case. Hard starting out, as an unknown, between-genres band. But the last show was kickass.

Going home. Long long drive. But the obligations are over. I relax and smoke hash, which plunges me into the paradox – light, spacey feeling and suffocating dread. Have to intentionally steady my mind, to avoid drowning. A lot of mantras and internal calisthenics, mental muscle workout.

Trying to describe massive emotion. Impossibility of coping. Hyper-sensitivity. All pain, past, present and future, all possibility of pain, feels impossible to feel. When brought into a feedback loop of negativity, the delay between feeling and fading is excessive, an unconscious loop, repeating cycle… but paisley is innocent and fun ~ beauty and joy in abstraction ~ a good loop if you can get into it. Feedback loops can be positive too. Easy to forget that. Great to remember.

Plunged back into negative loop land by Mike talking. Unfortunate, because there’s plenty of good things in it. He reminds me of Jenn a lot, hard-edged exterior, quick, articulate and honest about what is on his mind, but compassionate to the core, a conversational catalyst and family man, very real, here and now, oriented to the good and chafed with the grit of reality. But I tumble into the negative, non-abstract specifications of my inadequacies and awkward fits into my hallucinatory misconceptions surrounding an ill-conceived definition of society. 16 drams is poetic.

Paranoia, fretting over my character, am I playing this right? What is right? Nothing it seems, feedback loop focused on flaws. Beauty is brighter and more beautiful, but the ugliness and painfulness is harsher than anything, wins, buries the beauty. But that is why playing music, improvisation, is probably the best use of my time, in such a state. Ideas are musical, intense expression, can be negative, in a good way.

Eriatarka on the car stereo, my favourite song. If Mike and the others would agree to cover this, I’d sign a waiver, in blood, obliging me to be in this band for a decade.

10 Nov 2007

Sled-dog Afterbirth

Stuck in a house in the Calgary suburbs, thinking about hair reduction surgery. What do I need this mop for, anymore?

Claustrophobic. Isolated. No savior in my future. I’m a non-entity, out of the game. Witty conversation around me. What can I talk about, being bored and depressed? I have nothing to say, no personality. Shallow smile, acceptance of empty praise. I’ll go along for now. Spastic attempts at response. Trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. Dreamed of Dez last night, seems the only good in the world, now inaccessible, for good. Good times in the past when I lived in the present, living day to day with my girl. Gotta stop thinking about “my girl”, it’s toxic and sweet, like whisky. Abuse of nostalgia.

It’s the morning after the second show. I give Mike a simplistic and marginally articulate version of what I like about Keith Jarrett. Something to talk about. I even feign enthusiasm. I talk with Lyndon. Tell him what I like about his songs. I talk about where I’m coming from musically, my classical influence. Steal meth’s comment about me fusing Scriabin and late Liszt with Nirvana. Turns into another conversation of clich├ęs, “less is more”, the beauty of simplicity. I oblige by saying that I’ve become less interested in virtuosity. But they’re all such tired pronouncements. True, but tired. Should have used the opportunity to articulate some ad-hoc “more is more” philosophy. Decide that when I form my own band, it will be called More is More. More’s law, a band’s harmonic density will double in size every six months to infinity.

More driving. Stopping on the strip for gas and food and drinks and gas and drinks and food. We go through the entire Black Sabbath catalog. I’ve come to appreciate Sabbath as much as I appreciate anything. But max capacity is low. Sounds like something I could like some day, if I ever care about music again. I hear what I like about it, as an estranged fact. But the only passion I can muster is in writing of emptiness.

Noah defines emo as “suicidal punk rock”. Chortles at the genre for existing. It is funny, shouldn’t emo have self-immolated, according to its own ideals, or lack thereof? In stranger aeons, even death may die. I see nothing good in suicide, and nothing good in life. Mike and Sam crack me up with their banter, but after a spasm of involuntary laughter, I feel myself, and the useless space I take up, as an obstruction to pure function, a clog in the artery of the cosmos, I have nothing to offer. I may be sicker of music than anything else. Burned out on soul balm. I drink coffee every few hours, but feel sluggish. I drink beer in the bars, get hazy and headachy but never really buzzed.

