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.

Mommy, come back 'cause the water's all gone.

I'm lying on the ceiling, on what feels like a mattress. It's oddly comfortable. Some kind of reverse gravity is pulling me deeper and deeper up into the cushiony softness.

 I open my eyes to find that I'm actually in bed. Funny how your mind can trick you, especially when you're as sick as I am. My throat is so swollen and sore that I can't swallow. My pillow is wet from saliva. My entire body aches, and I'm shivering uncontrollably despite the 104 fever burning inside. I am the definition of wretched.

I close my eyes, and I'm on the ceiling again. I'm not crazy about being up here, but I can barely keep my eyes open, so I guess I don't have much choice.

I'm actually not sure how long I've been like this. I keep waking up and passing out again, and the shadows in the room change each time I open my eyes.  Days... weeks... months... years?

I'm vaguely aware of being alive, so it can't have been longer than a couple of days. I don't remember the last time I got up to pee or had a drink of water. I wish my mom was here. Sick and alone is a bad combination. What if I die? How long will it take for someone to find me? Will my cat eat my face? Where is my phone? All very important questions. Delirious or not, I need to take action.

My eyelids feel like they're being pressed down by mean, rough phantom hands. I glide my arms over the bed, feeling around for my phone to call my mom. She doesn't even live in the same city as me, but she needs to know I'm probably not going to make it.  This flu has "RIP Shelley Z" written all over it. H1RIPSZ. Wasn't it in the news? Regardless, my mom will save me. She'll know what to do. The soothing hand that turned me round, a love so real swept over me.

What's that thing in my hand? It feels like a phone. I push the on button and pry my eyes open just enough to scan my contacts for my mother's number. Tap. Hello? I hear her voice on the other end, but I can't understand what she's saying, like she's speaking another language. I pause for a moment and try to put the sounds together in my head.

I think she's asked me if I've had any water to drink in the last eight hours. Hmm, I'm going to have to think very hard about this. Finally, I request clarification: "Mommy, what's eight hours?"

Things start to go dark. The phone slips out of my hand and suddenly I'm listening to another voice. A man's voice. He's describing the child-rearing habits of a creature known as the glass spider. David Attenborough, is that you? Thank God. Will you please bring me some water?

Sweet mother of Jesus, what the fuck was that? Sick dreams are so messed up. Coming to, I feel like I'm floating in a putrid sea of my own perspiration. Has my fever finally broken? I try to swallow some saliva, but to no avail. My bed is disgusting, and I simply cannot continue to lay here in this gross sweat pool. But I don't have the energy to change the sheets. Somehow, I need to get myself over to the couch. I sit up, but I'm too dizzy, and I crash back down onto the bed.

My kidneys ache. Dehydration. I force myself to swallow. Red hot razors slice my throat as they work their way down the narrow passage. Tears break from my eyes. God fucking damn that hurts. But you know what? I'm over this. This is not how I die. Holding onto the dresser for support, I pull myself over the edge of the bed and onto my feet. Hugging the wall, I shuffle to the kitchen, my head banging like it's being hammered by a thousand mallets. I pour a glass of tap water and brace myself against the pain of swallowing it.

Within seconds, intense nausea gives way to relief, and bit of strength returns. I make my way to the couch. It's nice to be awake for a change. Maybe now that my fever has broken, I'll start feeling better. I decide to open my laptop and check in with the world and see what's new.

Good news is hard to find. Ebola is rampaging its way through Africa and threatening to emigrate. Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 passengers are returning to their homes in body bags. Israel's bombing the Gaza Strip. The mayor of my city is an admitted crack addict who has astonishingly managed to retain voter support of 30%, and my preferred candidate is losing support. America still thinks it can change the Middle East. And Kim Kardashian did something that doesn't matter. If it wasn't for her, you'd think it was still 1987.

I've been online for only a few minutes, but my eyes are already getting heavy again, and the dreaded full-body fatigue is kicking back in. What's more, my fever seems to be returning. I close my laptop and prostrate myself on the couch to rest.

The sick dreams begin again, one after another. It begins with the plight of a homeless woman who is trying to find money to feed herself and her child.It turns out, her child has been exposed to radiation and is tragically suffering from debilitation deformities.

