April 2006

Antiseptic

Diseased I am.

Full of holes I am.

On a clear day you can see right through to the other side of me. Itís sunny and itís full of blue. One of the few colours I wonder if I have been even partially robbed of and I do regret that loss somewhat. Irony is, I will never really know. You can only imagine what you have never seen, only wonder at what it might be like.

On the other side.

There are pianos crashing like waves, breathing in and out of the spaces between, rabid in their hunger. I can almost hear them if I shut out the everything else, but the everything else is not a fan of being shut out, so it only bangs on the door all the louder.

You taste like red now. All blood and anger. All rage and little room left for much else other than learning the finer arts of ducking and covering.

Under the desk with me. And you. And all of us.

When I close my eyes and imagine me, it all looks so very different. I can barely recognize myself, because in there, I am much bigger than I look out here. In there, in my minds eye, I have something that looks like I know what I am talking about.

Out here, I just come off as crazy most of the time.

Either that or simply wrong.

There are so many ways to put together words. Most of the time though they come out all crossways and awkward, not even a fraction of what we had in our heads. Most of the time we find ourselves twenty minutes later trying to put together the pieces of the words that we thought we had and wondering why we couldnít say it that way minutes earlier.

If we could be honest, what devastation would we bring in the name of our own salvation?

Unimaginable Iím sure.

You canít get back what is lost, and sometimes you have to let go.

Thatís never been my strong suit.

If I ever had one to begin with.

But it certainly wasnít that.

Cleaning Up The Dead

We have many families in this life. Itís a hard name to earn, but once you have it, it becomes yours and itís not something that easily fades. I suspect that it never does, but if you lose it, it more simply greys into a scar that you look at and think, ďHey, I remember thatĒ, and miss it with that heavy feeling that settles in on your chest when you know that you fucked it up, but it really couldnít have gone any other way.

You know what Iím talking about, that inevitability of death.

The death of all of us, the death of all things.

I have noticed recently that I have a lot of scars on me. I was getting out of the shower a few days ago when it occurred to me that if I should ever befall a fate where I lose my head, I should be reasonably easy to identify by all of the scars on me. They all have their own unique stories.

My legs are particularly bad. Too many falls. One in particular left the better part of my shin permanently grey. Anyone who knows the Campers Village story will be more than able to pick my headless corpse out of a lineup I think.

But as we all do, I have some scars that donít show, and would do a mortician or medical examiner no good whatsoever in determining exactly who I am.

Funny how memories stick with you.

At the exact moment that I wrote that sentence I was drawn back to the days when I used to bury people for a living.

Someone has to, and I needed a job at the time.

There are many stories that came out of that little space of experience, some only told in detail after a good bottle of wine or two, but there is one that I will share with you now.

The burial of homeless people always struck me as odd.

Again, someone has to bury them. You canít just leave them about the streets, more respectable people would trip all over them and we canít have that now can we?

So when one of them died, the funeral home that I worked for would take them in and give them a decent burial. And a suit and a shave if need be. When I said earlier that it struck me as odd, I said that because it always seemed to be a case of too little too late.

Nonetheless, one day I found myself responsible for cleaning up what was left of a particular homeless gentleman. I donít know what he died of, any number of things I imagine, but he was dead and someone had to clean him up and I was the one who had to do it. I donít know why I remember him of all the people I almost met while working there, but I do, and will for quite a while I imagine.

When cleaning up the dead, itís always best to use as much antiseptic as possible. You never know what might be lingering.

Wanna know whatís weird?

Shaving the face of dead man. Every instinct tells you to be careful, because your own face you know, but a strangers you should be careful of as you donít know the territory and you could cut them.

As if they would bleed.

Make sense of that and Iíll give you a dollar.

He was an old guy. From Saskatchewan originally as I recall. Skinny as all hell. If you imagine a typical old guy with big lines running all across his face and then take off a couple of pounds youíll get close to what Iím talking about.

He did have a dignity to him though. Hard to explain, and I doubt if I could, but there was a sense of history on the mans face, and one had no choice but to respect that.

Thatís it, the end of that story. No point really, but for some reason that rant reminded me of shaving the face of a dead homeless man.

Somewhere out there is a family that I used to be a part of. Iím not anymore. Some people would say thatís ok because it wasnít my first family, which I still by and large have and am grateful for all of the bits that I still can call mine, but I still miss this other family.

I am starting to very much doubt that I will ever see any of them again, despite my best wishes.

There is a chaos in life that comes up around us all. It swarms and squeezes and wraps and there isnít much in the way of dodging it for any length of time. Itís inevitable,

When cleaning up the dead, itís always best to use as much antiseptic as possible. You never know what might be lingering.

Let Me On FOX...

I have a new idea for a TV show, and itís pretty much a total winner.

Reality TV. Now I know that we havenít talked about it in a while, but Iíve been thinking lately, so bear with meÖ

When you boil it all down to what it is, reality TV is nothing more than taking ordinary people and making them feel like they are or should be exceptional.

Kind of cruel to some thinking, but we havenít time for concerns of cruelty anymore.

Thatís the windup, hereís the pitch.

I want to produce a show called ďMake You FamousĒ.

Hereís the idea.

You go across the country (because every good reality TV show does that) and you put ads in local papers and run an open casting call.

And what is the casting call for you ask?

Well nothing really, nothing but the fact that whoever comes out should be well prepared to convince my panel of three semi celebrity judges that they should be made famous.

I donít care what the reason is, but it should be a good one that has the promise of some marketability.

So you have all of these people come out and try to convince you why they should be famous, and you just know youíre going to end up with and infinite amount of b-roll material. I mean, all of these reality TV shows out there are limiting themselves to a genre, best singer, best model, best inventor, etc.

To hell with it, open the floodgates and let the waters roll.

And the prize?

Well itís quite simple. The winner will be made famous.

A massive marketing campaign lets say 60 million dollars goes towards making the winner famous. Iím talking radio ads, Newspaper ads, the whole kit and kaboodle.

The advertising revenue from a show that runs a whole year looking for the person who most deserves to be made famous will make that look like chump change. You make these casting calls huge, and you more or less guarantee that you will have an audience tuning in week after week in order to see whether or not they will be the ones to be made famous.

Now just to be clear, if I see this show on TV anytime soon, Iíll be suing the asses off of who ever is responsible, cause this little golden goose is all mine.

Luck Didn't Leave A Comment...

ďIt seemed like a good idea at the time, but you know that judgement isnít what it used to beÖ

You never really know when itís your turn.

Well bad news kids, the joke of it all is that itís your turn now. Seven times all the things that you wanted, just so that you could end up watching them fall apart.

Well thereís no such thing as guarantees but I promise you one thingÖ

Youíll nevever see it coming and it has absolutely nothing to do with luck. She left the building a while ago, and Luck?

Luck didnít leave a comment.Ē