Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts

Monday, 2 March 2015

Home is where the food is (a 107 Ave serenade)

Source: Faces of 107 Avenue
Adobo creative suites
Masala motion pictures
Mad about saffron
And high on wild rosewater nocturnes and the sweet Rumi-nations of old Tehran
Footsteps springy like fresh injera
With a fire-roasted coffee and frankincence chasers at my heels
Striding sing-song down the Avenue of Nations
Calibrating my olfactory GPS; new-world coordinates in old-country code
The dhows of Gwadar, Suquṭra, Muqdisho
Safely moored on a verdant bend in the North Saskatchewan
Bringing sustenance and satiety to shivering winter citizenry
Cracked cardamom pods, frim-fram shawarma sauce
Weaponized wild rice and a backup bottle of chili sauce for that extra zing
Here on the Ave this is kind of our thing

Some say home is where the heart is
But the heart falters when the stomach lies empty
Others say home is where the money is
But money for nothing? Have these chickpeas for free!
Home is where the food is
Where continents and condiments collide in cast-iron kitchen pots
With fierce chillies, midnight meat sweats, and moose nose stew with bannock sliders
Treaty 6 treats with Tagalog tagalongs
And palak paneer amid the backdrop of a bigos and kubasonic boomtown
It’s everything that’s good to eat
Right out there on the street
Yeggs benedict for breakfast
E-town empanadas for lunch
Prairie chicken Kiev with a side of doro. Wot?
It’s all here. It’s all us.

Give me a home where the free-range buffalo roam (out at Elk Island)
Where the kheer and the cantaloupe come out to play for dessert
Where seldom is heard a discouraging Urban Spoon word
And the skies are as wide open as our doors, as big as our portion sizes
And as vivid and alive as our spicecraft and foodscape
Welcome home


Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Skindiving in Tokyo Bay


Photo by Natalie Kelsey (deviantart.com)
The sea wall shoots straight down
Beyond the threshold of the eyes
Beneath the inky evanescence above
And the silky nothingness below
That centrifuge where the mind stops minding
And the extremities embrace the moonless chill
And in the unblinking undertow
Yamashita’s gold glistens, then vanishes
Yet another bioluminescent blur
Beyond the precipice of the abyssal plain
Where spider crabs bide their time
And searchlights dissolve like sugar photophores

The curve of your back
Your pearldiver skin
Freezeframes in front of me as I fumble
Dusktreading and night terrorfoaming
Over angry tectonic ridges, rusted warships
And the barnacled skeletons of young men pressed into death
By imperial dreams and decrees
And yet still you urge me forward through the cross current
Beckoning with a supple serenity to surrender
To the will of the waves and the boundaries of reason
When one climactic zone transitions to another
Do we change our name or simply inch forward as we are

Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
それ . . . あれ

Why don’t you turn around to face me
As I flail about amidst the black surge
Edo-wan at dusk is lonely beneath the skin
At odds with the detritus below and the neon crescent wrench
That grasps it tight at night
When the denizens of the depths recoil from reach
Why don’t you relight, ignite, send a pulse, a flair
At least make clear
That your crystal tips and grey-eyed equanimity
Were no deep-sea deceit, midwater mindfuck mirage
Minding your own business on the seabed is no trouble at all
When you were there all along and doing it anyway

Skindiving in Tokyo Bay
Past the shored-up satiety of Odaiba
Past the rusted-through remnants of the showy and the Showa
Past the echo-bait of subterranean human mazecraft
Past where the plateau pauses, then drops into the deep beyond
That place where the sawn edges of the Pacific parted ways
Leaving only memories of electric Taisho and the swordsharpeners of the Shitamachi
Blades brandished to keep the merchants at bay
Skindiving through the black machinery of now
Moorings loosened and discarded
Caution fed to the crabs, eyeless in the cold abyss
Reaching out to your lips with ease and understated grace

Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
それ . . . あれ

Shreds of red sky refract through the surface zone
Twilight ignites with new dreams and tender memories
Sexy exits, sleek décolage
Runway lights through the depths signalling a bridge beckoning to the abyssal plain below
Beyond the Minamibōsō boundary and into the open ocean
Where no one will dare follow
Where drunken tengu sharks swim sentinel
Round the rusted hulls of prison ships and drowned memories
That place where chemosynthesis keeps me warm
Where all our junctions jut out to face the spectral surface
The weight of four million square feet of sensory overload
Rolls my eyes back as my back imitates the nautilus, twirling and fading into you

And through the midwater zone
Curviline contours shade in and out of sight
Beyond the convection of currents into the discrete vocabulary of night
Ribbons, cloaks and shields tumble to the depths
As my senses lose all defences
And sea and sky turn black and fiery phosphorescent
I’ve seen you here in the sightless jagged caverns of the hadal zone
Shimmering self, alive as angry weight attacks my eardrums
Sparks flying upwards, depth charges blowing holes through my sense of space and self-imagination
No choice at all but to follow the pinpricks of light and crawling cloudbursts of belief
Maps of the universe splashed across the void
In violent disarray

Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
それ . . . あれ

The depths breathe and churn
Viperfish stir from their sleep
Shipmarks dissipate in distant darkness
We venture on inch by endless inch
Your tenderness and spark my only beacons
Your sonar my only sight
Nothing left but to face the light
And dive deep through rifts and currents
Ocean sinew unconstrained by mind or pressure
And then the tsubo markers of the ocean floor open outwards
With soft landings in sheets of silt ensured
Alone together enveloped in empty space

Freezeframe, endgame, freeze still, stay the same
There’s no pain in paralysis
Grasping hold of the moment and never letting go
Even as the silt and sediment scratch the membrane, erode the nerve endings
Hollow reeds bending and snapping
Broken on our piece of seabed
All my fibres, all your curves, connected and alive
Safely sheltered from the angry currents above
Beyond the ridges and rift valleys that tear at our senses
Leaving only echoes of their teeth-grinding tension
Growing softer and more distant
As we settle in for the long night

Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
Shore . . . no shore
Sure . . . unsure
それ . . . あれ
あれ
あれ
あれ


This poem was written for the Mile Zero Dance's show Without Borders - and specifically for a dance-spoken word collaboration with the amazing dancer/choreographer/human being Jen Mesch. It was performed with Jen at dc3 Art Projects in Edmonton on February 20 and 21, 2015.

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

A Poem About Heartbreak



I could couch this poem in any manner of metaphor
Take your pick
How about plate tectonics?
Crust rent asunder – the substrate to your super-narrative
How about butterflies?
Forty-eight hours to live and wreak havoc on everything around you
Or bullet ants
Woven into an Amazonian initiation glove
Temporarily tranquilized by shamanic smoke
Only to wake up in a biting stinging frenzy of self-actualization
But no
You don’t deserve literary devices
Poetic subterfuge will simply edify your ego further
Truth is
You’re your own natural disaster
Unworthy of insect similes or geological symbolism
After all the ant dies when the glove is discarded
The butterfly falters and fades, leaving only melted wings and empty cocoons in its wake
Plates collide with continents
But you get to go on being you, insouciant you
You and your Gospel of Luke and your daddy-issue flotsam
Yahweh, Vader – take your fucking pick
It’s all the same to the plebs left behind
The unseen casualties of your catastrophegraph
Now just another set of muddy footprints
On my weather-worn tatami
Yet another prick through the packing sheets of snap-crackle-pop monogamy
Calculated breakups in the name of destiny fulfillment
No arc, no character development, no shimmering soliloquies
I’m not your plot device – and you don’t get your pick of mine
And if your dreams of love and heroism simply shrivel on the vine
Then this shitty little poem about heartbreak
Has fulfilled its fuction as assigned

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

(Poem) The Sacred

Photo by Allison Nichols, December 30, 2014
The sacred heartbreakers are codebreakers, armed with usernames and passwords
They enter, scramble with our circuitry and steal our SIM cards
Leaving us to writhe and reel through the consequences
Of their consequence-free cosmos
They leave us wondering why the hell we invited them in in the first place
And in doing so remind us of why we live and breathe
And of the sacred faults in our holy programming
We are alive - and that's kind of our own problem
We feel, we crave connectivity - and that's most definitely our own problem
We seek to share with others the fiber of our fabric - and this is definitely a terrible idea
And lest we forget, the sacred heartbreakers remind us of the futility of feeling
And hoist down our hearts from their swingsets on the ceiling

The sacred serenades emanate through iTunes and AM radio
Country boys from Kainai and Cowley through the Crowsnest Pass
All telling us to head on down to the riverside
With that ever-elusive gurrrrrl with five R's, double-D's and those jeans painted on
Leaving us wondering what river I'm supposed to turn off at
And whether the Oldman River Dam is a good scenic place to have sex
Why not? The water gushes, rushes and electrifies
Together with the towering turbines amid the fescue grass of the southwest
While the wind drowns out the drone of Chantelle J, Mountain Radio
Stopping here was the best idea ever
And lest we forget, that J-shaped scar from that twilight tumble
Will snap us back in a second without a fumble

The sacred coping mechanisms are always alive and ready
Kicking into action whenever we need them the least - and the most
They embarrass us in public, forever reminding us
Of how fucking underwhelming our better angels can be
Especially when they're drunk, stoned and overdrawn after a month off their medications
These mechanisms are inevitably embarrassing
Until they remind us of our own humanity, and the humanity of others
Whose better angels' behaviour we're quicker to forgive than our own
It's not our fault we're all walking disasters
In scripture we were rigged for reptilian recoil, and in science built to bloom and bust
And lest we forget, the universe's coping mechanism is simply to keep on exploding and rebuilding
Is that any better than any of ours - or more fulfilling?