Nothing works, but Sam relates. And Mike’s happy. Never sure what’s up with Noah. But he’s got a hottie waiting for him at home. I don’t worry about him. Mike and Sam got their steadies. I’m the one with no one to come home to. So I go back to worrying about me. I’m imagining a road trip, in lieu of the rest of the tour, during my time-off. Renting a car and driving down to the desert to see someone, an idea born of desperation. Crazy, but it’s the only thought that has excited me in these long long days. Would feel terrible abandoning the band, though I know they don’t need me. I’m texture, but I’m not vital. I don’t want to harsh anyone’s buzz, but fuck, everybody else gets their rocks off, why can’t I? I’m thinking I could do it, if I was willing to spend a lot of money, which I am – what else am I gonna do with it? Might as well splurge for the one thing that seems to interest me. If she would see me. That’s a mystery. These strange women, who knows what they think? And what good would it do to visit anyone in this state? Well, I’d be in a different state then, literally, plus I’d be on my own trip, not chained to someone else’s. Might be a disaster, but at least it would be mine.

Machine Head is playing on the Velvet Underground PA while I wait endlessly for the first of three bands to begin. Well played, well mixed, boring, and annoying. Everything sounds soul-less and good. I respect people, and feel distant from them. Getting sick of this straight explication. How about an hour of carbonation? Got three drink tickets and I’ve only used one. Running with scissors. My expectations have lowered to the point where I expect nothing from anyone, except the basic decency I’ve come to expect from the decent folks I’m touring with. But strangers? I’m not looking to them expectantly, for kindness and understanding. The thought of some kind woman taking me home seems worse than a fantasy – ugly, absurd, cognitive dissonance. I now understand what T meant by his “bag of shit”, feeling that interaction with humanity is just spreading disease. I know how hard it is for him, dragging around the stone. I should be grateful for any friendliness he manages.

Rotbottyrot is the local band, they’re fantastic but I say nothing. A punk four piece, tight, angular, angsty songs, chicks on drum and bass, hot girls, too hot for me to look at. A handsome scream-singer and an excellent guitarist, they sound a bit like At The Drive-In, look even younger, come off more adult. Makes me glad to be on the bill with a good band, there’s no joy in being the bright lights in a dim room, like at the distillery in Calgary.

“This next song’s for my buddy Lorne… Don’t worry, we’ll get through this shit.” Dude just got word there’s a warrant out for his arrest.

Show’s over. I avoid the twelve or so people who saw us play. Am not really interested in what they thought. I think Mike sold a CD, at least. Let’s get the fuck out of here. A parade of loading gear into the van, amps, amps, amps, disassembled drums, my heavy-ass keyboard and all my cords, and stand, amps, guitars, amps, merch, too many trips to count. But they’re playing The Mars Volta in the bar, for a minute I’m happy. I sing along to Cicatriz, awfully off Cedric’s falsetto – been neglecting my singing voice, and all vocal utilities, in fact. Noah warms my heart by commenting favorably on the song. Then I go back to loading gear. Seems an incredible amount of effort for that one hour of music.

I smoke a bowl with our rhythm section outside the club in Edmonton and gradually turn into a basket case, a silent four hour freakout. Those first few post-toke minutes are sweet. I needed this. Life is interesting again, I’m thinking about something other than how lame everything is. Un-self-consciously singing my new song. I suddenly realize how to simplify the chorus melody that sounded wrong. Now I’ve got it sounding perfect, and I didn’t need to think at all. Just came to me. Sam tells me it’s good medicine. I agree, smile, and float on waves of weirdness. Then I do another big hit, and my sanity slips. Was away from THC too long. Now it smacks me like a psychedelic, a mindgrinder, torturous self-examination. I’m an animal trapped in an abattoir, humbled brutally, no longer the rock musician I’m trying to be, but a pitiful bloodied byproduct of chaos. We drive to Lyndon’s friend’s place, where our crash pad is.