The child's mother has turned to the streets to make her living, and she winds up in a relationship with a hopeless heroin addict. He promises to kick the stuff and turn their lives around. They promise each other that this will be their last trip before they begin their new lives. Her child plays with a discarded needle in the next room.

4:05ish - Bowie on roller skates playing a guitar solo.

1:30ish - David Bowie gets beat up by mean dancers.

I wake from these dreams with my fever raging anew and nausea so intense that I'm unable to make it to the bathroom before the water I've drunk projects violently from my mouth to the floor. Nowhere in the world is as comfortable as this patch of hardwood beneath my hands and knees, so I slide down to my belly and close my eyes again.

And I'm out. I descend into another bizarre sick dream. I'm happily walking around the streets of downtown Manhattan. The sky is blue, the day is warm, and everything is technicolour happy. And then I realize I'm naked. Embarrassed, I duck into a clothing store to try to find something to wear, but I can't seem to get the clothes on my body. I put on a shirt, only to get lost inside it, unable to find the sleeves or the collar. 

Throwing the shirt to the floor in frustration, I attempt to slide my legs into some pants, but I keep missing the pant legs. Trying to get into these pants, I'm stumbling around the shop like I'm doing some kind of ridiculous dance. The shopgirl says she likes the beat of my drum.

Suddenly I find myself standing on a gigantic pedestal in the middle of the Hudson River. Gigantic, naked, and looming, I feel a hand caress my back. Suddenly the hand, big and turquoise, slides around to my breast. I turn around to see Lady Liberty herself leaning in for a kiss. She kisses well, for a statue, and I'm rather enjoying this. But wait... what's she doing... no! Dear God, not the torch!

 I look out into the harbour to see a water taxi crammed with tourists watching me get torched by Lady Liberty, each one with their phone in the air, instagramming this monumental sight for posterity. I can even hear the tour guide describing our every move, the majestic gift from France and her Canadian companion, giving New York an eye-full. 

The sun sets behind us and the tourists begin to scream wildly as the tour guide announces that the band they have all come to see is about to hit the stage. The pedestal grows in size and suddenly I find myself at the microphone with Lady Liberty next to me, wailing away on the guitar. Behind me, I can barely make out the other members of my band, they're faceless and blurry, but we all perform together in perfect unison a rock 'n' roll song for the people on the ferry. Tonight the Zeroes were singing for you. Maybe this dream isn't so bad after all. I look down... yep, still naked.

I wake up screaming as I'm suddenly immersed in ice cold water. I'm in my bathroom, in the tub, my pyjamas clinging to me wetly. I glance around the room, trying to find the culprit. Then I see her. My mom. I knew she'd come to save me.

*****

This flu story  is based on true events. Once, when I was living alone, I got so sick that I was basically bed-bound for five days with a fever that kept breaking and then coming back, and glands so swollen that I couldn't swallow my own spit.

Eventually, my boyfriend-at-the-time came over to find out why I had vanished from existence, and we had a conversation in which I actually remember my own delirium and complete inability to comprehend his words. I actually did respond to his question of "have you had any water in the last eight hours?" with a confused reply of "what's eight hours?". He took me to the hospital, and I remember telling him to watch out for the pine trees crossing the road. At the hospital, I told the nurse not to worry because there were plenty of nachos to go around.

It's scary to be that sick and to be alone, unable to take basic care of yourself.

Anyway, I sort of feel the need to apologize for this post. Not my best work, I admit. Incoherent mess, is more like it. I can't say exactly why "sick in bed with the flu" is where this album took me.  Never Let Me Down didn't exactly imbue me with the kind of inspiration that usually happens when I'm listening to a Bowie album.

After doing my standard research at the beginning of the listening period and finding out that Never Let Me Down is universally considered Bowie's worst album (including by him), I dove in with pretty low expectations. Sadly, my expectations were met. Having said that, I didn't totally hate everything about it. I'm not going to criticize someone who improved the world by pretty much consistently making awesome and innovative music over the course of 50 years with only a few exceptions. My creative contributions to the world are amoebic in comparison.

Most of this album won't make it into my playlist. I found the socially conscious lyrics didn't jive with the light, poppy, Huey Lewis-style music. This album contains my least favourite Bowie lyric so far: I've touched down with vermin, cowardice, lice. That's just lovely. Obviously it's supposed to be icky, and I get what he was doing with Shining Star (Makin' My Love). Normally I like it when there is a contrast between lyrical themes and music styles, but this just made me go "eww". Also, Mickey Rourke rapping? I'm noping that so hard.