The sacred fallen ones teach us a lesson in humility and focus
Provided we're awake enough to hear it
That guy who fell on his ass on the black ice ahead of us
That sad figure who disappeared in the labyrinth of Lagos after a sweet e-serenade from the son of Sani Abacha
And that nameless crazy lady down in Georgia, Alabama and windswept Wakayama
All telling us to pay a bit more attention than we currently are
And what we might do differently
Buzzfeed tells us to feel smug, but experience dictates otherwise
Reminding us that we're all someone's cautionary tale, their sacred stupid-person
And lest we forget, we all have a rendezvous with destiny
Just around the corner - you'll see

The sacred walk is the one we all feel compelled to start anew
Every time we buy a new calendar at the mall kiosk
Switching Doctor Seuss with Penguins, Puppies with Monster Trucks, all as arbitrary as ourselves
And each new skeleton we grow every seven years or so seem to irk onlookers all the more
Even as we're supposed to be striding through the Serengeti stronger and more springingly than before
The sacred walk is one to be taken as lightly and lotus-footedly as possible
Shedding the scorns and scars of bygone barfights and blunt force trauma
Marking our own time, righting wrongs and wronging rites of passage
Refusing to scream for attention through the unforgiving lens of McLuhan's bastard Zuckerberg baby
The medium is the medium
And lest we forget, see Thermodynamic Law Number Three
And absolute zero is wherever we make it be

The sacred ones are our fellow voyagers
The wondrous weirdos that latch onto our lives and hold on for dear life
And in doing so become us
Their joy is ours, their pain is ours
Their neuroses and infantile indignation become the burden we grit and bear
Part of the package deal lest we not be party to their dance parties and dazzling states of grace
We are the ones that made it, the infinitely improbable
The monkey that made his name in musical theatre, the swan that survived the storm
Still pretty ugly yet mighty pretty; barefoot, pregnant and full of rage
Full of resolutions and revolutions, depending on your whereabouts amid that yawning gulf between Tofino and Tegucigalpa
And lest we forget, those eight bright Edmonton lights stubbed out in a terrible December flash
Now seared immortal in our tribal memory cache

Here we all are, those who stand, those departed
I love you all - and on this I've only started.

- Pincher Creek, AB, December 31, 2014

Sunday, 14 December 2014

Hey Melanie! (In Loving Memory of an Old Friend)


Hey Melanie
Yeah you
You with the fearless eyes and solid gold smile
You are not forgotten
Not for an instant
Your words, etched against time in high school yearbooks
Imploring me to live life more fully
Words to live by, words that depth-charge and catapult me now more than ever
Look at me now, Mel!
Look at all of us inlet kids
Scattered like summer driftwood
But still singingly alive
Just like that grin of yours
Never to fade away.

Hey Melanie
You who was always the life of that perpetual party
Forever the summer of '93
Can't you hear us?
We're right behind you, cuz us inlet kids never quit
Can't you hear the house band?
They're not half bad, I think
With Tyler on drums and Brian D on guitar
That's me on the microphone
And that song? That's the one your electric spirit
And that note you passed me in grade 9 French class inspired
Riotous times ensue
With you at the centre, egging us on

Hey Melanie
Yeah you, soul sister from the straits
Central Saanich will never be the same
Without your raven hair, raucous laugh and roiling spirit
Durrance Lake is still the place to be in summer
'Cept the trees cinched in an inch or two
With news of your departure
An endless shout still echoes through the rainforest
And amid the rocks and stones of Island View
The beauty became you, and you it
Distinctions now melted away.

Hey Melanie
Don't you know that smile of yours
Still ignites the night sky
Over the island canvas of my childhood
Paths long diverged but never forgotten
They say you can never go back home
But us Brentwood babies never truly leave
That place where summer nights are long
But memories linger longer still
We'll see you again when all us inlet kids
join you on the beachhead of the day after
fire alight, spitting at the moon, rainclouds running scared
with you in the middle, forever keepin' in real

Hey Melanie
Don't you know on the island there are no goodbyes
Only catch-you-laters
But until then our hearts will cry out for your sassy smile
All our thoughts and candlelit pujas cast loose upon the ocean
For you to catch on the other shore
Eternity begins tomorrow - not that long to wait really
But until then, stay warm and be loved
And don't let go
Cuz we sure as hell won't

Saturday, 17 May 2014

(Poem) An A for Amnesia


pear-shaped silhouette
meets compound pulsing insect eye
aglow from shadowy tessellated rafters
singed retinae and smoking cochlea
and the sweetsmoke smell of the nineties
16-hole doc stomping
jackbooted German gyrotechnothump
blaring out through every crack
of the nicotined plaster walls

and here I am, trying to figure out
how to manoeuvre in this space
and how to be alone in a crowd
and not to carry the countenance
of washed up refugee status in a tide of desperation

