Chagrin

All night I dreamt of my home,

of the roads that tangle and weave, confused

until they strangle and suffocate

strung out and bloody,

cul-de-sac.

It's over, tonight I'll kill off Kowalski.

When you wake up tomorrow, I'll be on my way to London, Ontario.

My sojourn in this here fair city is over.

An ode to this last year - records with high therapeutic capabilities: (one note - the universe has no centre and edges, as a result lists and the numbering systems are inherently arbitrary, yet following in a tradition of human affliction for segregation, there shall be an outer core, and then the seed; so here is a list without numbers)

The Outer Core

baroness - blue record

Progressions with variation, an album rich with southern drawl and heavy handed in doling out offerings to the riff.

hope sandoval and the warm inventions - through the devil softly

Never louder than a whisper/ Never so piercing.

timber timbre - s/t

Slow, waltzing, and courting death at every corner. The lyrics stand, imposing in the foreground.

atlas sound - logos

Fell asleep to the sound of water gurgling underneath my window.

jodis - secret house

Disjunct drums allow the lyrics to build like a prayer - my mind seeps into memories of self-flagellation for the third imam.

raekwon - only built 4 cuban linx II

A little scale, some baggies, and a mean ratchet.

evening hymns - spirit guides

"My life is now built upon wheels/ which means I'm always moving on/ through the forest in out to the desert/ where my head will finally clear."

---

The Seed

animal collective - merriweather post pavillion

mastodon - crack the skye

isis - wavering radiant

Don't look back, press on.

Deluge

Separate reason from your thoughts. Allow them, room.

I remember the warmth of our carpets, against the hardwood floors – so Scandinavian and sterile – in the middle of January or maybe February. The sky was so grandiose. Large, and occupying so much of the canvas. In Iran, there are buildings, tall, obtuse, and all set at different angles, against a backdrop of mountains. They do the talking, they’ve seen it all, and they occupy your eyes. Sure the azure sky is there, on a good windy day. But, it’s the mountains, jagged, changing colours with season that command your synapses.

I related this to my mother. She agreed. The sky held sway over low-lying coniferous trees.

Acres of blue/grey,

Thick line of green,

And then ice.

So was the tripartite division of finnish landscape.

And then this:

An object that

tells of the loss, destruction, disappearance of objects. Does not speak of itself. Tells of others. Will it include them?

Deluge.

Jasper Johns

(art as idea as idea)

photocopy on wood

HaRishon

I pushed the bar of the fire door and fell into: the street, pulsing and groaning, dragging its wretched, cracked face like the furrowed worker, fluorescent jumpsuit, who stands behind, manning the atavistic street gouger, spitting old asphalt into the rear of a truck, biting and chewing, large mechanical mastication, to remove, peel the old offensive scalp of Madison Avenue.

“The cycle starts anew, lets start with 6:9 Bereshit, 1:1 Genesis...” Rabbi Richman utters, as his grizzled beard capers and cavorts after each syllable that is spoken.

HaRishon, stirred envy and admiration amongst the angels; but he was rooted, rooted in something tangible, physical and sexual. And thus his superiority.

Lets return to the cyclical revolutions of "street dermatology"!

But before, I must digress (prudently, as digressions often assume their own vitality and consequently, hubris.)

Ah... well at some other point, I pushed another door and fell out again, this time onto a bustling Bloor. With one fell swoop, I amassed the pedestrians and hurled 'em across the street, yes I changed the colours, red to green. See? More cycles.

Yes. I go up to my bicycle. Me all wrapped up and holding something with cinnamon, providing succor for my parched palate and respite from the iron taste of my tongue.

Whenever someone asks: “Hey this is really good. What’s in it?” the answer invariably is: Cinnamon.

Cinnamon and Caramel. Woooh. As I bend my knees and reach for my combo bike lock, I turn and see him, jump up and perch on the hood of his truck. He's got a toque on, gloves holding a cup of joe. His day is over. I turn to him.

Long day?

- Uh, yeah, man. Been working at it all day.

Shit, well... what you got back there?

-Huh? Oh yeah... I'm in the scrap metal business.

I twist my neck to see jagged and corrugated metal, huddled in the back, looking dark and hopeless. Like shit-out-of-luck mexicans, waiting for the promises of mañana and the next white farmer’s fields that might offer some work for wandering labourers.

How’s that going?

- Well apart from the Waiting… I guess it’s OK.

The waiting?

- The Waiting. We’re waiting for… You don’t understand we are operating at the limit Man! (He was getting worked up. Paused, got off the hood, and addressed me, holding the brown cup to his mouth, like a microphone.) We’re hitting the pavement ‘fore the cracka dawn. (Arms akimbo, twitching his right hand – free of coffee and gesturing like a historian at the podium). My brother, I know the ‘alf of us, “scraps” are shootin’, basing or snorting sulphate. All hours behind that black wheel can do things to a man. Fried, man, and spat out (like old asphalt obviously). We’re operating at a diff’rent level of traffic man. We gotta mutate to survive.

