Kensington Market, Springtime

Kensington Market. The spring brings everyone out of the shadows.

Broken Social Scene Video

I shot this video during a rehersal before their show in Toronto. Starts of shaky, sorry. But gets good around 1:00. If you love Broken Social Scene, you'll love it. If you don't... you're gonna wonder how those hippies remained frozen since the 60's.

People in Hell

In lieu of writing my own entry, I thought I'd post one of the most beautiful passages from a book I am reading called Close Range by Annie Proulx (author of Brokeback Mountain). This is the opening paragraph from the short story People in Hell Just Want a Glass of Water. It is part of a collection of stories about the harsh, beautiful life in Wyoming.

YOU STAND THERE, BRACED. CLOUD SHADOWS RACE OVER the buff rock stacks as a projected film, casting a queasy, mottled ground rash. The air hisses and it is no local ,breeze but the great harsh sweep of wind from the turning of the earth. The wild country-indigo jags of mountain, grassy plain everlasting, tumbled stones like fallen cities, the flaring roll of sky-provokes a spiritual shudder. It is like a deep note that can­not be heard but is felt, it is like a claw in the gut.

Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seven­teen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti'd celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood on the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on the highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that.

1000 Years

It's 3:30am. I'm trying to flag a cab to work. It's dark, mild. The air is damp. Nothing is moving except a few cars in the distance. I am alone in the city.

Finally, a cab.

"To King and John Street," I say.
"You work at CBC, CityTV?"
"How'd you know."
"Many early working people there."

I have rarely been in a taxi and sober at this hour of the morning. We are both at work or going to work. We are bonding. On the radio, I hear Pakistani music: tablas, high pitch voices.

"Who is singing?" I ask.
"Do you want me to turn it down?" He motions to the volume dial.
"No no. Is that Jagjit Singh?"
"No," he says. "But you know Jagjit Singh?"
"Yes. The ghazal singer. And his wife."
"Ah you know them."
"Yes. Very beautiful."

I'm not kidding. Many years ago, a friend from Pakistan and I traded CDs. I handed over some cheesy electonica while he gave me some classical Indian music. I fell in love with the high twisting voices of Chitra Singh's voice and Jagjits low groveling forlorn moans.

"You know what he is singing?"
"No."
"Ah, the most beautiful things!"
"Translate."

Our car comes to my destination. He puts the cab in park and turns off the meter. He turns around.

"Ah, right here this is what he is saying: "I love you, I love you. I will go to the temple and pray to the gods that I can live 1000 more years just so I can love you. One life is not enough."

He smiles for a moment and takes the cash, writes a reciept.

Poetry reading: no charge.