I was never a natural born killer
a twisted firestarter
or the son of a black hole
I never smelled of teen spirit
or fucked like an animal
and the beautiful people
always dwarfed my steeple
and E was just another letter of the alphabet
somewhere between C the consequences and Y the fuck not
I only ever rode the edges
of a wave that never truly formed before rolling back

will it stick this time?
long enough for me to find my way
I hope so
this time I know what I'm doing
I think

Thursday, 6 March 2014

6 Reasons To Re-Watch The Original RoboCop Before Watching The Reboot

Source: IMDB.com
For the record, I have yet to see the brand-new remake of the 1987 action classic RoboCop. Moreover, until a few days ago, I felt no particular need to go out and see it. These days the price of movie tickets coupled with the existence of Netflix means I hardly ever go out to see movies, especially Hollywood blockbusters. But after having re-watched the original RoboCop for the first time since I was a kid, I'm now quite curious to see it. Although in all honesty I'm probably going to wait until it comes out on Netflix. I'm cheap that way.

I was around 10 years old when I first saw the original film, which means a) I was definitely too young to be legally watching it without a parent or guardian (sorry mom, sorry dad); and b) a lot of its content went completely over my head at the time. Seeing it now made me think there's more to movie age restrictions than simply sex and violence, of which there was none of the former but a great deal of the latter. The graphic shoot-em-up scenes in the movie certainly made a big impression on my young mind, but the subtler aspect of the film, like its socio-economic critique and liberal use of Biblical symbolism, were beyond what I was able to process at the time. If anything, the "inappropriate content" was the stuff I wasn't intellectually ready to grapple with.

The original RoboCop was, in many ways, ahead of its time. While critical reception of the film was on the whole positive in 1987, it received considerable flak for both the quality and quantity of gory on-screen violence as well as its liberal use of profanity. While still most definitely stomach-churning at points, the film's violence pales in comparison to much that was to come within a decade thanks to movies like Reservoir Dogs and Natural Born Killers, which in turn pale in comparison to the likes of the Saw and Hostel franchises - which make the original RoboCop look like My Dinner With Andre by comparison. As for the profanity, it certainly shocked my 10-year-old sensibilities at the time but in an era when F-bombs are a dime a dozen on primetime TV, there's no shock value there.

That said, I definitely wasn't ready to appreciate RoboCop at age 10, and as a result dismissed it for the next 20-plus years as simply one of the many gratuitous big-biceps shoot-em-up extravaganzas that defined much of 1980s Hollywood. It wasn't until this Monday that I rediscovered the film and completely changed my mind about it. Granted, I still hate the way the film ends, with the villainous Omni Consumer Products CEO Dick Jones (brilliantly played by Ronnie Cox) being blown out of a glass window atop the company's skyscraper, in one of the worst cliche movie deaths ever. That said, it's still an excellent film, and one that definitely needs to be re-watched before going anywhere near the re-boot. Here's why.

1) Peter Weller's performance

Source: robotsinmasquerade.blogspot.com
One of the most interesting aspects of the original RoboCop film is director Paul Verhoeven's very counterintuitive casting choices. For the titular role, Verhoeven initially considered A-list action stars Arnold Schwarzenegger and fellow Dutchman Rutger Hauer for the role, but ultimately settled on the smaller and highly cerebral Peter Weller, a guy whose other most memorable roles have been Dr. Buckaroo Banzai in the cult sci-fi classic The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension and William S. Burroughs in David Cronenberg's twisted 1991 rendering of The Naked Lunch.

The decision was made in large part because the diminutive Weller had an easier time moving in the RoboCop suit than the aforementioned big guys, but it ended up being a brilliant move. Weller's portrayal of both the mild-mannered Detroit cop Alex Murphy and the brooding titular cyborg gives the film an intense humanity that Arnie would have been hard-pressed to deliver. Hauer, on the other hand, would have been an interesting choice given his own track record for playing emotionally disturbed androids. But Weller's acting combined with his delicate features makes the original RoboCop really stand out in the predominantly brawny and brainless domain that is '80s action heroes.

2) Two iconic '80s movie villains for the price of one

Source: whatculture.com
If there's one thing 1980s action movies did right, it was creating awesome over-the-top bad guys. While the action heroes of this era tended to be bland and one-dimensional, Hollywood directors made up for it by delivering the likes of Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman) in Die Hard, The Kurgan (Clancy Brown) in The Highlander, Koji Sato (Yusaku Masuda) in Black Rain, Johnny Lawrence (Billy Zabka) in The Karate Kid and, of course, Jack Nicholson as the Joker in the 1989 Batman. The 1987 RoboCop goes one step further by delivering two of the decade's most memorable bad dudes in a single film.