Wow. Uh man… shit... I didn’t realize.

- *chuckles*. So you working at this coffeeshop, aren’t ya? How’s that?

Uh…(mumbles something about lower lumbar pains from standing up all day)…shit man. What can I say.

- Say you ain’t scrappin’ for metal and thank the lord!

Amen!

// Understand the wait, and persuade yourself that you’re merely waiting to turn the corner, from this odd job, onto the real thing, you’re coming up to that juncture, where:

“The Imminent meets the Immanent”

Dark Pools

Excerpt, slipped out of print:

"Charming were the thoughts that pierced my heart. My mind had bred them. Apparelled so becomingly, they danced along and scarcely touched the ground. A ball, a fashionable ball. In pairs they went gliding through the moonlight. Cowardice with Courage, Lies with Uprightness, Wretchedness with Strength, Malice with Valour. Only Reason and Understanding did not join in the dance. Reason and Understanding were wretchedly drunk. They had lost their virtue. But the dance went on, and I listened to the music.

A song of the streets - the song of filth.

According to language, race and nation, we set ourselves apart, and each pile up our filth to overtower the other's.

Filth - for manure - for the earth, so that something may grow. Not flowers, but rather bread. Yes! But do not worship it - the filth of which you've eaten. "

Heat

When I was seven, I stared at my fair and fleshy palms, red

and today turned towards the kitchen, flooded with light - the satiety box - and from within the cavernous depths of the cupboard directly below the sink, sprawled a grand, rotund belly, Black. I hovered over, still staring at my palms, red in the sun. He was beyond comprehension, Old Brain, wisdom that transcends books - the kind his young daughter of a second wife, does not have - jabbering away. Bolts, washers, and a torch littered the cheap tile floor. He's let himself go, volumes of fat spill over his belt buckle as he turns the screw. Reebok basketball shoes, old, flail in the sunlight. I stand over, staring at the black pepper grinder.

Mr. C was fixing the faucet, when his digestive tract got caught, the heat lulled the great gut: an extension of the kitchen pipings it became. I bent over the sink, and turned on the tap. Behold, his breakfast gushed out first, then his innards, running red and black. I gasped in excitement, biting my tongue.

Now, I am cloaked in a white apron. Hovering, floating over, as the gut-pipe, convulses in spasms of fear, four hundred years, blood wells up and over, covering my face, like a triumphant warrior, I bring down my foot on his body, stamping out his dignity. Forever a slave.

"How long will the trial last?"

Pinchas was a good Zealot

Zealotry, must be wielded to destroy the sin. You can not, and shall not attempt to destroy the sinners - the sin shall rise again, as the sun upon the eastern shore - and the harlots gaze is ever-vengeful, when it falls upon her assailants, whom yesterday shared her insidious bed.

But,

stand upright in the assembly, Pinchas, your righteous spear shall drive into the heart of this licentious cavorting that is debasing your tribe.

Raise your arm up in antiquated pathos! Higher! Strike, and turn the tide of my wrath that would undoubtedly consume your people.

This fille de joie shall make a ripe sacrifice.

Your tenure on this earth has been granted a new lease.

"Therefore say: behold, I have given him my covenant of peace."

Poison Pier

walk from cherry street to poison pier - reads a poor boy's strip of paper.

Polson/Poison

A pier, a-ppear-s,

ah-peer through the side window;

//all off the bus!

hesitation, this isn't our stop? but the people have decided to get off. peers decide for peers. a man, "these people must not be from around here... don't know how to get off a bus". "oh that's an insult" sez a boy,

indignant.

//foreshadowing

walking in groups to polson pier, past large cylinders of industry - the cranks and shafts beat out a rhythm, very "fireworks"-esque - wonder if SENSUOUS-X in the apparel acid-wash digs, hears it?

//go-karts

past the go-karts, not long left now. picks up the pace, now the line-up, now strangers eye your passport, YES, the date IS at the bottom. two looks down, one look at yer face. all good. past the gates, around the corner into the venue. people milling around. that tea is brewing in yer stomach kid, head to the room marked MENS. pissing....... pissing..................................piss...sss......... - somebody opens the door - AH - siiiiingggg

// ambient drones for a room-full of drunks and heads

standing near the bar was never a good idea, but don't want to hassle the kids standing so stoic. the money clinks and dudes with drinks make their way for friends engulfed in a sea......of people..... "PEOPLE PASS THE POT!!!! WHERE'S THE POT??? I SEE IT THERE..AND THERE....man everyone's blazing, hey buddy c'mon pass us the bone, we'll pay you five bucks!"