A handful of songs will make it into my iTunes rotation. Despite its generic 80's vibe, I really like Zeroes. It does what it's supposed to do. It makes me happy. And the album's title track has good things going for it. It's so personal and hopeful. And you know what? Despite its ridiculousness, I'm taking Glass Spider with me, even if it sounds like Bowie trying too hard to be... well... himself. Maybe that's what I like about it. He's still in there. Glass Spider may be a bit comical, but it harkens back to a time before the mid-80's when Bowie was all about putting his weirdness out there. 

Weird Bowie = good Bowie.

I'll twirl and I'll tumble.

The sky is bright blue and the sun is hot here in Miami. I'm standing on the dock, shielding my eyes as I look up at the enormous cruise ship. My fellow passengers are boarding hastily, but as the ship looms before me, I feel my knees weaken and very nearly give out. I never have been a fan of boats or sailing. (I know, I know, it's not a boat, it's a ship. I got it.)

But I'm here, like it or not. And far be it from me to fight where the music takes me. For the most part, I do like it. Cruises may not be my ideal method of travel, but travel is my ideal method of living, so I decide to just go with it.

I board the ship just behind a newlywed couple holding hands and dragging their luggage behind them like some kind of human steam rolling, clothesline machine. It takes less than a minute to climb the steps to the ship's deck, and they've kissed ten times. Note to self: as soon as you get on the deck, get as far away from them as you can.

From the ship's deck, I look out over the vast blue ocean stretching out for eons to the east. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago I caught my connecting flight from Toronto to New York, and now I'm here, about to set sail to the Caribbean islands. From Central Park to Shanty Town. I make the mistake of looking down over the balcony where the water laps at the ship's base. I shouldn't have done that. There go my knees again. Ugh, and my stomach, too.

I move away from the railing and deposit my luggage in my room before finding the nearest bar. A cocktail ought to settle my nerves and relax my mind. The ship honks its horn and we're officially off. I take a seat in an Adirondack chair (at home we call them Muskoka chairs), sip my fruity-coconutty beverage and close my eyes to the warm sun, listening to the chilled out reggae band playing nearby as we set sail for Jamaica.

Suddenly, the shrill chatter of the newlywed couple assaults my ears as they squeal and coo childishly at each other.  They're wearing matching Bride and Groom t-shirts and brandishing their wedding bands like shiny new revolvers in the wild west. I have nothing against the newly united, but these two are just over the top, dripping with love and sentiment, smearing themselves across the scenery like blobs of Valentine red and pink paint. If our love song could fly over mountains...

Mister and Missus are taking selfies over the deck's railing. It's windy, and I have visions of them losing their iPhones over the side. The devil in me relishes the thought, but then the angel in me knees my devil in the vagina and offers to take a photo of them.

They thank me profusely for my deed, and I make my way to the bar for another drink. I can already feel the island rhythms limbering my body, loosening my joints, lubricating my soul. While waiting in line for my cocktail, I begin to sway to the reggae music. I can't help myself.

Unfortunately, my moment of relaxed abandon is interrupted by raised and heated voices. A Christian, an Atheist, and a Scientologist are sitting at the bar... oh, you've heard that one before? Alright then. They're having an argument, of course, and I'm wondering if they met on this cruise by chance or if they came here together, three friends with different perspectives, believing the strangest things, loving one another despite their differences, but not afraid to tell it like they see it.

As interesting as the debate is, I don't have a head for it right now. I down my drink as the ship docks at the Jamaican port of Negril, and I disembark the vessel for my first shore excursion. Exploring the town, I'm lovestruck by the island's vibe and the friendliness of its inhabitants. I find myself a quaint patio for some refreshment, and a beautiful woman wearing a perma-smile and a name tag that says "Jean" brings me a deliciously cold Red Stripe. She's dressed head to toe in denim, and one of the locals calls her Blue Jean, simultaneously teasing and flirting with her. Everyone calls her that, she says, on account of her denim wardrobe - the fabric of her existence. She teases right back with acid washed comebacks. Sometimes I feel like the whole human race is jazzin' for Blue Jean.

