I love you so much
Loved you for so long
Loved you like I was strong
Believing I would now know
What I thought died long ago

Loved you like I was gone
Where you once left fate
Like it was tough for me
To leave the meaning safe
At last I know

Throughout the fall
You held it in
To make it what it was meant to be
Alone and not meandering
To make the road what it wants to be
A dream and not a memory
To bend the highway in
To take it fast and stick with it
Keep falling and never quit

Labels: alarming truthness, artform, folk, love, writing

When I heard the news about Jack Layton, I was in the kitchen preparing the espresso machine. It was 8:57AM. The morning cartoons were over and Radio-Canada news appeared on the television with the special report.

He was 61 years old.

I was shocked. I stood in front of the screen, listening to every word she was saying. Then the words "No way." barely took form and dripped out of me.

Jack Layton was the only politician that had me going. I could believe what he was saying and what he wanted to achieve. It never crossed my mind that he was a liar like so many ordinary men bending for their own benefit.

This guy was the real deal. He RAN the walk. He stood for everything he publicly proclaimed as valuable and dear to us. Courageous, honorable, kind, honest and persevering, he will leave behind a massive gap on the political stage.

Labels: alarming truthness, folk, Jack Layton

C'est cool lorsque les gens participent, car facebull c'est à la base un jeu de société et si les joueurs restent muets l'excercice devient inutile.

Labels: folk, interactive, jargon

This evolving organism, the Internet, is constantly renewing itself. Progress is produced through failures and variations of applications, cells adapt and renew themselves in response to everyday interactions, boredom and drama. The only thing that connects the birthed (newbies), the dying (users) and the plug (portal) is communication. Links. Transmissions sent through venous, intricate designs that may have occurred by accident, or not.

The Internet was born in efforts to develop superior communication devices and has been blossoming through the good, the bad and the ugly ever since. Driven by user content, the web is a non-geographical public forum that, to some, holds a promise of a limitless well of information. We reach out, regroup and find each other because the last thing we want is to live in a world that has nothing to do with us. In a nutshell: we spark connections with a click of a key.

A quick peak into your body’s bloodstream transit system and you might view such signs as  “Exhaustion” or “Exciting” or even “Too much beer” whereas across the screens of online communities you might read “Check out this hot new band.” or “Have you seen this child?” or even “All your bran are belong to us.” and so on. When such matters are brought to light, interest grows like weeds and they can aid as much as they can harm. 

Was the Internet an important tool in bringing aid to Haiti? We have seen the end of a world and we have organized in order to send support to a society that is left without electricity, without running water and without the certainty that their calls will be answered by a familiar voice. As we coordinated concerts, telethons and food drives we created opportunities to encourage generosity and involve our networks in expanding awareness to this cause. There is no doubt that this web is good for the group.

The plug supplies power to the mass. The web cannot be blamed for hours wasted on Bacon Degrees. Don't we all just want to make contact with other intelligent life forms? Pick your tool: Flickr, HypeMachine, YouTube, Wordpress... the Internet is your canvas to share (almost) any information with a world that is reaching out for reciprocity.

An important connection we make online on a daily basis is the one between the ghost of users past, present and future. Through the web we align ourselves with strings of information on any given subject, connecting bases of knowledge of the past, present and views of the future. (This type of association is usually one that is scoured by firms but unfortunately often goes completely unnoticed by those who would actually make great progress with these sources as fuel.) It is now easier, with a tool like Twitter, to share information between those who are passive and active in order to signal those that are reactive. In other words, this is how you can avoid calamities, be one step ahead and skip to plan b. This is how trends work, by unifying the dispersed crowd with a string of common interests. The big P will put fire in that trend engine.


Progress. It’s a natural process for all of us. Progress can manifest itself in the offline world as designed in the bosom of online communities. A good example is via Twitter and the #STM trend which is the umbrella code to everything STM related under one simple RSS feed. At the moment, there is no way to know if your bus is going to arrive at your stop in five, ten or twenty minutes. There are bus schedules at every other street corner but these are more like guidelines. With Twitter, a user can post an update such as “Bus 45 is 20 minutes late #STM”, warning all other users (the invisible crowd) waiting above and beyond and consequently prompting plan b.

Progress is a matter of perception. Progress will always rest between the hands of the people who bend it. People power rises in a flash mob, under a crowd surfer, in a cheer, in a rescue effort and at most intersections.

