Anxiety descending.

A popup art gallery has blown into town with the autumn wind. Art "galleryvanting" is one of my favourite pastimes, and a popup installation is too alluring to pass up, even if I know nothing about the artist or the exhibit, save the title: Millennium Fetish. The details of this particular event have been shrouded in secrecy, despite the twitter campaign that brought me to the gallery's front door.

It's a blustery October evening, and the gallery is located on a quietish street in a not-great part of town, among low-rent apartment buildings and cafes that have been shuttered up for business.  About half of the streetlights are burned out or flickering their final breaths.

A sign on the door says that the gallery doesn't open until 7:00pm - that's sundown at this time of year in this part of the world. My phone tells me it's 7:08. I'm the only one here, so I'm kind of getting a creepy vibe about this thing. Just as my inner voice tells me "I've got a bad feeling about this", other people begin showing up. A small crowd of curious art fiends forms on the sidewalk in front of the old picture framing shop, its faded sign an indication that it may have been years since the last time anyone did business here. The lights are still off in the shop and we're becoming restless, wondering if we should call 7:30 as official "ah, fuck it" time.

Just then, the lights inside flick on, and a man in his 20's who looks like he's lived (and suffered) for a hundred years opens the door. He welcomes us inside and tells us the artist will be with us in a moment, but we are free to begin exploring the gallery. As we file past him, he offers each of us a complementary glass of champagne, which I finish almost immediately after taking the flute into my hand. I always drink champagne too quickly.

Tiptoeing into the main gallery hall among the other patrons, the first thing I notice isn't the array of canvases hanging on the walls or the sculptures arranged around the room, but the smell. It's the odour of flesh and blood, fresh and stale, combined with the scent of paint and glue, like the smell of humanity, dismantled and reassembled. What is the source of this unsettling aroma? How can I be expected to enjoy this exhibit if I'm forced to endure something so repugnant and distracting? 

By the looks on the faces of the others, I can see they're having the same thought. But no one is leaving, and I decide that there might still be very well something worth seeing, so I move toward the wall on my right. Most people go left, don't they? I prefer to avoid the pack, so I begin my journey through the room at the wrong end.

My eyes drink in an enormous, deeply hued palette knife-driven mural of a cityscape by moonlight. Reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night, this viscerally affecting pastiche of blues and blacks and purples  with shocks of white and grey where the yellow should be gives me the disquieting sensation of insignificance as I shrink from the sheer size and magnitude of it. The number 9 swirls and looms repeatedly in the construction of the cityscape's imposing buildings. Nine's as big as houses. On the knoll next to the largest of the nines is a tiny void of a flower wearing a diminutive 6. The flower wilts with inferiority while gazing up at the skyscrapers with disdain, envy, fear. I am that flower; I am the six.

Backing away from the mural, I bump into an older gentleman dressed in a houndstooth suit with matching trilby. The poor soul gasps and cowers away from me, taking the hat from his head and holding it to his chest, sniveling a breathless string of apologies for being in my way. I assure him he need not apologize, it was my own fault for not watching my step. He smiles meekly at my assurance, and he introduces himself.

Mr. Touchshriek's near-nonsensical ramblings make me slightly nervous and worried that he might not be all right in the head, but there is nothing overtly menacing about him, so I shake his hand and excuse myself to view the nearest work of art in my vicinity.

I'm not alone in my slack-jawed shock as I stare at the grotesque statue: a monstrous creature constructed from the bones of many other creatures set in shiny polished metal. A housecat's skull resides in the chest where the heart should be. The tail is constructed from what looks like a human spinal column. Surely it is made of plaster, but the staining from blood and tissue looks authentic.

The monster is adorned with unusual jewellery and clothing... earrings in the form of a shining pair of blue iris-ed eye balls set in resin; a shirt woven from what looks like human hair in various shades of blonde, brown, ginger, black, and even grey and white; a brooch on that vest made from the teeth of various once-living things, painted ironically in cheerful colours; and the piece de resistance, a beautifully crafted handbag of an unidentified leather in a disturbingly familiar pink flesh tone. I swallow hard and wonder if this is partially where that gruesome smell is coming from.

I move away from the gory sculpture and find myself called toward a wonderfully realistic hand-drawn rendering of an adolescent girl drawn entirely in hues of red, rust, and brown. The lines of the drawing are so fine and perfect that it looks as though the girl could step right into the room off the canvas. Looking into her face, it appears as though that is exactly what she wants to do, as if something in her two dimensional world is terrorizing her, tormenting her both physically and emotionally. The scars on her half dressed body express terrible pain, and the wideness of her wet eyes, the only part of the piece painted  a cold lake blue, display a horrid fear.

I want to save this girl from the unspeakable fate she is clearly anticipating. I read the card next to the piece to find it titled Baby Grace, Age 14, after interest drugs. (Whatever those are.) Subject's blood on canvas. (Come again?)

The sick feeling in my stomach is telling me that I've seen enough. I define good art by its ability to make me feel something, whether that feeling is joy, sorrow, loathing or fear, and as such the pieces in this gallery qualify for that distinction; however, it also feels utterly wrong, as if I've stumbled into something horrifyingly real, and definitely illegal. Something in me wants to tell the cops about it, just in case.

Then from out of nowhere, Mr. Touchshriek appears next to me. He tells me he knew Grace. Her family lives in his neighbourhood, old Oxford Town. He used to see her walking to and from school every day. Then one day he saw her talking to someone through the window of a van. She got in, and was never seen again. I ask him if he reported it to the police, but Mr. Touchshriek simply removes his hat again and holds it over his heart, never taking his eyes from Baby Grace's dark blues.

That's it, I'm out of here. As I start to make my way to the door, the man who let us in takes the centre of the gallery. He introduces himself as Leon, and announces that the artist will be making her appearance shortly, and she's willing to answer any and all of our questions. I decide that it might be worth it to stay for a bit, maybe get a bit more information on the obviously deranged person responsible for this horrendous display. Then I'll go to the police.

The artist blusters into the room like a woman possessed. Dressed in leather and clanking with heavy metal jewellery with black hair all askew as if caught in a permanent windstorm, Ramona A. Stone is in her 50's and is doing her damndest to cover it up. She jangles her way to Leon, kisses him with wildly visible tongue and dispatches him with an expression and a gesture filled with a palpable hatred.

She smirks as she judges us silently from her pedestal. Before she can speak, the questions from her audience begin. Who is Baby Grace Blue? Is she alive? Did you really draw her portrait with her own blood? Finally, Ramona speaks.

