Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Sunday, May 14, 2006 Staring Into The Sun

My apartment is, (for some reason), directly under the flight path of every airplane coming into the city. Tomorrow I'm going up onto the roof and setting up a help sign in red paint. If they land, they must take off, when they do, maybe they'll send back help. At least that's the theory.

Things have calmed down a bit. Just enough to get working on repairing the barricades and collecting food for the coming winter. The tide of humanity that is everyday life has no concern for the well being of me, so when the zombies come on the first of the month pounding on my door and in slurred animal speech demanding rent money, I better have it. The only question is how.

The Stupidest Things I've Done (that I can talk about)


When I was 19 I had a fear of heights. The usual event of walking around downtown was given some warped purpose when I decided it was necessary for me to climb the 40 foot arches at city hall. Three concrete arches stretch over an ice rink, the width of each arch being about 1.5 feet. The added fun of this event was that I had just come back from a party so my head state wasn't exactly clear. I hopped the small fence which pathetically deters anyone with a slight note of common sense from going up there, but I would not be stopped. I could feel the stone-speckled concrete under my naked hands. Their heat immediately sucked from my flesh against the cold stone. Moving upward, I eventually reached the top of the arch. In the night sky at winter, the full impact of my actions was not entirely clear until I sat with my feet danging over the edge. I looked down and realized I'd done something incredibly stupid when the homeless people who gathered around the square were staring up at me. Fine. I'd gone this far, what's wrong with testing the functions of the machinery? Why not see its full performance?

I hung by my hands off the edge of that thin ledge. I could feel the perspiration beginning to seep out of my hands as they clung to the cold concrete. Slowly, my fingers began shifting over the tiny pebbles embedded in the cement. I could feel the outlines of each tiny rock as it passed slowly under my fingers like braille. I jolted to try and gain leverage against the stone, shifting my body forward underneath the arch. This caused my stomach to drop as my back became parallel to the ground below. In jerked gestures I moved one arm forward at a time, until I was exhausted, but safely grasping the ledge. I very nearly killed myself that day. Was not the first time, was not the last time.

I should be dead by all normal logic, but for some reason I escaped. Remind me to send God or Baal (or whoever is in charge of fate) a gift basket of Danish cheese. That's like a hundred dollar gift right there.

After climbing the arches I had the taste of the shockingly weird. All of us ended up at Yonge and Eglinton. A neighborhood comprised of the same mold output of yuppies found in most neighborhoods across Toronto. Not exactly the spot you'd think insanity could be set loose on the city like medical test monkeys escaping from cages. Most people ignore the fact that the best of times can happen in the worst places, its all up to the creativity/insanity/irresponsibility of the individual.

Actually that's bullshit, because by that point the night was boring and we had nothing do to. Rambling down the sidewalk looking for something of interest. No money, no direction and no purpose is a dangerous mix. These ingredients are usually the seed of life changing events. We were walking as a group and I noticed a taxi cab unlike any other I had ever seen. Its hood up, and fire streaming from the engine. The natural reaction would be to cross the street, or at least to put yourself out of harms way. But as I've said before, I am not known for my good ideas. The driver was running around in circles with a fire extinguisher trying to save his livelihood before it burst into a diesel fueled wreck all over Yonge street. I had an unlit cigarette, and no lighter so the solution presented itself. I leaned over the hood and lit my cigarette while trying to make sure that it didn't cost me my eyebrows or hair in the process.

Such clever and timely responses are hallmarks for people like me. The normal, uninteresting ones which eventually, just let go.

Thriving in the misfortune of others is an activity best reserved for professional evil, a practice too rich for my blood as I've felt terrible about it since that day. I'm not sure if the Vatican has a name for the sin of lighting a cigarette off of a burning car. But regret aside, I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that the cigarette I had that night was the best tasting cigarette I've had in my life. The irresponsibly wealthy are rumored to occasionally make the silent indulgence of their status by lighting a cigar with a dollar bill. This, of course as we know, is simply a waste of money. Where as the truly irresponsible can use my method, wasting the much more valuable human decency and common sense.

Staring into the sun is not a hobby I would suggest to everyone, but then again neither is having a fire extinguisher fight on the top floor of a hotel you aren't staying at. The entropic anomaly that proves chaos is a necessary presence. If it weren't for the random, what would we have? Patterned order. And the thing about patterns is, they go on forever. Forever predictable, accountable, done, spent.

This idea has been ingrained into me for over a decade now. Showing up to work with candle wax and belt marks on my back may not provide for the most "professional" presence, but balanced against the "photocopied work week" it can give purpose to life simply by wondering what will happen next Friday night.

I found myself in a cab with Bob. He was bringing us to an after hours somewhere. This should have been cause for alarm. But, it wasn't, because I was oblivious. Arriving at this place, we stepped through the door to the image of some thug running toward us.

"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD WALK IN HERE...Hey! It's Captain America!"

Apparently on a previous visit, Bob had ridden a trouble maker down the stairs like a sled for committing the trespass of being "dishonorable". If you ever find yourself in an argument with a giant, super-intelligent Pict who speaks fluent Klingon, the last thing you want to do is portray yourself as "dishonorable". And so Bob attained the handle "Captain America." After everyone in the room went through the handshakes and the back pats we settled down long enough for me to clear the mist and realize the situation I was in. Two thugs stood at the door in leather trench-coats watching the room. A selection of equally brutal street soldiers and half dressed strippers stood around the room. After a drink I managed to get myself through the vortex as usual. This time I came to the realization that I was in a conversation with some guy about the perspective future of the Selassie Dynasty. Okay, let me explain.

If every answer begs a question, then this should put you out on the corner for a few years. Years ago I met a relative to the Ethiopian Crown. Exiled since the 70's due to a communist coup, the heir to the throne has since resided in London, UK. However, a good portion of his family has become American. I met his grand-nephew and became decent friends with him. In return, he decided to give me the honorary title of "Ras" which in European terms equates to "Duke".

That alone would cause for some social strife, except for the fact that everyone in the room at the time was Jamaican. So to connect all the dots, Back when Emperor Hallie Selassie visited Jamaica, the Rastifari decided to acknowledge him as the Living Jah or in other terms, the representation of God on earth. This was in exchange for the passing remark that if the Rastifari wished, they could make Ethiopia their homeland. To make the importance of this clear, The word Rastifari stems from the words Ras Tafar I, the title and name of the Emperor Selassie before his coronation.

Back at the after hours I had just informed the extremely stoned man with the serious face that I had received a title granted to me by a grand-nephew of the gentlemen he believed to be the incarnation of living God. Not exactly the type of thing you want to explain to someone who talks about trees and doesn't mean the tall leafy things that dogs grace with their presence.

This conversation evidently created a degree of interest because I explained the situation to a number of those present. Further I thought I'd throw in some prophecy just to balance it all out.

How to make friends in interesting places.

Then it clicked. Like an adrenaline shot to a morphine addict. Someone asked Bob.

"You his bodyguard?"

"Shit no, He's mine!"

In some places you don't need a phone call or bell to realize when its time to leave. Sometimes the cold shocked stares of 30 bad men is more than reasonably subtle to give directions to the door. Now I've never been one to aggravate a situation, so on Bob's recommendation we left. Getting in a cab we went to McDonald's. Bob bought food, I bought 15 Canada flags designed to attach to the windows of a car. In my condition peering out over the edge of the glass staring at the traffic like a mechanical lion safari, I felt that 15 flags attached to all the windows of the cab were an excellent camouflage to protect against redneck patriots ready to storm down on us. Because by that point of the night, with 20 minutes left until the safety of sleep, anything could happen, and I'd take all the help I could find.

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