This note will be divided into at least three
Inevitably on days like this I rethink the decision to ignore my
knack for math. I could go back to school and learn to fix things,
learn to build things, become an architect, heal people, make something
of myself. Come home each night, feet up, grab the lastest copy
of Saturday Night magazine, throw on Pearl Jam's "No
Code", sip a glass of middle class booze, be warm and fat and
wait, like everybody else.
Instead. Wake up. Feel the brunt of sloppy shouting.
Messy passion for different combinations of words. Fuck, you can
smell that passion, even the next morning. Couldn't give that up.
Not even if it means moving North. I need to buy
some time, leave loved ones new and old, leave potential, go to
a community where men outnumber women four to one and it's more
dark and cold than anything.
Take off the gloves--scared and frozen--under a gather
of northern lights, long enough to hold your hand - DDS.
Tonight Forget Magazine will be appearing
at the Orange Hall in Fernwood to hear and see contributor Nick
Thran and maybe even read out loud.
If you are good people, we would like to meet you.
We drink whiskey sours. We drink beer. We wear stocking hats. We
talk, we laugh. We hold scared hands - Ed.
It is well past noon.
Matthew Dorrell and I have been in Victoria for 19
hours. We have already been intoxicated, eaten enormous sandwiches,
pulled Darren away from his up-island plans and found ourselves
in a connundrum of couch allotments. And had it out with that kid
Mike Lecky. I won on all accounts.
This I offer to you as an intro, and outro, a way
in. This trip, this ending, this treatise; this hollow in the hearts
of generations; this face too pale for shadows: a sense of place,
a laugh, a history, a game, a Canada.
And this: I will hold your hand if you are scared