I'm finished my Red Stripe and about to do some more exploring, when who should find me but The Newlyweds, clinging to each other and oozing cloying weddedness from every pore. They sit down at my table and I inform them that they can have it to themselves, since I'm moving on. They insist that I stay and have dinner with them - apparently this pub dishes up some of the finest jerk chicken in the country.

I'm not picky, but I can think of about a million other island delicacies I would prefer over anything in the jerk category. Still, I am hungry and could perhaps enjoy hearing how Mister and Missus met and tied the knot - knowing their story will surely make spending the next several days with them more tolerable.

It was love at first sight (of course). It was her first time at the gym. He gave her the tour. She said she needed a personal trainer. He said he couldn't be hers, on account of the conflict of interest. What conflict of interest? she wanted to know. Gym staff aren't permitted to be romantically involved with their clients. But we're not... oh. Oh! Ohhhhhhhh. (I just threw up in my mouth a little. Good thing I like Red Stripe.)

That was a month ago. They eloped in Vegas earlier this week. Now here they are.  They raise their cocktail glasses in honour of each other. To us! they exclaim. Holding their drinks in the air, they look at me expectantly and wait for me to raise my beer bottle for a little clinky-clinky action. Cheers! I say, toasting my new friends, God love them. And with that, the jerkiest chicken my nostrils ever beheld arrives, served  up by smiling Blue Jean, plates balanced up her arms before being slung skillfully onto the table before us.

I begin to dig in, but Mister insists we give thanks to the Big Mister in the Sky for this meal. Sighing silently, I lay my fork down and close my eyes and listen to the prayer. Mister is thankful not only for the food and Blue Jean's nimble delivery of it, but he's ever so thankful for the Missus at his side, she beaming uncomfortably with a wide grin and expressionless eyes. He waits for her to echo his sentiment, and she does. God only knows what I'd be without you.

Turning their faces to me, I exclaim "Amen!" and we finally begin our meal. It's the best jerk chicken I've ever eaten in my life.

After dinner, I bid adieu to The Newlyweds  in search of a suitable location for a me party (what can I say? I enjoy my own company). I happen upon a happening little place with a band playing and people dancing. This is where I shall spend my evening. I trade in the Red Stripe for rum and juice, and let island rhythm carry me away, twirling and tumbling on the dance floor. Until, of course, the newlyweds find me, yet again.

I keep my distance while they make like Swayze and Grey on the dance floor. Thankfully, there is no chance of making accidental eye contact, since their gazes are fixed, unblinking, upon each other.

Fine, let them have their moment. I'm having mine anyway. Rum + reggae + dancing = bliss. Everything's gonna be alright tonight.

It's late, and I'm drunk and disheveled. I've enjoyed my evening of partying with myself, the locals, and some other tourists. I made a game out of guessing how many times the newlyweds would crash into other revelers on the dance floor with their exaggerated dance moves, spilling and knocking drinks clean out of people's hands. I stopped counting at 10. I don't think they noticed even one.

I stumble back to the cruise ship with the help of another fellow tourist, and crash down into bed. Tonight was a good night. Tomorrow we set sail for the Dominican Republic.

*****

I awake with a banging headache, the heat of the morning already feeling oppressive. I throw some water down my throat and dress before making my way up to the main deck for some fresh air. Upon my arrival, I sense that something is not quite right. The other tourists, including my friend from last night's party, all seem to be as confused as I am. We're clearly bobbing up and down next to a tropical looking island, but it feels like another part of the world.

It is another part of the world. The ship's captain announces that over night, we somehow went adrift, and we've sailed through an oceanic wormhole, carrying us to the other side of the word: Borneo. Oceanic wormhole, you say? Is that a thing? For real? Like the Bermuda Triangle or something? But we weren't even close to... ah, forget it. There is so much we don't know about the world, and the ocean in particular.

The captain tells us we must dock here temporarily. We're allowed to disembark, but we do so with caution. The local indigenous Iban people are friendly, but rainforest life is challenging, and we must watch out for wild orangutans. There are no hotels or resorts in the immediate area, but tribal longhouses are a popular tourist attraction. The captain tells us we must be back on the ship by dusk.