As with the main character, Verhoeven made a point of making counterintuitive casting choices for the film's two antagonists, CEO Dick Jones and 'Old Detroit' crime lord Clarence Boddicker. For Jones he went with Ronny Cox, an actor and singer-songwriter best known for playing genteel fatherly figures in series like Apple's Way and St. Elsewhere. In a similar vein, Verhoeven cast Kurtwood Smith, an actor best known for playing uptight squares in That Seventies Show and movies like Dead Poets Society as probably the only ever movie supervillain named 'Clarence'. Both men clearly embraced their anti-typecasting roles and threw themselves into their respective evil characters will full aplomb.

(As an interesting side note, Clarence Boddicker's trademark rimless glasses were a key element in Kurtwood Smith landing the role, as Verhoeven thought they made him resemble Nazi SS commander Heinrich Himmler.)

3) A great female action hero

Source: imfdb.org
In her seminal critique of post-second-wave culture Backlash, feminist author Susan Faludi dismisses RoboCop as simply one of "an endless stream of war and action movies" in which "women are reduced to mute and incidental characters or banished altogether." While I have the deepest respect for Faludi and Backlash and I have to agree with her overall characterization of 1980s action movies, I think she is dead wrong about this one. Aside from the titular character, the strongest character in the movie is without doubt Murphy's stoic and determined partner, Officer Anne Lewis (played by Nancy Allen) - one of Hollywood's toughest and most memorable female cops.

While her character is clearly secondary to Murphy/RoboCop, Officer Lewis is the type of female character you still rarely see in Hollywood films - a shrewd, independent, non-objectified woman in a typically male role. Most strikingly, the relationship between Lewis and her ill-fated partner is very much in the classic buddy-cop mode and is refreshingly un-sexualized. (RoboCop is a lot of things, but it's about the least 'sexy' film I can think of.) Depressingly, I fear Hollywood has gone downhill in this category since the 1980s. In the 2014 reboot, Officer Lewis is gone, replaced by Officer Jack Lewis (played by Michael K. Williams), and the only female character in sight is Murphy's wife, played by Abbie Cornish. So much for that.

4) Symbolism galore

Source: screened.com
An interesting (and little-known) fact about Paul Verhoeven - a man best known for sci-fi blockbusters RoboCop, Total Recall and Starship Troopers and then-scandalous 1992 suspense thriller Basic Instinct - is that he is also a dedicated Biblical scholar and a onetime member of now defunct Jesus Seminar, an scholarly association dedicated to shedding light on the historical Jesus of Nazareth. Of all his output, RoboCop is without doubt the most overtly 'Christian' in theme. Indeed, Verhoeven asserts in the documentary Flesh and Steel: The Making of RoboCop that he intended the main character to be a 'Christ figure'. Christian symbolism abounds throughout the film, from Officer Murphy torturous death at the hands of a mocking rabble to RoboCop walking ankle-deep in water during the climactic showdown at the abandoned steel mill.

Biblical allegories aside, the most obvious literary parallel is, of course, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Indeed, there is a certain Boris Karloff-type quality to Peter Weller's performance in this film, while the amoral and singularly driven Bob Morton (Miguel Ferrer), RoboCop's creator, is clearly a modern-day stand-in for Dr. Frankenstein. In this sense, RoboCop fits more within the classic horror cannon than within the annals of science fiction, as does Verhoeven's later ultra-violent riff on the Book of Revelations, Starship Troopers. Interesting stuff at the very least.

5) An eerie caricature of Reagan-era America

Source: empireonline.com
While socioeconomic and cultural caricature are not hard to find in the 1980s Hollywood action movie cannon, in many if not most cases directors felt the need to critique American culture within a 'foreign' context. In Die Hard, the protagonists are American but the villain is, of course, German and the corporate context in question belongs to the then Leviathan presence of Bubble Economy-era Japan, a context that reappears in Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (ostensibly LA in 2019 but clearly 1980s-vintage Tokyo with flying cars) and Black Rain. Meanwhile, the Rambo saga starts on the terra firma of the United States but then heads off to the safe refuge of Commie-ruled Vietnam.

RoboCop, by contrast, focuses unflinchingly on a decaying (and increasingly crime-ridden) post-industrial US, centred, appropriately enough, on the city most frequently held up as a poster child by both the left and the right for everything wrong about the country. While the exact epoch of the movie is left intentionally ambiguous (set at "some point" in the near future), the cultural setting, from the over-the-top corporate greed to the cowboyish gangsters, is unquestionably the 1980s America of Gordon Gekko and company - complete with a severe case of the military industrial complex. In that sense RoboCop can be seen in a similar light to Heart of Darkness, where, like with Verhoeven's film, it took a foreigner (the Polish-born Joseph Conrad) to shine a light into the skeleton closet of British/Belgian colonialism.