Suddenly, a raucous thunderstorm begins, releasing a torrent of rain, ear splitting thunderclaps, and blinding lightning. The power goes out and the spectators begin shrieking and gasping as we bump into one another and into the works of art as we clamour to find our way to the door. A terrible cry pierces my ears - I recognize the voice as Mr. Touchshriek's. Another cry, this time from a young woman. What the fuck is going on? I slip on a puddle of something and land on the floor. That smell. I know this smell. I smelled it when I came in.

The lights come on, and as expected, I'm laying on the floor in a puddle of someone's blood. The young woman who cried out - she's on the floor next to me, cut from groin to throat, her guts spilled out onto the floor between us. I vomit convulsively onto the floor, my tears dropping daintily into the pool of blood.

Mr. Touchshriek offers his hand to help me up, a ragged gash visible on his arm. He asks if I'm alright and I scream that I'm not fucking alright, none of this is alright, we need to call the police!

As if on cue, a man comes bursting through the door, introducing himself as Detective Nathan Adler. He informs us that Baby Grace Blue's body, or what's left of it anyway, has been found and he's got it on good authority that the culprit is inside this gallery at this very moment in time.

There's been another murder just now! I blurt out, and point to the young woman on the floor, as if Detective Adler wasn't keen enough pick up on it himself. Unfortunately, my frantic outburst draws the detective in my direction and he begins his line of questioning with me. Have I ever been to Oxford town?

I feel faint. This can't be happening. I just wanted to go to an art show.

Old Mr. Touchshriek approaches in his typical skittish way, and he tells Detective Adler that he was a witness to Grace's abduction and he's not entirely sure who has done the killing, but he suspects it's the artist whose gallery we're visiting, or maybe she's gotten her hapless boyfriend Leon to do her dirty work. Detective Adler thinks aloud.

Ramona and Leon emerge from out of nowhere and begin an bombastic, unnatural looking dance in the centre of the room to a song with a rigid, jackhammer beat and otherworldly lyrics. As they move about the room, their total disconnect from each other seems almost choreographed. Ramona stops to take polaroid photos of the pool of the fresh victim's blood mixed with my vomit and tears. She tacks each polaroid to the wall as she continues her strange dance. 

I'm astonished at Detective Adler's inaction. Then, out of the blue, he begins to applaud. He's being ironic. I get it. Except... a number of spectators begin to applaud as well. Mr. Touchshriek is clapping away like a man who doesn't have an oozing wound on his forearm. And the poor girl with her entrails all askew suddenly rouses, and stands with help from Detective Adler, and she starts clapping. And then a girl resembling the unfortunate girl in the portrait enters from the back, clapping wildly,

It's all been a vast creation - more than a show, a ghastly, dramatic piece of performance art. Incredible. Ramona thanks us for attending. As we can see, no one has really been murdered in the name of art tonight, have they?

Leon throws his arms out in the direction of Ramona, encouraging us all to give her one last round of applause. This time I participate. Leon bows and says that he hopes that this performance has given us a new perspective on the definition of art.  Ramona glares at him with utter loathing for only a second before blowing us all a kiss and bidding us goodnight.

*****

Outside couldn't have come to me at a better time if I had actually planned it this way. Mid-October, the spookiest time of the year, is the perfect backdrop for a concentrated listening of this creepy-as-fuck album. Outside is art in its purest form, and it demands to be listened to as such. If you go in expecting something you can put on at your 39th birthday party surrounded by family, you're going to have a bad time. And everyone is going to leave. Which is okay, because then you can listen to it properly, and really enjoy the fuck out of it.

I advise against listening to it in the bathtub when you're home alone on a windy night in the weeks approaching Hallowe'en. By the time you get to Wishful Beginnings, you will be rocking yourself in the tub going "what was that?!" every time you hear your cat do something downstairs. It was the cat, wasn't it? Please tell me it was the cat.

I like when Bowie does concept albums. For me, Outside is like Nine Inch Nails fucked Twin Peaks and then Twin Peaks gave the baby up for adoption and it was raised by Sin City. It definitely contains some of the most disturbing ideas to come from Bowie's brain up to this point, aka, murder in the name of art during a time of social decay, rapidly advancing technology, and a future unknown. I have to say that despite my initial misgivings, this album is a masterpiece that really defines who David Bowie is as an Artist with a capital A. No doubt he is also a phenomenal pop star and songwriter in general, but Outside takes it to a whole other level.

It should be noted that I omitted some of the album's tracks from my story and shuffled the ones I did include to go with the narrative flow. To really get it, this album deserves to be listened to as a whole. The story contained within Outside is a bit abstract, as with previous concept albums in Bowie's catalogue. He doesn't spell it out for you. You need to listen, and you need to connect the dots, interpret it like you would a painting, and then you need to just chill the fuck out when you realize that there is no resolution. Make that part of the experience.

So without further adieu, here it is.

Someone should really organize an art gallery "showing" of Outside, don't you think?

Post Script - This post is dedicated to my friend Dave M.

I have a confession to make. There was a time when I ignorantly rejected not only this album but David Bowie as an artist. I recall a conversation with Dave (who, incidentally, I will be introducing you to shortly via a special guest post!) sometime in the mid-90's in which he told me I would really like Bowie, and I noped so hard I think I nearly gave him whiplash. I'm ashamed that it took me this long to open my mind and see just how wrong I was, but I'm happy that now I get to share my appreciation for Bowie's work with my dear friend. You planted a seed, Dave. It just took a really long time to take root and grow.

Post Post Script - If you're wondering wtf? about the nines and sixes I described in the cityscape mural, watch The Boy with the Incredible Brain. You won't regret it.

Down on my knees in suburbia.

I'm feeling a little flat this morning. As I open my eyes to the day, I immediately notice a compressed, two dimensional appearance to the bedroom. My bed faces a mirrored closet, and as I sit up to look into it, I see a cartoonish world reflected back... thick black lines outlining the edges of everything, including me; vibrant colour all over what is normally a neutrally toned room. I'm peach coloured with yellow hair, sky blue eyes, and strawberry candy pink lips. As I get out of bed, the polka dot pattern on my pyjamas doesn't fold and move the way it should; it kind of just stays put, despite my movements. This is going to be a weird day.

To be honest, I'm craving a bit of weirdness, since moving house a little over a month ago.  I've traded the colourful idiosyncrasy of city life for the comfortable homogeneity of the suburbs. I've adapted spectacularly well, which is something I didn't expect. I grieved deeply the morning we relocated our belongings from the 416 to the 905. Now that I'm here, I'm relishing the comfort, cocooning myself in the house when I'm not at work.