Finally, a real adventure! I decide to take a shore excursion into the nearby village. The captain was right - the people are friendly, gracious and welcoming, though busy. They seem to be preparing for some kind of festival, with bright coloured costumes being sewn and patched. I hear the word Gawai uttered in conversation. I don't know what it means, but it seems to be a joyful word, bringing smiles and laughter and excitement to those who make say it. They can barely restrain themselves from dancing as they prepare. They twirl and they tumble. I like the free world. They say it's pretty this time of year.

It turns out that Gawai is the word for festival. I am invited to join a local family as they prepare for the celebration - I help tidy the longhouse, and help prepare food, and visit the graveyard with the family to bring offerings to the dead. They invite me to take part in the evening's festivities, but I tell them I must decline in order to get back to the ship on time.

Before I leave, the family's teenage daughter sneaks me a piece of traditional cake and some rice wine, and she shows me her beautifully detailed costume. She plays some traditional music and we dance together on the edge of the jungle, our own little private celebration. Suddenly, we're interrupted by a teenage boy from the village. She doesn't seem to like him much, but he seems to like her a lot. I don't like him at all, there's something off about him. He makes me nervous. Look at his eyes, did you see his crazy eyes?

David Bowie - Neighborhood Threat - Zapkolik - zapkolik.com

The lad convinces my new surrogate sister to give him the last of her rice wine. I give him mine, too, and she speaks to him angrily. He stomps off, but I get the feeling this is just one moment of an ongoing drama between them.

Sadly, I bid farewell to my host family and return to the ship. It's in a terrible state - something has obviously damaged it during our journey through the wormhole, and the ship looks to be taking on water, anchored lopsidedly off shore. I stand with my fellow tourists looking at the ship in dismay.

Just then, the newlyweds emerge from the jungle yelling obscenities at each other. Apparently Missus caught Mister making out with one of the head locals' daughters. For her part, Missus was wooed by a tattered Playboy t-shirt-wearing local man, encouraging her to stay on the island. She wasn't considering it at the time, but now she might just do it. Though I know in my heart we're drifting apart, can't believe that our love is dead.

See all music videos David Bowie

A sweet silence falls over Mister and Missus as they join the rest of us in looking at our sinking ship, wondering what's going to happen now. Dusk turns into evening, and evening turns into night. The joyful sounds of the Gawai in the nearby village beckon me to return. I turn my back on the ship and hurry away from the crowd of stranded tourists, back in the direction of my new surrogate family.

*****

This album is a fun mix of covers and originals. If Tonight was an all you can eat cruise ship buffet, it would be filled with all of the most delectable and bad for you things you can think of... pizza, fried chicken, banana splits, cakes and chocolates. If there is any nutrition at all, it comes in the form of fresh tropical fruit like mangoes and pineapples. You couldn't live on it forever, but damn it's a good little vacation from the everyday grind. Of course, filling up on all that sugar means you have to go and dance it off after.

One of the reasons this album is maybe a bit "nutritionally devoid" is that it seems to have the highest concentration of love songs on any Bowie album so far. Love songs aren't necessarily bad, and Bowie's love songs are better than most, but the sentimentality is still a bit surprising. Especially since I've sort of gotten used to chewing on something a little more substantial over the past several months.

For me, Tonight includes Absolute Beginners. I may have made it seem like I don't like the song, but as a chick I am biologically programmed to want it. It's like a pretty, sparkly sprinkled cupcake with whipped frosting a kilometre high. I'm powerless against its saccharine charms.  And while I know it wasn't recorded until after this album was originally released, I can't imagine listening to Tonight without it. It just makes sense here. Hence its inclusion in this story despite its anachronistic bonus track status.  

One of the coolest things to come out of this album is the 20 minute short film Jazzin' for Blue Jean, which is basically an extended music video for Blue Jean. I highly recommend this neatly presented dish of pan-seared tongue(in-cheek) served on a bed of dry British humour, garnished with a sprinkle of mime-shtick and two heaping dollops of David Bowie making fun of himself.

Despite the punch and candy vibe of Tonight, or maybe because of it,  writing this post was a bit of a different experience, because rather than coming just from my imagination, I got the opportunity to learn a bit about the indigenous Iban tribe of the Dayak people of Malaysian Borneo. I may have blurred the details of the traditional Gawai festivals for this story (Gawai Dayak happens in late spring, so I'm a little late). If you want to know more about the fascinating Dayak, you can start by going here. Who knew that I needed to go to Borneo?