6) Future echoes

Source: blackagendareport.com
In an ironic development, the character of RoboCop has become an iconic figure in the beleaguered city of Detroit where the film was set. In 2011, following then Detroit mayor Dave Bing's announcement of the building of a 'New Detroit', the mayor was asked (as a joke) if he planned to erect a statue of the iconic movie cyborg, and his rejection of such plans led to an Internet campaign aimed at raising money for a RoboCop statue. Today it looks increasingly likely that the statue will indeed happen.

In a very real sense, the nightmarish, dystopian Detroit dreamed up by Verhoeven did become reality. Between 2000 and 2010 the city lost 25 percent of its population, dropping to just over 700,000 (down from a peak population of 1.8 million in 1950), and in July of last year the city filed for bankruptcy in the largest municipal bankruptcy case in US history. This ongoing decline has resulted in notorious urban blight, with the abandoned industrial structures of RoboCop eerily reminiscent of the city of today, while the city continues to grapple with stubbornly high rates of violent crime.

In spite of its deeply entrenched problems, Detroit remains a city with intense civic pride, and since the city's bankruptcy filing in mid-2013 there's been an upsurge in social and economic activism in the city aimed at bringing the city back to health, by groups such as Revival in Detroit and World Hope. In that sense, the character of RoboCop himself can be seen as an allegory for Detroit itself - agonizingly shot to death but still managing to cling onto life and re-emerging stronger than ever. At least that's the hope of Motor City's stubbornly proud residents. Perhaps a RoboCop statue isn't that far-fetched an idea after all.

So, in sum, before you go pay however much tickets for the 2014 Jose Padilha reboot of RoboCop, I strongly suggest sitting down to watch the old one. If for no other reason, by what I've read of the reviews of the new film, the old one is definitely better. But I should really go see the new one before I say that.

Sunday, 2 February 2014

Mile Zero Dance Will Save Us All (When The Next Great Depression Comes)

When it comes to the arts, most Edmontonians have no idea how good they've got it in their own backyard. Sure we've got our summer festivals and our world-renowned symphony orchestra and a Ukrainian dance troupe or two, but that barely touches it. Edmonton's arts scene is as lush and untamed as the vegetation of its river valley (the longest interconnected urban park system in North America), and on any given Saturday night you can walk into any given theatre or live house and be pretty sure of hearing something either inspired or highly skilled or, more often than not, both.

Consider Edmonton's own Mile Zero Dance. One of the city's best kept secrets for over a quarter century, MZD is its own festival - and one that doesn't shut down during the summer. For those who haven't had the pleasure of seeing them, MZD is a dance troupe best known for their irreverent avant-garde performances (often in public places) that have ranged in style from the NYC José Limón school in the 1980s to the macabre world of Japanese ankoku butoh and Noguchi Taiso under the stewardship of current artistic director Gerry Morita. They've also - with very little fanfare - emerged as one of the greatest promotional platforms for the city's most outlandish artists, both within and outside the medium of dance, through their cabaret-esque 'Salon' performance series. For a newcomer looking to sample Edmonton's wildest creative output, Mile Zero's Salons are a great place to start.

MZD's latest Salon-series performance, The Great Depression, was held last night on a suitably bleak late-January Edmonton evening at L'UniThéâtre, the cultural and artistic hub of francophone Edmonton. The theme: depression, both the 'great' one and the psychological condition by the same name, and how great they are. Yes, both of them. At a time when Edmonton's well-heeled denizens are plotting their latest escape to Manzanillo or Maui and the rest are commiserating about the frigid darkness on Facebook, MZD urges us, in Morita's words, to "find new ways to break the spell of winter and embrace our creative collective with the talented artists among us." In other words, creativity will keep us warm. And if The Great Depression is any indication, it certainly can. At least in this town.

Dance conspirator Jen Mesch (dance-conspiracy.org)

The show opened with "Psychology of a Strip Tease" by MZD fellow traveller Jeannie Vanderkhove, which featured a remarkably compelling 'reverse' stripper routine (yes, involving getting dressed and complete with backwards burlesque music). This was followed by a very matter-of-fact appearance by Edmonton poet laureate Mary Pinkoski, who delivered two of her trademark poetic torrents on the show's subject matter.

This was followed by a brutally intense dance performance by Edmonton's own Jen Mesch (of the Jen Mesch Dance Conspiracy) entitled "Anna and the Other Anna" featuring the noise soundscape accompaniment of Edmonton-based sound artist Scott Smallwood - a performance that more than any captured the grinding blackness that I've always associated with the dread word 'depression'. The first half finished with a lecture-turned-barn dance party led by University of Alberta folklorist and accomplished Ukrainian folkdancer Dr. Andriy Nahachewsky, which ended up with over half the audience on stage recreating a 1930s-style prairie diaspora hoedown.