But I've got some errands to run today, and I'm curious how the world outside looks in cartoon format, so I ready myself to go out. Hilariously, when I open my closet I see that hanging inside it is not my normal selection of clothing, but the same outfit on every hanger. My cartoon uniform... you know, the outfit that cartoon characters never change out of? Shaggy's green shirt and brown cords... Lisa Simpson's red dress and pearls... April O'Neil's yellow jumpsuit thing... you get the idea. The fact that I don't even get to pick mine is a bit frustrating, if kind of telling. So I dress myself in rolled up blue jeans, a black tunic, a brightly coloured beaded necklace, a pair of mary janes, and of course my tortoiseshell glasses, which are apparently so deeply apart of my actual persona that I actually woke up wearing them.

Wanting to be in the house for not a minute longer, I swoop down the stairs and exit hastily via the front door. Alighting on the front porch, I stop for a moment to survey my street. Yes, it looks the same, except in cartoon format. There is a kid, a boy of about 8 years old, swinging on the tree swing in my yard, just like any normal day. I wonder if the kid is seeing everything this way too? I decide not to ask, just in case he thinks I'm crazy and tells the other neighbourhood kids and then they egg the house on Hallowe'en.

Before fully embarking upon my errands, I decide to go to the Italian bakery up on the corner and get a coffee to put into me. I live in a distinctly Italian neighbourhood now, which pleases me. I grew up with Italians, back in my hometown, and I find them comforting, friendly, wholesome. Maybe a bit too wholesome. The Roman Catholic church on the opposite corner is a reminder of this. Families dressed in their Sunday best file in to the church like the dutiful, fearful Christians that they are. Hate to remind them what they had to do to make those beautiful, shining babies in their arms.

In true cartoon fashion, the sun shines yellowly over the church, with sweetly singing blue birds swooping above,  while a dark thundercloud forms over my head and the rain begins pouring down on me, my own personal lightning bolt zapping me over and over as I wait to cross the street. Even in the cartoon version of the world, I am judged. The light turns green and I dash across into the bakery. Unfortunately, the rain cloud follows me in, and a bakery employee tells me "you can't come in here with that".  I make a deal with the cloud - it can wait for me outside if it just lets me get a coffee first. It agrees, and floats out the open window.

The bakery smells divine. I get into the queue - probably for the first time in my life I'm more than happy to wait in line for something. Looking around me, I see that the bakery is filled with people wearing what I've learned is the local uniform - the young men in sweat pants, t-shirts, gold chains, and addidas; the old men in dress pants, undershirts, and socks with plastic sandals; the young women with big hair, giant hoop earrings, bold makeup, high heels, short jackets, and yoga pants...  just like the old women. These are my neighbours.

I get my coffee. It smells good but looks like a hopeless brown liquid here in cartoonland. I take a sip and it burns my mouth. I blow the inky black steam swirls away and enjoy the next sip. I was hoping to spend a few minutes sitting down with it, but the tables are full. Back outside I go, with my own personal raincloud waiting for me like a loyal puppy.

I've had quite enough of this nonsense. I shake my fist at the rain cloud, spilling hot coffee everywhere. Miraculously, the cloud dissipates, and I can finally enjoy my morning errand stroll. Except fuck errands. I need to get out of the 'burbs and take a visit to the city, where I belong. Luckily, a zone-crossing bus is pulling up behind me, so I board it with the relief that I will soon be back in my old neighbourhood, flipping through records in the shops, among the other city dwellers.

As the bus zooms toward the 416, I take notice of the suburban environment. It's totally devoid of any character. The restaurants don't serve food I want to eat. The shops don't sell things I want to buy. It's a total clash of values.  I don't belong here at all. Why, oh why have I moved out here? Sigh... the things you do for love.

The city isn't perfect - it's expensive and crowded and you can never get ahead. But when you're there, you know that. You accept it. Everyone is in the same boat. How do you describe that feeling of being out on your own downtown and yet feeling like you are a part of something great, surrounded by strangers who are like friends, friends who are like strangers...? It's a whole other different kind of comfort, being alone amongst the many.

Finally, I arrive downtown at my favourite record store and begin flipping through the racks. I like the record store in cartoon format. It's like art on steroids. Already so vibrant in the real world, the cartoon version of the record store is a feast for the eyes, not just the ears. Like a bitmap image that has been converted to a vector, the depth is lost, and yet somehow the truth is revealed.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot a friend I haven't seen in ages. Our friendship goes back a long time, and there is every reason to suspect that seizing this moment to say hello will bring hugs and laughter and perhaps a fun-filled day of shenanigans in the city. But something is holding me back. I can't tell if he's seen me, and I am suddenly hesitant to interrupt him. Then he looks up, right at me. There we are, looking at each other, knowing full well that we have about 10 seconds to say something before we officially become strangers ...9... 8...

Let him confirm that he sees me.

7...6...

Okay, well maybe just move one aisle closer.

5...4...

He's coming over. We're still friends. Yay!

3...2...1...

And he just walks right past me, out the door.

Damn. That smarts. But maybe I should have expected it. I remember telling him a while back that I was moving out of the city and he seemed sort of... well... done with me. Those words were never said, but I had definitely picked up a "nice knowing you" vibe. Maybe he took it personally. Or maybe we've just outgrown each other.

Sadly, my return to the city hasn't turned out to be all that I hoped it would be. I remember it so differently. I desperately want to feel the way it used to make me feel. But maybe it's true what they say. Maybe you can never really go back. And maybe I never really understood the whole "home is where your heart is" thing until now. At the moment, my heart is broken, and home is where my stuff is. And I kind of miss my stuff.

*****

This album didn't really take me on fantastic voyage (ha, see what I did there?), but that doesn't mean I disliked listening to it. Strangely, the album kept me in the present as it sort of relates to current events in my life, if a little abstractly. This album serves as a soundtrack to the BBC 4-part television series The Buddha of Suburbia, which is based on the book by Hanif Kureishi. My life in no way resembles that of the main character, but that's the cool thing about art. The creator could have completely different thoughts, ideas, intentions while making it, but you get to take from it whatever you want, relate to it however you can.

Having said that, I didn't write this in such a way that the songs directly relate to the story. Instead, this was inspired by the overall feeling and messages received from the album as a whole. Yeah, I've just moved from the city to the suburbs, a move with which I'm struggling on the inside. Though geographically speaking I'm only a few streets north of the city I love, the feeling of having turned my back on it, of having left my friends behind, and of having relinquished a way of life that I cherish is a lot like walking around with a dark cloud over my head. Everything in my new neighbourhood feels flat, shallow, and deceptive. Is it all bad? Of course not. But within me, there is a great resistance to getting used to it. My values are under attack, and I'd like to think that I would stand and defend them, if I wasn't so damn comfy.