What progress fuels you? Is it Wikipedia? Is it a vaccine? Is it a President? Is it televised? If you want to change part of this world you are building, write about it, scream about it and involve all the different crowds that can help. Your actions are like money and money, as you might have already heard, is like a vote. It is an investment in an idea and a way of living. So live out loud.

Labels: design, folk, interactive, montreal

In the soft round of your forehead
I can see it coming in
The spike of your curiosity
Ready for another stab
At the unspeakable beat
The Beast of truth
The soft round hidden spot
Between my forbidden bones
Uneaten by plastic mouth
Safe in the womb unconcerned

Labels: art, craft, curiosities, folk, love, mechanical

my fingers tap tap tap
keys, matches and covers
through the window
sun passes me by
never landing
the kids are out
their games are never over
they rub the earth with laughter
while this sickness traps
i see i write i
tap tap tap
my play is imaginary
their laughter
buzz kill
an alarm
to go all the way
live the sickness
this ticket
to wellness
and rivers of coffee
from this good old ticker
keys, matches and covers
tap tap tap
knowing i am whole
is heavy
on the heart
where through us
light falls apart

Labels: alarming truthness, artform, Dear Charlie, folk

I want to be part of a Social Movement, not a social network.

Labels: folk, one-liner, social

Part one:

Sweet room temperature wind... walking around the port today, going to visit the key master, I put one foot in front of the other. Without sunglasses, I thought of this last day of summer like the beginning of a new year. A new cycle with more ideas to tend to.

I also spent some time outside on the weekend. But most of it was spent in my living room, with my keyboard, my mic and this computer. I started working on what was to be a very short film, but after four hours, my computer froze and I was left with only 33 seconds of edited footage.

I will have to archive most of my folders and remove some programs (like Myst4) in order to give it another try.

Sunday breakfast with friends was nice, as always. There were stories to tell, one that included a thief that chooses to steal some weird ikea-like deco art (a white ceramic fist) instead of a dvd-player. We talked about my trip... I don't know if I will end up going. All this "plan ahead" business is giving me stomach aches. We also talked about my ability to step into someone else's state of being and articulate their feelings with words. (Look up sweetheart. (Header) If you weren't there, I wouldn't be here.)



I saw this movie friday. I want to see it again. Here is my favourite scene. ( I actually recorded it so I could listen to it on the bus tomorrow morning...)

Labels: conversations, film, folk, video

So the operation went well. I think I’ll survive.

Still, the lovers strike. JJ, get me my shovel. The boys are broken after all.

After days of no sleep, no food (but much inspiration and zealousness), no fresh air, too many myspace annoyances have pushed me to that place in my mind where I hide dedication. I finally sat down and went through a list of people that are mostly strangers, to realize that the faces that were familiar were gone. It seems that a lot of people decided to delete their profile while I was away hunting mammoths. I don’t care for hollywood or script bots. I don’t care for your star-system biz. I’m more interested in the one who can play the oud.

One of the reasons I flipped my profile to private was because I was getting ridiculous amounts of service spam. Now that I’ve gone private, it’s much easier for me to deny a request from Sherry-No-Cherry without viewing the profile and feeling bad about it. I don’t need any more friends, I can barely stand the ones I’m with. (I think the next person who asks me to go see the “pumpkins” should be dragged into the street and maimed.) Being that myspace is like a tree of undefined parasites, I decided to prune. Fred did it and he seems much more at ease now online. We don’t have to deal with those people anymore. They are gone. All they ever wanted from us was the ease of our springboard. (Et que personne le sache qu’ils sont tous des mal baisés! Ton mari est un connard et ta femme fait le con.) It’s incredible how the internet has morphed the sophomore into magnificently tagged and erect penises.

Who needs the back of a bus when you can get behind a clever moniker and obtuse signature references? It doesn’t change anyone. A fish is a fish no matter the attack.

Anyway, David and I almost came to the conclusion last night that the comatose urbanites are people too and that they need our support as much as the next goose. Blasé you say? Try getting a depressed heartbroken guitarist to get excited about music again. (On s’en fou de la pouffiasse! Ouais, elle n’est peut-être pas si pire mais regarde, tu as en ta possession un engin magnetic. La guitare merde. Ça c’est du coq.) Being calm is one thing, but trying to remain unmoved when the train is passing by less than a foot away from the tip of your nose could cause serious injury. You may not feel the pang immediately, you usually don’t, but the day you’re drinking your potage through a tube you might think back and see that moment as the day the cow jumped over the moon.

Stand your ground son. That ain’t no mound of skulls you’ve stepped upon.