The second half of The Great Depression kicked off with a Chaplinesque trapeze performance by the very talented Edmonton circus performer Annie Dugan followed by an experimental film montage entitled AurA centred on derelict farm equipment by filmmaker aAron munson - with a soundtrack evocative of Boards of Canada's woolier moments.Following this was a montage of archival photos from Dirty Thirties Edmonton courtesy of the Alberta Provincial Archives (which MC Kristine Nutting described as "like a prison, except more fun"), an interlude that allowed local noise punk deviants Rubber Nurse to set up their elaborate stage setup consisting of 'prepared' guitars, electronic gear and a 1980s-vintage school overhead projector, featuring a procession of night terror-inspired transparencies. Rubber Nurse's nerve-jangling performance "Sister Missing" was followed by the prodigious and absurdly charming Edmonton rapper/multi-instrumentalist Mitchmatic, who delivered his own heartfelt take on the titular subject to close the show.

Gentleman rapper Mitchmatic (dealerofpeopleemotions.com)
The Great Depression was more than simply a good show. It was akin to an audio-visual mix tape that Edmonton could hand to any other city with a reputation for artiness and knock its proverbial socks off. The show made me think of another Nordic city that Edmontonians have been crushing on of late, namely the Icelandic capital of Reykjavik, which starting in early March will be a non-stop flight away from Edmonton International Airport. Thanks in no small part to the international success of alt-pop pixie Björk and the molasses-paced post-rock of Sigur Rós, the pint-sized Icelandic capital has become magnet for hipsters and genuine freaks alike. Are we as cool as Reykjavik here? Well, we don't speak a living fossil language little changed from Old Norse, nor do we have glaciers or thermal pools within an easy day trip of the city. And unlike Iceland, our winters are genuinely bone-chilling. But in artistic terms, surely we're in the same league.

We are that cool here. We just don't know it. While the Make Something Edmonton campaign has done an admirable job raising local awareness of our truly creative and outside-the-box nature, we're still too hung up on being an Oil City, a northern Houston or Abu Dhabi, and have yet to truly embrace our inner Reykjavik or Berlin. But the time will come when we're going to need to. Iceland experienced its own miniature version of the Great Depression in 2008 when its entire banking sector imploded and the country teetered on the edge of bankruptcy - while its arts scene surged, aided by an influx of currency devaluation-driven overseas tourism. Ditto with Berlin, the capital of the beleaguered hyperinflation-plagued Weimar Republic, capital of cabaret and all things racy in the 1920s. Economic history clearly indicated that our runaway oil and gas economy will eventually sputter. And when it does we'll need other things to fall back on.

If we're smart, we'll realize that our arts and culture sector, which unfailingly injects vast swaths of capital into our economy on less than a shoestring, is one of our greatest economic assets. It's also a sector that always seems to thrive when everything else is in the crapper, while simultaneously making bad times a little more bearable. Eventually our runaway oil and gas leviathan will grind to a halt, either slowly or precipitously, driven by plummeting world prices that will once again render bitumen processing unprofitable, and possibly exacerbated by another global recession. It'll suck, but so long as we continue to nurture our arts community we'll always have the likes of Mile Zero Dance waiting for us with open arms, ready to teach us how to enjoy the coming depression.

Leaflets from heaven, courtesy of the Provincial Archives (photo by author)

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

(Poem) Waiting for a date in Shinjuku

 

Overhead lights
Undertoe, frog splashing
Neon ripples
Remnants of a postwar human frenzy
Still casting shadows at the end of the night

I stand here
Usagi in the headlights
In Omoide Yokocho
Piss alley turned memory lane
Isn’t drunkenness supposed to kill your memories - the ones the B29s couldn't?

The city hangs overhead
Searchlights evanesce
Caricatured modernity envelops Showa movie sets
The clash of light
Too much to bear

It would all be too easy
To play the role of the drunken tengu
In the backalleys of Shinjuku
Hypnotized by the hanging masses, comforted by the steady hum
Of postwar light fixtures and the underground thrum

Eventually someone
Will flatten this quadrant of space and time
And I could lying drunk across this alley
Arthur Dent on the Sumida
Waiting to see who rusts first

Pinpricks of towerlight tap my skull
Worker bees still at it
Keeping the city alight
And irrelevance-free
The modern still hasn’t punched out, don’t you know?

Friday, 3 January 2014

6 Edmonton Resolutions for 2014


Happy New Year, everyone!

As many of the people who follow this blog will know, 2013 was a watershed year for the city of Edmonton in a number of ways. Not only did it mark the end of Stephen Mandel's transformative nine-year tenure as mayor, but it also a number of key civic issues finally laid to rest, including the new arena, City Centre Airport and the Churchill-NAIT LRT line. It was the year Edmonton declared war on 'sprawl', fought publically with Air Canada, watched with amusement as our outgoing mayor chewed out everybody from Councillor Kerry Diotte to the city's transportation department to the National Post's Chris "Twitchy-Eyed Savage" Selley and elected a button-cute civic boy scout to the city's top job.