Obviously, this is a ponderous time for me, and I can't even begin to guess what my perceptions will be one year from now. I will say that it's been lovely listening to an album that feels like it was written for me at this very moment in time, even if in reality that is not even remotely true. One thing is for certain: The Buddha of Suburbia is going to bookmark this time in my mind forever.

I look into your eyes and I know you won't kill me.

The bells are ringing and I'm standing halfway up an enormous set of steps leading up to an imposing cathedral.

I appear to be dressed for a wedding, complete with lipstick and high heels. I never would have chosen these shoes for myself -- I'm going to break my neck prancing around on these steps. It occurs to me that I don't know who the wedding is for, and maybe I can get out of this. Not that I hate weddings or anything, but I do hate these fucking shoes.

I take them off and scurry down the steps. I should point out that I'm the only one around... I see no one on the street, no one rushing to the doors of the cathedral. It's a bit cold and lonely out here. Nevertheless, I continue down the vast staircase. As I reach the bottom and step onto the sidewalk, everything turns black.  There is nowhere for me to go but back up the steps. Huh, so this is what happens when you try to escape one of these trips. Good to know.

Resigning myself to my fate, I climb my way back up the seemingly hundreds of thousands of steps, clutching my stilettos in my hands like fashionable weapons. The wedding bells are getting louder and seemingly more frantic and impatient, yelling at me to enter the cathedral. I attempt to open the heavy door, but it won't budge. Then it dawns on me: I'll have to put on the shoes. That's how this works. Goddammit.

Feet squeezed into torture devices, I push the door and it opens with the slightest touch, like magic. The pews are tightly packed with guests, all of whom turn to look at me as I stumble like a newborn deer from the back of the church to the nearest open spot. The bride and groom are already at the front together, facing each other, glaring at my reprehensible tardiness. I've never seen them, or anyone in this room, before in my life.

One of the ushers, a stately looking man with gorgeous obsidian skin, appears next to me and hands me a wedding programme. Opening it up, I learn that I am witnessing the marriage of Charlotte Jennifer MacKenzie, daughter of George MacKenzie and Elizabeth Gardner, to Marcus Arnold Tombe, son of Arnold and Natonya Tombe.

In typical format, the bride's guests are one side, the groom's on the other. The aisle, decorated with red rose petals and Charlotte's kilometre-long white train, divide the room's human contents: white on one side, black on the other. I smile at the family sitting next to me - Marcus' relatives, no doubt - and they smile back.

The shock of my appalling interruption subsides, and the event finally resumes. It's time for the vows. Marcus takes Charlotte's lily-white hands in his and declares his love for her with a hint that sweet Charlie shouldn't be wearing a lily-white gown. You've been around, but you've changed me.

Charlotte's parents give each other a knowing glance. Charlotte herself grins sheepishly and looks down at her feet. The congregation laughs warmly. They obviously know something I don't. Whatever her story is, it doesn't matter, clearly.

It's Charlotte's turn, and her saccharine declaration of love and commitment pull the inevitable tears out of everyone in the room, including me. God, I'm a sucker for this stuff.  I love you in the morning sun, I love you in my dreams.

Then all the rest of it happens, quite as you would expect, with the pronouncing of husband and wife, and the kiss, and the applause, and the inevitable unrest that washes over the congregation as they start mentally checking out of the cathedral and getting antsy for the real reason they dusted off their Sunday best and came out today - food and booze.

I start to wonder if my presence here is still required (was it even required in the first place? Why am I here, anyway?), so as the guests become restless and begin standing and moving about the cathedral, I slip discreetly away toward the door. The usher is absent, so I try to open the door to leave, but no such luck - it's locked from the inside.

I jump clumsily out of the way as the bride and groom, their parents, and the bridal party swiftly make their way back up the aisle toward the cathedral doors. Through them they proceed and the receiving line forms out on those imposing steps. The bells start ringing again, signaling the end of God's immediate role in today's festivities.

I turn around and look at the congregation, and only now do I see that the two families don't seem to be gelling. Maybe this is their first meeting? Whatever the case, they seem unwilling to acknowledge each other's presence, choosing to exit the pews from the far side rather than via the aisle that joins them. This is going to be uncomfortable.

I watch as the guests begin to file out of the church, careful to stay close to the people with whom they came. How on earth am I going to get out of this? I'm an unwilling wedding crasher who can't even sneak out of my own volition. I am sure to be discovered as an infiltrator as I take my place in the receiving line queue. I may just be in hell.

Then, the usher appears next to me. He introduces himself as Lester, Marcus' uncle, and he shakes my hand. He asks how I'm getting to the reception hall, and I tell him I have no idea. The kind man offers me a ride. And before I know it, he is whisking me down the steps, past the receiving line with a wave to the bride and groom.

In the car, Lester reveals that he knows I'm a "visitor". He could tell right away. He's sort of a magnet for visitors - people who drop in to moments in time and space via some form of creative output - a song, or a painting, or a poem, or what have you. Well I'll be! That's what's been happening to me all this time, throughout this project! Lester tells me he feels like it's his job to help visitors when he encounters them. Sigh, if only he'd been there during some of my other "visits". I sure could have used his help during the "Heroes" album.

Anyway, Lester is smoking and driving and giving me the scoop: that Charlotte and her people are from a small town in Saskatchewan with a population of less than 50 people, can you believe that?! Charlotte went to Toronto for university, and there she met Marcus, a born and raised Torontonian whose family hails from Kenya, originally.

The Tombes have had no issue accepting Charlotte into their lives from the get-go, however, Charlotte's family has been reluctant to welcome Marcus and his family into theirs - and that's putting it mildly. Hell, this wedding almost didn't happen on account of Mr. MacKenzie's "reluctance" to have anything to do with it. But when Charlotte and Marcus threatened to elope, Charlotte's mom managed to pull everyone together and make this day happen. Wow.

Uncle Lester and I arrive at the reception hall, and he ushers me in and secures a spot for me at his table. Cousin Gabe wasn't able to make it due to his precarious mental health and sudden involuntary committal to the mental hospital, so there is a seat available.

Lester tells me that he's got to go see a man about a horse, which I think means he has to pee, but really could mean anything. I hang tight at the table and help myself to the wine, sitting uncorked near the centre piece of the table, just begging to fill my glass.

At the next table, I overhear a conversation between one of Charlotte's bridesmaids and another guest. The bridesmaid is depressed about standing up in yet another friend's wedding, and is lamenting that her bad luck with men means that she'll never be the one in the white gown. The waterworks begin, and her friend tells her dutifully and unconvincingly that it'll happen someday.