By the time we get there, I’m in paralysis. Can’t let on that I’m panicking, it would be a failure of apocalyptic proportions, the Scarlet P, pussyboy – no one must know how weak I really am. Every bit of stimuli is a fragment of a riddle inviting a thousand paranoid possibilities. Am I supposed to go in the house, or… don’t know what to do and every second of delay is increasing awkwardness. How much can I let on? I tell Mike I’m “braindead”, generic enough, hopefully. He’s had to deal with far worse fuck-ups, ends my indecision by reassuring me it’s the house. Lyndon leads me to an empty room I get all to myself. I fall onto the bed, finally, relief of sleep dep. But then the caffeine pills I took two hours ago catch up with me. I’m jittering. Dim room, toys on the floor, must belong to some little kid, lego and star wars posters. Some little kid who must be gone, but why? Where? Or is he? I feel a presence in the room, and my invasive perversity infecting the innocence of this space, am I really supposed to be here or is there some mistake? Desperation, I must get out or I’ll freak, but I mustn’t wake the sleeping bandmates, creaky creaky floor, freaky floor, weird sounds, is there someone in the room? I sit up in bed clutching stolen sheets, looking around, looking under the bed, looking under the bed again, gotta pee but where? Can’t wake anyone, I’ll fuck everything up, feeling the decay of my body in every nerve ending, a tight loop of tension, no relief, no comfort anywhere, can’t sleep, must grab something, some artifact of my life, I’ve got my music in my bag, could ride out the trip with my music but Mike’s sleeping in the van, can’t go there, but I must, but I can’t, gotta pee! Finally decide to venture outside, wake a floor-sleeper with creaks, looking for a bathroom, staring spaced-out down a dim nook, startle awake another floor sleeper I’d missed who startles me in turn with his spasm and gibber, I freak out again, creep toward the door, leave the house with cartoonishly exaggerated stealth, walk around this foreign suburban block five times in the frigid night air, find a shadow to piss in, think I’m being videotaped, piss anyway, creep back. I know, I’ll take a dramamine, maybe that will knock me out. Fish out the pill in my jacket pocket, drop it on the sidewalk, get down on my knees, can’t find it.

Think I must be tired enough to sleep now, creep back into my ill-gotten room, hear creepy noises, eyes darting around for interlopers, twitching, feeling seizure is immanent. Congested, sinus sting, muscles in knots, can’t breath right, can’t live in my body. Just want to do away with it, just want to die. But I can’t, I have a family and friends, people I’d hurt with my death, would be an apocalyptic failure, so the imperative of living, survival mechanism in the vice of emotional co-dependency, with people who I must think about when it gets down to the wire with my bag of rancid flesh hanging off like chemed-out cellulite, loved ones good for nothing except keeping me from suicide, the horrible truth. Time dilates ever more, can’t imagine an end to this night, go through my jacket pocket, find another dramamine, know that it will intensify my emotions, but would rather cry than scream. I chew it up. Bizarre chem taste, brings intolerable associations, can’t cope, must do something or I’ll scream, find the kid’s packet of lifesavers, fret about being a monstrous invader of an innocent room but decide that preventing a freakout is the greater good and eat the candy, and another, butterscotch flavor, and a true life saver, eradicates the dram taste.

Beautiful intricate visuals behind eyelids that I can’t enjoy because of the horror in my head, all sensation being high definition sting, a quadrillion pixels of pain, cerebral and psychosomatic. Still can’t sleep, utterly alone and lacking anything familiar, pick up the kid’s copy of watership down and try to read, re-start the first paragraph twenty times, never get more than two lines in, trying to read in this hyperaesthetic state exhausts me, I lie down, twitch a bit more, sweat, take off my sweater, twitch a bit more, then the drammy kicks in, thank fucking god for drammy, puts me in a twitchy semi-conscious state, I drift into dreams but THC keeps them close to the surface, mingling with the analytical cortex, Dez is in the fog somewhere but a severed Dez, on the other side, waving a grim-faced goodbye to me, contemptuous of my clinginess, and the dramamine is like an anvil, heavy and tragic, imparting the possibility of eventual sleep. I drift deeper, dream of Mike and his van, he is angry at me for giving up on the band, drammy’s sad sequel, somewhat peaceful at least. Yo.

Wake up to casual band chatter and acoustic guitar. Morning light. Overcast and cold. I survived. Nothing is all that sinister anymore, nor all that sad. Just lame. Mike is playing the interlude melody from “The End”, my favourite song to play, but hearing it sounding so integral on solo guitar makes my contribution feel superfluous, like I’m some cancerous growth. But we’re moving again. On the road to Banff. Gotta do one more show. But maybe I can come up with some excuse not to play. Can’t bear the thought of loading my gear again, just want to sleep. Can’t really sleep in the van, gave up the comfy front seat I’ve been monopolizing. Drink coffee instead, still slump in the back.