// alvy singer vs. the guy who called fellini "indulgent" in the lineup for the sorrow and the pity

"see spinoza writes stuff that is all about angst about philosophy -- see all the dudes who are in philosophy but don't like all the crap...like spinoza, coz he cuts through all the shit", booms BIG-BLAZE, as he leans into BAT-FOR-LASHES' ear. she unknowingly nods her bangs and agrees with big-blaze as he raves on and on like he's actually read Spinoza. he dons an anti-flag shirt and blazer over that... he will soon light up a bone and pass it to grateful bat-for-lashes. he booms and booms... louder and louder over the drones of GROUPER on stage, right into my poor ear. Why? Come on man.

"hey you should ask yer swedish profs about that!!". "oh I'm not in school anymore". way to kill it girl. get the bone 'n get outta blazer country!

//BODY-ODOUR and KATE-THE-BAIT

he's big, he stinks, and breaks the unspoken equilibrium of the crowd at the start of the collective's set - to stand and perceive, most of the crowd are still, not digging the vibrations - he's bouncing from side to side and grabs kate to sing-along into her ear. they crash and dance, stepping on my feet, I care not, for at that moment I am all into my zen-out-this-crowd vibe. I have cancelled all the bad trips and negative vibes.. head swimming around, tapping my feet - hear fireworks coming four minutes before the rest of the crowd applaud in appreciation. this is brilliant. they are playing panda bear material now! ah jesus! but when they get into "my girls", ah the Blazers that read about it in eyeweekly or heard it thinking they heard the next mgmt single, start dancing and jumping...their negative vibes and jabber throughout the experimental tunes gather now into a rally cry. AND NOW BODY-ODOUR RAISES HIS BLAZERED ARM FLAILING IT AROUND LIKE A FLAG - pumping it up and down and grabbing kate-the-bait. YES!!! I KNOW THIS SONG! right on... oh no! they crash into BAT-FOR-LASHES! she is perturbed and turns a hateful stare at body-odour and demands that they not disturb her RIGHT TO STAND STILL AT A MUSIC CONCERT! she will not give into the vibrations. she remains staunchly, firmly rooted in the ground. standing still. striking a pose like Franco and Mussolini. no dancing around her!

//visuals and escape

did I speak of the visuals? oh how rude of me! well the visuals were fantastic - straight out of the acid tests in Watts - after the blacks burnt it down and the whites partied on with the aid of kool-aid. there was a great big white inflatable ball o'erhead the collective and projections were cast onto this great white ball. magnificent! they screamed and gave birth to new beasts out of old songs - no album versions here - six minute intros into lion in a coma! brilliant! YES, YES!

but then the lights went and they went off stage. i did not stay for the encore. yes the music was brilliant but the cauldron of decrepit, drunk, hollows was unbearable. out of the fire... and into the blissful chills!

//clank-a-clank and stop!

I walked towards the cylinders of industry once more...they were still beating out that fireworks beat, UNTIL MY FEET WERE ALLIGNED WITH THEIR BASE... AND STOP! they stopped, as if they knew and were saying... "hey friend, our entertainment for the night is over, follow yer trip elsewhere, but you must carry on with the good vibes".

//paranoid trips

now I feel released and euphoric. I pick up the beat to brothersport and rap-it-on for a while, underneath bridges and highways. now I pick up the chatter from before but louder, since there is not a living soul around 'cept for the fools in their iron carriages on the highway! rap-a-rap... a-pier-appear-a-peer.. bop-a-top...cop-a-piss-a-piss-a-piss-a-piss-a-piss-aaaaaaaaaaaaah scream into the night, and WHY NOT?! I am in full merry mode, as-if CHIEF-CHINOOK was here. now I look across the road, there is a breach in the railing, I will jump onto the 6-lane highway and go across. no cars.. LETS GO!! ACROSS - FURTHER - ADRENALINE! now that I'm on the other side, I realize there is no sidewalk, just gravel! Shitters. That's OK! I jump around nimbly, taut, agile and keep on rappin' away nonsensical collective tunes. derivations of brothersport. oh----

shit!

is that a bum, wrapped completely in a sleeping bag under the highway?? I cannot see a face, but the rappin' stops and I continue on faster. SHIT! I cannot be so reckless! needles? there could be aids-needles anywhere in this silvery gravel ... OK, jump around like you're on hot embers!

past the gravel patch of paranoia.

//MOOO-NDANE creeps back in!

a long walk to union from poison pier this has been, but the warm, loving embrace of the underground metro awaits. methinkst to my myself... hmm that concert would come in at three k's, with the newly improved système kowalski. brilliant music weighed down by characters such as big-blaze, body-odour, kate-the-bait... bad-trips-folk. zen allowed me to overcome: "fireworks" was dazzling live, to respond to an inquisitive text from trois-rivieres.

//up to bloor

hot chocolate sipping, PLAID-CLAD waits for his buds - it's a pub-crawl on bloor - yes! we have brought fish.

THIS HAS BEEN A KOWALSKI FEATURE PRESENTATION