The bridal party is seated at the head table and dinner begins, but there is no sign of Lester. The other guests at the table seem slightly suspicious of me. Thankfully, I can keep my face full of food and avoid conversation. Meanwhile, Lester's empty chair is sending all kinds of icky signals through my body.

Dinner ends, and the speeches begin. Mr. and Mrs. Tombe bicker through theirs, admonishing each other for getting story details wrong and for interrupting. But in the end it is evident that they love each other and hold up as a good example for Charlotte and Marcus. Their speech ends with a toast and a sweet kiss between them.

As the speeches end, the bride and groom descend upon the floor for their first dance, which is lovely. But when it's time for the guests to cut some rug, the DJ can't seem to get anybody up on the dance floor. Like a highschool dance where no one wants to be the first, I find myself hoping that someone will break the ice; that these two families will finally mix it up and get to know one another and congeal already.

Then it occurs to me... I will never see these people again. My presence here has been uncomfortable and seemingly pointless... until now. So I toss my glass of wine down my throat and dance my way over into the middle of the floor. Right on cue, a spotlight shines upon me, and I give it all I've got. I kick off my hell-on-heels shoes and show them all how it's done. I'm totally ridiculous, flailing and kicking and thrusting and twirling, but that's kind of the point.

And then it happens. A table of young girls on Marcus' side join me, followed by a table of young girls on Charlotte's side. Then the old people get in on it. Soon, the house is rockin' and poppin' and lockin' and twerkin' and jerkin' and doin' it gangnam style.

My work here is done... or is it? I'm still here. And I'm actually kind of having a good time. A matronly woman joins the dance circle and asks me how I know the bride. I tell her I don't... I'm a friend of Lester's.

Shit. Lester. Where is that guy? Suddenly there is a commotion involving a lot of text messages and phone calls coming in at once on Marcus' side of the family. Young Gabe has apparently tried to escape from the hospital. He's jumped out the window... he's okay, he basically jumped from the second story and sprained his ankle pretty bad, he's back inside being treated for that.

The woman asks me where Lester is - he's Gabe's godfather. I tell her that before dinner he told me he had to see a man about a horse. The look on her face tells me that it almost definitely does not mean he had to pee. A search party is formed, consisting of everyone on the dance floor and then some. The two families come together to locate Lester, and I feel like a turd for not mentioning it sooner.

Lester's whereabouts are soon discovered. He's been in the bathroom all this time after all... not peeing, but getting high. He's coming down now, and has finally been seated at the table. I take my seat next to him. Lester's comings and goings are hardly any of my business, I realize, so I reserve judgment and simply sit with him. He settles back in his chair and takes a sip of water from the glass in front of him. One of Charlotte's bridesmaids approaches and tells Lester he gave everyone a fright and she's glad he's okay. He nods gentlemanly at her but says nothing.

As the festivities wind down, the newlyweds announce that they'll be leaving shortly on a night flight to Barcelona for their honeymoon. Charlotte has never been out of the country, and she's a little nervous about flying overseas, but Marcus assures her that they will have the time of their lives.

And with that, Charlotte and Marcus exit the reception hall. The DJ continues spinning tunes, and the dance floor is crammed with dancers celebrating the union of two people they love, with no idea exactly how they will touch each other's lives before the night is over.

I realize I probably only have a few minutes before I'm zapped out of this place in space and time. I turn to Lester and thank him for helping me navigate this visit. I ask him if I'll ever see him again, but as I say the words I realize that I'm dealing with infinity, and the chances of visiting his world again are small. He touches my hand, and I'm gone.

*****

Black Tie White Noise was not love at first listen. But if I've learned anything from this project, it's that my first impressions are basically meaningless (Lodger, I'm looking in your direction -- and loving the shit out of you now). I wouldn't say I'm in love with Black Tie White Noise... I wouldn't marry it, but I'd date it for a while and then have fond memories of it and maybe even go back for a little something something every now and then... you know friends-with-benefits style. So it has definitely earned a place in my heart.

If it took me to a place that's a little on the nose, I'm okay with that. This story was always going to be about a wedding, and there was always going to be a racial element. What surprised me was Lester, and his role of usher to visitors who drop in via some song or painting or film or whatever. I'm finding myself rather enamoured with that concept, and I'm surprised that it took me this long to acknowledge it here and to create a "seer" character who knows what's happening.

With any luck, I'll run into Lester again someday... lightening can strike the same place twice, after all.

Hello humans, can you feel me thinking?

A funny thing happened on my way to the grocery store. There I was, walking along, mentally reciting my list of things I need to pick up: coffee, eggs, toothpaste, tampons. Things for my body, my corporeal self, to keep me alive, healthy, clean. Okay except maybe for the coffee. That's for my mind and my soul, the part of me you can't see.

Treading along on the tree-lined  sidewalk, I was aware of the warmth of the day, and the uncomfortable humidity  which made me sweat and caused my sandals to rub against my skin, giving me a blister. I was also aware of a "disturbance in the force", that feeling that something is sort of off, or something. A message from somewhere in the universe is transmitting but not being received, because I'm a mere mortal with limited understanding of my senses and perceptions, and no discernible super powers. Beyond keeping myself alive and maintaining basic human functionality, I barely know what to do with my brain 90% of the time.

Then all of a sudden, I'm somewhere else. Somewhere... just... in the universe, I guess. I want to describe it to you, but how do you describe something you've never seen before and have no basis of understanding? There are lights and colours, but it's also dark. It's cold and warm at the same time. I feel vast and yet small, empty and yet loved, alone and yet surrounded. In a word, it's a trip. 

Trying to make sense of it, I become aware that I'm amid a sea of souls with no bodies, all connected to one another and to all of us down on earth. Like sponges they soak up our thoughts, our feelings, our attitudes, our energies... and transmit them back to the Other, an entity I've asked them to describe and they can't. Is it God? No. Is it Buddha? No. It's... the one who is everything. It's the universe itself. They feed it what they learn from us.

The funny thing is that they're not at all like you would think. They have individual personalities, unique thoughts and feelings... but they just kind of share them with the collective brain that binds them.

They are fascinated with us earthlings and the way we go about our lives. While they are busy sucking up all of our experiences, perceptions, and sensations, they sometimes try to initiate a two-way conversation.

The trouble is, they don't know that the majority of humans can't feel them, and when we do feel "something", we don't know it's them we're feeling. There's that disturbance in the force again. Deja vu. Those humans who do have an inkling of the universal beings' presence don't know how to process it, so they imagine them in different ways to try and understand. We call it religion. Some people try to communicate back to them, and some of those people get called crazy.