Labels: artform, folk, jargon, there is no ship like championship

It has been a crazy week. I don’t know if I can write a proper entry. There is so much going on behind my eyes right now.

First, everything looks like winter already. The tint of sunlight that slowly hits my paper blinds in the morning. The smell of cold wet leaves barely freezing together at 4 in the afternoon, when the sun sets. This marks the period when all I want to do is roll over and hide. Nothing makes sense anymore. I leave my blinds down and try to make the best of it inside. Because out there, all there is left is supersized superficial purchasing opportunities. Pumpkins are still smiling under dangling wired lighting. There’s an abundance of red attacking innocent people who just want to go home. Conversations about gifts and party dresses will haunt most public areas along with other stress-related issues such as climate change and scientific truth.

Every year I usually go off and tell unsuspecting acquaintances how the holiday season is just crank and pull. All the fuss over what is not the iconic lore they used to know is misspent time and energy. The icy holiday season is now the summum of the dollar symbol. It’s all about people feeling obliged and abiding to a school of thought that they don’t even try to comprehend. And on and on.

But this year will be different. My little cousin came up with this great idea to make presents this year. Actually using our hands and imagination to create something singular and personal. I like that thought. And because of her, I’ve been thinking about winter and how difficult it is for me to feel alive through it and realized that maybe that is why the holidays are what they are today. Winter would be very drab without the big lights of celebration shining over grey doorways. Maybe somewhere along the way the reason got shot for something else but if the reason was for people to be brought together in order for them to not be depressed and alone then who am I to frown upon it? I just wish it was clearer that family affairs like Christmas celebrations are not about stuff (and keeping receipts for stuff and regifting stuff) but about peoples.

Peoples like you and I... that sit in front of computer screens thinking about stuff that isn’t material. Peoples. Yes, I like saying Peoples. (Does Peoples make me look dumb?) Peoples are not dollars. Oh nice, snowflakes...

Labels: folk, theory

I had one of the most amazing weekends. My mother and I went to visit my grandparents who live in Saint-André-Avellin. Once we were out of Vaudreuil, the drive to the little village was just what I needed. At first, I was slightly nervous by my mothers driving. Not because she drives dangerously but because she surpassed the maximum of 80km/h that I am used to handle regularly on my way to work.

The scenery was lush with native flowers, trees and shrubs which all seemed to be radiant. Of course, some areas were only for show, thin trimmings of forestry to hide the stripped land of progress. But the further we were from Montreal, the thicker the landscape became. The road to Saint-André is embellished with village spots, making the speed limit sway from 90 to 50 and back up to 90km/h again. It’s nice when you slow down and no one is there to push you into speeding by something that my take your breath away.

When we arrived at the cottage, my grandparents, my godmother, my aunt, her husband and their two children welcomed us. I was struck by my grandfathers weight loss. He wasn’t the man I remembered who used to eat a slice of pie after each meal. Yet, when I was swinging on the front porch and heard him singing from his lazy-boy I was thrown back to the times when my thoughts were not clouded by the fear of losing him and my grandmother.

At the table, while we chatted over desert, she explained to me why she was looking forward to moving to Gatineau to her new apartment. “She listens to me,” she said, bringing a tissue to her puffy left eye talking to me about her new doctor, “ she’s not always offering me some new drugs.” (Here, I skip my anger towards her mistreatment and her previous physician and hope for a more compassionate future.)

It’s difficult for me to imagine my grandparents living in an apartment building. They have always lived on great lakeshore lands. Gardens, boats, copious meals and many many relatives have always been linked to my idea of my grandparents. An idea that has now been confronted to a new outline of age, love and family.

For me, the cottage (which has changed locations three times in my lifetime) has been synonym with haven. But it’s only yesterday while I was floating under the sun that I looked back at the shore thinking that for my grandparents it may be quite the opposite or something completely different. The shed is falling apart. The picnic table is chipped and has lost all it’s color. But some tall bright colored flowers that were initially planted near the entrance have spread up and across the grounds surrounding the whole courtyard. Everything is changing.

The haven is now time spent together. Time cleaning up the shore with a little blond haired girl. Time spent sitting around the table playing poker. Sitting with my mother. Serving a meal to my grandmother, one she didn’t have to cook. Time waiting for my grandfather to come around on his lawnmower and offering to do the chore and watching him decline, smiling and proud that he can still push the pedal and turn the wheel. Time driving my mother home and singing along to her favorite songs.

Labels: folk, love