Drink some beers with Sam and Noah in Banff, almost have fun. Off color talk, as per usual, but something compels me to join. “I ate pussy for four years, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt… and gonorrhea”, I say. We laugh. Eat at Melissa’s, nearly swank. Noah’s broke, I buy him dinner, leave a big tip rather than break a 20, waitress gratitude amuses me, garish, but whatever. Fuck it, I’ll play the show, what else am I gonna do? Play pool, doubles with the band, sink two in one great shot, embarrassingly bad the rest of the time. Still can’t talk to any strangers, poker-faced. Talk music with Mike, amicable and articulate, feeling nothing. Up to four beers now but fuck it, I can play this stuff in my sleep. I might have to, unless I take more caffeine. Doesn’t wake me up, but keeps me from nodding off.

The Random Device, Lyndon’s band, play first. The folks from Salmo who we’re bringing with us on the tour. This wouldn’t be happening without Mike’s connections, mostly thanks to BC/DC and Circle the Wagons. Random is a two piece – a drummer, and bass player/vocalist with a bright and chorusy tone, guitar-like, meticulous in sound-check, patiently working out the kinks. He entwines his lines with Andy Kerr-like vocals, using his instrument as bass and contra-melody, plus he triggers samples, loops, and arpeggios on his little keyboard – busy guy. The drummer, Lorne, is kickass. People dance, the ones who aren’t scared away. These guys have an odd melancholic integrity to their music and performance, it feels fated and desolate, but angry and alive. Mike says it’s like Nomeansno meets The Cure. Good people, I should buy their CD.

Then us, the headliners, play our set. Finally, I get to do what I’m here for, play music. For a brief moment, the ennui fades and I can focus on something. It’s polished and predictable, although we throw in Fortress, because the crowd wants hardcore, not mellow, Mike decides. I remember my part. The song goes well, despite the shitty sound, and despite the bar owner yelling at Mike to turn his amps down. Pisses him off, we’re a loud band for fuck’s sake. Some spaced out chick in a megadeth cut off buys us all jagger bombs, puts them on a tray and carries them up to the stage, expectantly, while we’re in the middle of a song. Mike gives her a glare and goes into a scream singing verse. She wanders over to me. I’m standing precariously on the edge of the stage. I have an organ part I’m supposed to play in a second, but I forego the riff and take a swig from one of the shotglasses, in appreciation of her ill-timed gesture, then flash her a stupid smile.

We talk with an agent after the show who has kind words for all of us. Dude manages Bob Wiseman, and some other folks. He lets all of us crash at his condo, nice guy, middle-aged cancer survivor, weathered, gentle, and crusty all at once. I come to believe his claims. He feels authentic, there’s this NDE weight to his words, he smokes kootenay hash with us and retains the polite force of his personality.

The Rockies, beautiful scenery in the morning, snow, we find a diner and spend the rest of the band money on brunch. I’m still depressed and fretting about how I’m gonna tell Mike I’m quitting, like would I be the beginning of the end, would the others follow, would I fuck up everything by starting a landslide of negative energy? Maybe I should just stick it out for the rest of the tour, would be lame of me to abandon the band right now. But can I really make it for the rest?

Overall impression is desolate clubs and people, a contrived scene. But that’s what a low budget unknown band rock n roll tour is. Mike likes it, endures the hardship. Tells me he feels like a pirate, planting his flag, conquering. He believes in his band. I respect that. But how much am I willing to suffer for his vision? Back home. Check the Ravenhead myspace page. Mike added a short article welcoming me to the band. Okay, fuck it. Let’s play the west coast. 

1 Nov 2007

Ni Hill

Just turn the fucking music off already. Just get out of here. Ugh. Why the fuck did I move in here? Because I had to. Whatever the cost. Well, this is the cost. Well, anyway.

I'll be glad to get out of here. I guess. Go on tour. Just keep the novelty going, throw myself into something new. Stupid drugs and people. They don't work for me. Especially tonight. Music does work, it's something I can do. Mike was happy, and that made me happy. We all played well. The show was orgasmic. The aftermath is disappointing, but being in the song was good. I connect well that way, I guess I'll even abandon vast swathes of ego that way. But there was no promised R'N'R for me - for others, for sure, people getting off all over the peripherals. Me, well, you know how that goes. More isolation than normal, even. But the surface is cold. What can I expect? If it’s not happening, if I don’t make it happen, I didn’t make it, I don’t have it, what more is there to say? It’s not like I ever believed in it anyway. And this retarded, e-tarded, acid-tarded, party scene is just making me sick. Smoked a cig, did a line of K, and it's all idiotic. Didn't get off.

Fuck these people, fuck all of them. How do I fit into this stupid fucking scene? I don't. I worked on the music though, and I did good with that. I guess I can and should focus on that, I guess it's my destiny, to be the responsible one, someone that can be counted on -- or to go for the solo career as a space case, either way. Well, I'll do both.