I soon learn that our friends out here in the universe seem to watch our lives like some kind of reality show. They have favourites... people with whom they empathize, or whom they find entertaining for one reason or another. They start feeding my brain with flashes of human lives they are following on earth. It's difficult for me to process them all, the many millions of lives and experiences they have retained and "favourited".

They wring their proverbial hands over our humanly miscommunications, our inability to think to each other and understand each other immediately. They face palm at our fights and foibles, wishing they could intervene and set things straight. Like this man who keeps making mistake after mistake, hurting the one he claims to love, and incessantly apologizing for his misdeeds, only to go and do it all over again.

"Is there something wrong with his learning?" they ask me. I think about how I would explain it, and I can feel them inside my brain, piecing my thoughts together into something they can understand. Sometimes our physical needs and desires get in the way of learning, I "tell" them. Our bodies drive our actions and intentions, and often interfere with them at the same time.

On one hand, they think these behaviours of ours that are driven by physical need is strange and low, but on the other, they understand that if they had bodies they'd probably be the same. Sometimes they wish for bodies so they can feel what we feel - as if feeling our sensations second hand isn't good enough.

Comically, they inquire into the condition known on earth as "blue balls". Is that a real thing? they want to know. I tell them I can't answer that in any definitive kind of way, having not experienced it myself. But they seem to grasp that the human brain is capable of processing emotional and perceived pain and translating it into physical pain. I ask if none of them have ever experienced second hand blue balls through the human males they've observed, and immediately, the experience is transferred to me. Ouch.

Suddenly, my mind is filled with glimpses into the life of someone who is living far from home and missing his girl. He longs to be with her, as she implores him to come back to her, despite the warrant for his arrest that also awaits his return.

"Why is it not enough to simply love someone? What's the deal with proximity?" they want to know.  It isn't just physical, or we'd all be "doing it" 100% of the time we spend with other people.

They don't seem to get that our disconnected human brains get lonely when we're without the physical presence of our loved ones. Their inability to escape one another in the realm of their collective mind prevents full understanding of human social behaviour. I guess that means they won't be able to clear that up for me, either.

It's hard work being among these bodiless entities. As cool as it has been to see this unknown part of the universe and learn how we connect to it, I feel exhausted and have a deep need to be alone someplace on earth, where I may be surrounded by other humans, but my thoughts are safe within the walls of my own cranium.

And with that, I Iearn that it's not just the lives of earthlings of which these beings are fond. Apparently, some of them have developed an affinity for certain places on earth. Someone asks me if I've ever been to Amlapura. I explain that I've never heard of it, until now. They think me all kinds of images and perceptions of the place, inspiring my own sense of curiosity.

While these universal beings have grown to love humans and planet earth, they are also well aware of the atrocities we are capable of committing, and do commit, at an alarming scale. People murdering each other in cold blood, using each other for personal gain, defiling the most innocent of our species. We may abhor these nightmarish occurrences, but we don't experience them the way the universal beings do.  Feeling everything the victims feel, seeing through the perpetrators' eyes, and then watching as we do almost nothing about it, is a heavy burden for the universal beings to bear. And they're only the messengers.

Finally, they're fascinated and a bit appalled by the value we place on certain individuals over others. Perhaps one of their flaws is that while they clearly have favourite humans whose lives they pay more attention to, they think we're petty and silly for elevating some humans above others because of the way they look, behave, or because of the things they make or do for the enjoyment of others. It's not so much that they don't understand the value of art, but they don't understand what makes one piece of art better than another, and why some people receive acclaim for it while others are judged harshly or receive no credit at all. And why are some of these people valued higher than those who work toward saving or improving the lives of others?

That's a question I can't even begin to answer, except to say that... well... we humans aren't perfect. In comparison to other creatures, we kind of suck. But we're not all bad. And if I've learned anything from these universal beings, it's that they're not perfect either. I mean, they're pretty cool and all, and it helps to know that maybe our lives do have some kind of meaning and purpose connected to something greater than ourselves. But I'm glad I'm just some silly little human. Even if it is that time of the month.

*****

It's not that time of the month, at least not at the time of writing this. And what I really mean by that is that this is a work of pure fiction. I don't want anyone to get the idea that I think this is how the universe actually works. I've read some books that propose some similar ideas (such lovely ideas!) but I'm not prepared to accept them as gospel. I simply enjoy twisting my mind and thinking about things that I can't ever possibly get close to understanding.

Does everything happen for a reason? Is there some kind of order in the universe, directed by something with some kind of intelligence? My inclination is to say "Nope. Things happen and then you die". That might scare a lot of people, but I actually find it quite comforting.

My listening of Tin Machine II (not the most mindblowing name for this album, is it?) happened to coincide with a friend's recent Facebook rant about The Universe and what he calls The Truth. I suspect his ideas are not fully formed (apart from Stephen Hawking, whose are?) and he's a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but it's always interesting to discover other points of view.

This post was also somewhat inspired by a Ted talk I saw recently featuring a man named RupertSheldrake explaining his theory of morphic resonance (the idea that all things in nature have a collective memory). Again, I'm not ready to say that I think it's The Truth, but I find the idea very intriguing.

So what is the connection between Tin Machine II and all of these highfaluting ideas about the universe, collective memory, and what it all means to be alive? In a word, nothing. Tin Machine II is a collection of songs about very human, physical things - love, sex, violence, and the state of having a body, basically. I guess I just wondered how a species of beings without bodies would see us, what our physical needs and desires would look like to them, how our corporeal needs drive our actions. Putting this album in that context helped me to find and make connections between the songs - something my brain just wants to do, for some reason.

I like this album a lot. In many ways, it sounds like a return to the early 70's in terms of the overall sound and themes. Baby Universal is kind of post-Ziggy and Amlapura could have been right at home on Hunky Dory. Stateside is one of my favourite songs off this album, with the lead vocal by band member Hunt Sales - he has a great voice! Overall, this is a fun album to rock out to. And so far, my new neighbours haven't banged on the door and asked me to turn it down :)

Tin machine, tin machine, take me anywhere.

It's early morning as I head out into the fog. Walking down the long, tree-lined path through the lush green park to the bus stop, I'm aware of feeling like I don't want to go to work. The grind is getting to me. I could really use an adventure right about now. Something to inspire me, to get my blood pumping, to give me new things to think and dream about.

I'm thinking about Europe. I never did finish my European tour back in 2004. I always figured I'd go back. The planet felt so small and navigable back then, but since returning to Canada ten years ago, the distance to the rest of the world seems to have increased somehow. 

What if I didn't catch this bus? What if I cross the street instead and go the other way, to the subway station, and then to the airport...