So how do we top such a highlight-laden year? Well, Omar Mouallem of Metro Edmonton offered five suggestions of bad Edmonton habits he'd like to see broken in 2014. While I agree with Omar on all of them, four out of five (complaining to the mayor about roads, using the word "revitalization," NIMBYism toward affordable housing and constantly moaning about being "busy") probably apply to a great many cities. But it's an excellent start, and one that I would like to take further with my personal list of five New Year's Resolutions I'd like to see the city of Edmonton take on.


1) Lose the hate-on for Calgary.

The Bert & Ernie of Alberta (Source: CBC.ca)
Edmontonians, let's be honest. You don't really hate Calgary that much; you just think you do. Calgary is actually a fine city, and according to the world's quality of life indecies, it's indeed one of the nicest places to live on the planet. It may be a bit more go-go-go than Edmonton and it's definitely got more money, but that hardly makes it the Abode of Satan. And frankly, the more you moan about Calgary-this and Calgary-that, the more insecure you sound. We've already broken the 'Calgary Habit' in economic and infrastructural terms. Let's now break the Calgary-hating habit. After all we're all in this provincial economy together and we both have smart, charming mayors with good ideas. Let's try working together for once.


2) Develop a regional transit plan.
Not good enough (source: Sherwood Park News)

While there's been a lot of progress made, Edmonton is still a world-class city with inadequate public transportation. And as the city continues to grow, both population-wise and economically, this is becoming more of a problem, as it makes it very difficult for young people and others working in lower-wage jobs to actually commute to where they're needed, while clogging up streets (and city air) with single-occupancy cars. A big part of the problem is the fact that all of the municipalities in the Edmonton region have their own transit plans (or in some cases no transit at all), making it exceedingly difficult to commute from residential areas in Edmonton to, say, Sherwood Park or the Acheson industrial area, and so on. For regional transit to work, all the municipalities need to get together to develop an integrated system, and this year would be a great year to start.

 
3) Get serious about affordable housing.

Brought to you by the nice people of Terwillegar
(source: Edmonton Sun)

While I've been a supporter of the redevelopment of the ECCA lands for a new mixed-use neighbourhood since it was first proposed, I confess that I haven't been thrilled with the actual proposals, inasmuch as it's going to be a whole lot of expensive condominium developments aimed at the well-heeled segment of the city's population along the same lines as Windermere and other new developments. As Omar Mouallem astutely points out, this city has a real NIMBY problem when it comes to affordable housing, and this really needs to change. And not just for altruistic reasons. Unless Edmonton can solve its chronic shortage of affordable housing options for service-sector workers, the city's robust economic growth will soon peter out. It's in everybody's interest to fix this enduring problem.


4) Develop a sense of humour.

Edmontonians are funny people, but we're not particularly good at laughing at our own city. Last summer when National Post wag Chris Selley jokingly referred to Edmontonians as a bunch of "twitchy-eyed machete-wielding savages" the city went nuts on social media, and the usually sharp-witted Mayor Mandel responded in a manner befitting, well, a twitchy-eyed machete-wielding savage, frankly. Seriously, people, are we really that insecure about our status as a city that we can't deal with being called a more linguistically rich J-school educated equivalent of 'Mr. Poopypants'? Can't we own our city's clichéd reputation for being a desolate, uninhabitable shithole? We all need to work on that.


5) Stop f*cking tailgating!

Back in December of 2012 I wrote a post called "How To Drive Like An Edmontonian" in the hopes of bringing more attention to some of the city's less-than-admirable driving habits. While the post was by far my most popular ever, it appears to have done little to improve the quality of driving in the city. In particular, people still tailgate. A lot. Even on slick winter roads on the Anthony Henday while travelling at over 100 km/h. For the love of God, please stop doing that! It's dangerous at the best of times, and exponentially more so in winter. Of all the bad road habits in this city, this is the one I'd most like to see disappear.


6) Genuinely embrace Aboriginal culture.


Proposed interactive storytelling pavilion for Fort Edmonton Park
(source: Edmonton Journal)
Edmonton is home to the country's fastest growing urban Aboriginal population, and is predicted to overtake Winnipeg as Canada's most Aboriginal major city within the next few years. However, the city has a long way to go before its fastest-growing minority group is truly embraced as part of its cultural mainstream. Ever had an Indian taco at Bannock Burger on 124th Street or partaken in Cree language classes or cultural programming at the Edmonton Native Friendship Centre? There are innumerable pockets of First Nation and Métis cultural life in Edmonton, but sadly it's all but off non-Aboriginal Edmontonians' radar. Which is particularly unfortunate given the rising tide of Aboriginal identity politics by way of Idle No More and other movements and the growing friction between Native and non-Native Albertans over the future of the Athabasca Oil Sands and other controversial resource projects. If there was ever a time for non-Aboriginal Edmontonians to start truly getting to know their indigenous neighbours, that time is now. And fortunately it's never been easier.

That's it from me for now. Have a wonderful 2014!