Big thanks to Doc, he came and saw, he rocked out with us. He hooked me up with Mike in the first place. Doc rules. Everyone else, well, they got their halloween on I guess. Good LORD, I’m bored with this season. Smash the pumpkins already, move the fuck on. Let it snow, bury this bullshit.

Good energy, good crowd, in a kinetic sort of way. It's something to do. I can't do much with the dregs, what I'm left with. And these moronic drugs I pursue - the taste of tobacco - so disgusting and so pointless.

Maybe I'm halfway neurosomatic, not objective enough to realize how bullheadedly bitter I'm being right now. What is it I want, need, expect? Oh, I could write you a fucking laundry list. Just don't let me hear about it. The connections. The action I'm not in on. Cause if I keep hearing about it I'm gonna snap, and I'm gonna bludgeon your skull with my nord, till it's a fine paste under this white elephant I bought, that sounds great, vintage, fills up the space, texturizes the metal band. I’ll bludgeon my social superiors into skull powder, and I’ll snort it up with a straw, and I will attain enlightenment, in the interchange of materials, dusted to the molecular level, you and me interchangable, can’t find an orifice, too late, it’s all genetic memory. Well it pleases me, that I can get it right musically. But I'm still working on the purpose. It might take a while. Arduousness. PDA burned thru my eyes. When I saw my reflection, I didn’t look as low and lost as I felt, I thought, surely there’s a purpose in this bag of flesh. Surely. But where? The truth is one of those pitches I can’t hear.

Some stupid beat punches through the walls, through the static I'm playing to try and drown out the noise. Yeah, the honeymoon is over, I'm going to stop pretending. These people are still partying? Are they even people? It's an auto-party now, but they aren't passed out yet. Yeah, there was a party scene in my room for a while, I let them in, cause I was on a nicotine rush, trying to be high, slipping, not maintaining, but not fucked up enough to pass out. The blond girl told me she knew this room. Yeah, I'm sure she did. Probably when it was Nikos, or one of them fuckers. I'm spelling his name wrong, in case it's uncouth to make these people googlable.

The blond girl said this is the room of no privacy. Thanks for telling me that. Actually it's not that bad, but it feels that bad right now. I would get my Axl Rose on right now, but it's not easy, when no one's trying to please me baby, and I'm writing songs about heartbreak these days. I don't think I'm getting through.

The outlets are fucked. Electrical clusterfuck. One nudge, and the whole system goes down, especially when people are around - some dude rolled me cigarettes, that must have been partially my idea. Ah, those inebriated itineraries. I threw them away, in a fit of sub-retch nausea. That’s how it is. Silly spikehigh, ugly aftertaste, pointless plateau. And the whole world is an incest. Fuck all of you. All of you. I’m just being bitter. I will selectively fuck some of you at a later date. And stupid music continues. Hi, guy. I know you, yes, and you know me. So we say hi. And resume our perpendicular trajectards.

I click my hells.

And pronounce words. Because I can. It’s a skill I have. But I still can't play Rachmaninov's Prelude properly while standing up - no, I need a bench for the classical piano repertoire. Need the exact fucking angle of approach and balance and height to bring out the nuances of a composition, written with intent to maximize the technical capacities of a pianist. But one nice thing about playing the keyboard in a metal band – you can fuck around a lot – a lot of leeway.

I guess that's why I'm going to go back to school next year, that's my long range plan, although I'm also here, probably for the long haul, maybe not HERE, but out, anyway, I'll find a better place though, at some point. I mean, this ain’t the love shack, it was a fresher placenta, not a panacea, a scuzzy little rind I’ve tried on for size, but I give up, I’m not going to contort myself into a series of Giovani variations for some lottery erogeny. I’ll just extend the platonic big tent, or rather, narrow its focus, put all this peripheral pent up poetic juice into, uh, hmm, I know what I’ll do, I’ll pack it all into an aside of some kind, something you can be proud of, for a minute or two.

First I'll find a hidey hole, but then I'll outgrow it. That's my plan. I'm making plans? Yeah I guess so. Gotta do something with these fucking irritating fucked up party people still not shutting up, with my static cranked, and still their voices and music penetrating, a few hours left to sleep - oh well, sleep dep will work for me, maybe. I don't know. Are you ready to rock, Calgary?

Michael Brooks, the mentor I never met

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