My fantastic scheme is interrupted by an unexpected discovery near the end of the path. It's a machine. Some kind of vehicle, I assume. Made of dull light metal, tarnished and dark, with an upright cylindrical construction, it's like a tin can on tiny wheels.

I wonder what's inside? I envision a TARDIS-like room, larger than this construction can possibly contain, serving as a futuristic control centre. Opening the door, I'm disappointed to find more tarnished metal and air that smells vaguely of beef vegetable soup. The door closes behind me, but little cracks of light are visible. It's barely tall enough for me to stand up inside, and there is no seat, so I have to stoop just the tiniest bit. What a rip off. I'm not going anywhere in this thing. 

Thinking I have time to get to work, I exhale into the soupy atmosphere and try to open the door, but it's stuck. Ugh, seriously? I push and push, and then kick and kick at the door, but to no avail. Frustrated and not able to do much else, I curse, cross my arms and glare angrily in the cracklight. 

Then the door opens, but just a bit, like it's been ajar all this time, like a gentle breeze has pulled on it ever so slightly. Fuck you, tin can door. You're the worst.

Exiting the soup can, I'm aware that I'm still in the same place, but everything looks different, older, ruined, falling apart. The trees are dead, the grass is sparse and brown, and there is garbage everywhere, decorating the lifeless branches, littering the park path. The sky is overcast and the clouds have the appearance of being shit stained. Come to think of it, the air smells shitty, too.

There's my bus. I run to catch it. Downtown I go. I look around at my fellow passengers. People on the bus don't usually look like they're having the time of their lives, but these people look downright sad, downtrodden, beaten. I pull out my iPhone to check the time and call work to tell them I'll be a bit late. No service. Wtf?

To pass the time, I grab the Metro paper on the seat next to me. The date on the paper makes my mouth run dry and my stomach leap up into my throat - it's today's date... but the year is 2039.

So wait... that shitty soup can on wheels is a time machine after all? And of all the places and times it could take me to, I hopped forward 25 years in exactly the same place? Lame. It could have at least been a DeLorean with a flux capacitor. I deserve at least that much.

(Amazingly, I couldn't find a video for Tin Machine anywhere on the interwebs. 

So here it is on Grooveshark.)

The bus drops me off in downtown Toronto. I have a love-hate relationship with this city. Growing up in Northern Ontario, I knew I wanted to live here when I grew up. Coming to visit as a kid, it was magical to me. The size of it, the people, the shops, the streets... everything dazzled and sparkled with the hope and promise of a fantastic kind of life. 

I thought I was going to be like Picasso, painting pictures all the live long day and selling them to people who would hang them on their wall, and brag about owning a Shelley Zarudenec original. And they'd have all my books, too... the complete library of my contributions to the literary world. And they'd go see my Oscar-winning films and then come to my concerts where I would sing for the delighted masses. Big dreams for a little girl. And all I had to do was move to Toronto. It was that simple.

Obviously, things didn't turn out quite like that. Toronto didn't turn out quite like that, not even in 2014. Now in 2039, I'm shocked and saddened to see a city that has achieved a stunning decrepitude. A thick film of melancholy covers the buildings, the sidewalks, and the people as they shuffle hopelessly to work, home, shopping, nowhere. 

At Yonge and Dundas Square, CityPulse24 flashes on the billboard sized TV screen. The headlines appear barely long enough to read them. I learn that the newly elected mayor has published a memoir describing his sinister deeds and rise to power. Mayor Rob Ford's legacy is that in the future, we no longer expect our leaders to be better than ourselves, inevitably leading to the ruin of our cities. I look out over the empty square. Someone has scrawled the words Crack City over the old Toronto city logo on the old ticket booth.

As the headlines continue to flash, I discover that the same is true for Canada as a whole. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has long since passed the torch to his successor, and the federal Conservative party has retained power consecutively across these 25 years over which I've skipped. Always elected democratically, of course, but if you were an outsider, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a dictatorship.

Conspiracy theories abound. One popular theory is that the Liberal, NDP and Green parties are actually factions of the Conservative party, orchestrating an official Conservative win at each election. What happens to those whose ideals lean toward social policy? They defect... or go missing. Once known for our generous hospitality and welcoming nature, the nation has all but closed its borders to migrants from other lands, and has moved toward marginalizing those who weren't born Canadian. My heart is sick and sad.

A small group of people begins to form in the square. They're carrying signs and it looks like they're about to begin some kind of protest. They call themselves the Laytonist Party - obviously the deceased federal NDP leader Jack Layton is their hero. They're disorganized and a bit meek for a protest group. Their barely audible chants of worship for their working class hero are easily drowned out by the sounds of endless traffic.

In 2039, I am 63 years old. I assume that I'm still alive, and despite the paradox of meeting oneself in the future, I decide to try and find myself to see what I can learn about the last 25 years and to find out how I can make the most of them when... if... I return to 2014.

Phone books don't exist anymore, of course. I see a lot of people walking around adorned with wearable tech. Would someone be kind enough to google me on their device? Not that I expect to find an address, but maybe I can at least find out if I'm still in Toronto. 

But people are keeping their heads down, and the few I try to speak to refuse my request or simply ignore me and continue on their way. Frustrated and beginning to feel hopeless, I begin walking west on Dundas Street, being rejected by citizen after citizen in the search for someone who will help me find myself.

Suddenly, a homeless man stops me in my tracks. Witnessing my pleas for help, he tells me that he has only got a few eCredits left on his watch, but I can use them if I'm desperate. I decide I'm not desperate enough to accept this man's generosity. Instead, I give him a $5 note and, a few loonies and toonies, and some other change. He chuckles at my offering, saying he hasn't seen the likes of these in years. He hopes the stores will still accept them. He wishes me well and hurries off back to the patch of sidewalk he calls home.

I'm feeling a bit aimless. Normally I'd go exploring, but I'm afraid of what I will find. So instead I follow my new friend over to his makeshift condo, and ask him if I can hang out with him for a little while. He happily obliges, and over the next couple of hours, I learn about his life, and how he came to be on the streets.

It was all because of a girl. A girl that he loved so much that he feared losing her every minute of his waking life. A girl he swore to protect from the evils of the world. A girl he couldn't leave, despite the ruin his life was becoming in trying to keep her safe. A girl named Dahlia... his daughter.

One day his wife just didn't come home, leaving him to care for little Dahlia. Then he lost his job, and began dealing drugs to earn an income. The government came and took Dahlia away from him, and he was arrested. When he finished his time, he was released into the world with no where to go, and this is where I found him.

I ask him if he tried to reconnect with Dahlia since his parole. Sadly, he tells me that he doesn't want to know. Instead, he has chosen to believe that she has gone to live with a family in a home filled with love and security and that she's forgotten all about the heartbreak she endured as a young child. He has no idea if it is true, but choosing to believe it is what keeps him alive.

It begins to rain and the man, whose name I have learned is James, moves to the bus shelter to keep dry. I thank him for talking with me and descend into Toronto's underground PATH.

I always manage to get lost in the PATH. Having no clue where I am, I decide to go back up to get my bearings. I emerge in the Eaton Centre, and make my way out to the street. The rain has stopped and the streets are slick and steamy. As I walk by City Hall, I see a young couple sitting at one of the chess tables, kissing like their lives depend on it. Normally I'd be annoyed by such a public display of affection, but in the context of this gloom, it's actually heartening to see that even in the worst of times, love finds a way.

Suddenly I'm aware that I'm gawking at them, and I turn my gaze away just as the boy puts his hand up his girl's skirt. I hurry away, head down, but smiling with the realization that some things never change. Love is a beautiful thing, but we're all here because two people had sex.

Continuing west on Queen St., I see that the shop and restaurant names have changed, but in a way it all still looks the same. The old CTV/MUCH building still has that car half hanging out of the wall as if it's crashed through, the wheel still spinning. There's a TV in the window at street level playing CTV's signature entertainment news show, eTalk. Ben Mulroney's been replaced by someone who looks the spitting image of him, only much younger, of course. I'm sure he's retired by now.

They're talking about a young new "it" girl. I didn't catch her name, but I learn that she rose to fame by banging some pop star and posting their sex tape on the Internet. Now she has a reality show in which a film crew follows her around while she goes shopping and talks on her phone. She's only 17 years old, but the clubs let her in because she's good for business. Someone on the program calls her a savvy entrepreneur. I just about throw up on the sidewalk. 

Then I find out her name. Dahlia Something.

God forbid anyone becomes well known for contributing something through talent or intelligence anymore. This is how you get your 15 minutes, people.

Next up on eTalk: The story of Canada's most famous serial killer. He grew up idolizing Canadian killing stars Paul Bernardo, Luka Magnotta, and Dellen Millard. He always knew he would someday take his place among them. He knew he had what it takes: charm, good looks, street smarts, and a raging case of undiagnosed, unbridled psychopathy. At the age of 18, Carys Stewart began posting videos of his intricately planned and executed murders on his blog, The SK Chronicles, and got away with it for months by shooting his videos creatively and making the whole thing look like a fictional web series.

Sure, people were horrified to learn they'd been tuning in to watch him actually kill actual people, but he had also attracted a loyal fan base. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole, inciting his fans to protest and inspiring them to start copy cat blogs. Carys Stewart admits he always knew he'd get arrested someday, but he's proud of his contributions to the SK hall of fame.

The eTalk segment includes a screenshot of Stewart's blog, and it appears to be written in some kind of jibberish I can't understand - a nonsensical mishmash of letters, numbers, symbols and emoticons strung together in a way that almost looks like a code. And then I realize this is the evolution of the English language. It sounds the same, but now it looks like this:

ZOMGGG u giz,,, hav such goo d nooz 4 u 2dayyyyyy XD XD XD Nu vid 2B postd sooooon!!! Loveeee MR CARYSma =^..^=

I hate 2039. I want to go back to 2014 where things are fucked up but not as bad as this. Maybe I can do something about it, something to stop it. If only I knew where to find my 63-year-old self before heading back to my soup can time machine.

And then there I am, walking toward me from the west. I look old and a bit different, but I have no doubt. I can feel it. My own energy getting closer and closer, filling me up with... I don't know how else to describe it, but... it's like I'm filling up with my own selfness. With every step 63-year-old me takes in my direction, I know more and more about myself. I am brimming with my own light and truth. No drug in the world feels like this.

As we meet, we don't need to embrace or even talk. I know everything she's... everything I'm thinking. I didn't need to go looking for her. She knew where to find me. Of course she did. She's been waiting for this. 25 years pass just like an evening at the circus. The advice she imparts to me without uttering a word changes me forever.

There isn't anything I can do about the state of this city, this country that I love so much, in 2039. I'm only one person and it's out of my hands. But I'm not altogether powerless. I can't control what others do, but I can control what I do. I can vote. I can give. I can be kind. And I can write, and draw, and sing, and paint. And if I don't do those things, I'm sacrificing myself. 

I owe it myself and to the world to go out and use the brain and the talents that I have to make something, to put something new into the world, to contribute. It won't stop 2039 from happening. But the world will be 0.01% better because of it, and that's not nothing.

*****

So, Tin Machine then. I like this album. I don't love it, but I like it a lot. It's not profound or groundbreaking, but it gave me a lot to think about. Like the future. And when I think about the future, I think about what kinds of things I will have contributed to the world. Never has "making something" been more important to me than it has been in recent months.

When I was a kid, I was generally involved in one of four activities: daydreaming, writing, drawing, or singing. This is a bit embarrassing, but I did sort of have this feeling like I was special, or something. Like I was destined for some kind of greatness. I don't think it was narcissism... I think that my parents just did an amazing job of telling me I was a better artist, writer, singer, etc. than I really was. I was certain that I was going to make a living doing one of those things, if not all of them, and that I was going to be famous for it.

Then I grew up and life got in the way. I stopped dreaming, essentially, and got down to the business of trying to pay rent and buy groceries, and have a bit of fun in the meantime.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about art, and creativity, and making stuff. I no longer have dreams of fame and fortune, but the need to make something, to put something out into the world, just for the sake of it, has become pervasive in my thoughts. This blog fills that need to some degree... giving myself a little creative writing assignment every couple of weeks fueled by Bowie albums has been good for me, I think. 

But I have another more long-term project that I'm working on, and I'm most excited about it. Not too many people know about it, and I'm fine with that. One day I shall unleash it upon the world. It shall get no attention whatsoever, except from the people who love me. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I've made the world 0.01% better. 

Because every time a piece of art is made, whether it ends up hanging in a gallery, sold on Etsy, or hanging on a fridge in a family kitchen, the world is improved. And that's why you should write a poem. Or play the guitar. Or shoot a short film on your mobile device. Or draw a picture. It doesn't matter who sees it. It doesn't matter how good it is. It doesn't matter how long it took. All that matters is that you made something.

Finally, before I sign off today, I just want to say that Tin Machine felt... Canadian to me. Isn't that weird? Some of the songs... I Can't Read, especially, remind me of the Tragically Hip. I listened to a bunch of The Hip to see if there was a particular song that I was thinking of, but I couldn't find one specifically. It's really just a Tragically Hip kind of feeling. And I think that in some way that feeling inspired this post as well.