Dreampepper

How To Walk In the Snow, A PAMPHLET

A US military F-18 fighter jet has crashed into a residential area of San Diego

I'm looking forward to watching the American Astronaut on a big screen tonight. It ties in so nicely to my recent adventures - sloshing through tunnels under Vegas as dark as outer space, talking Billy Nayer Show out in the desert with Charlie, then staying in San Fransisco, stickily aware of other people's personal history in the city, maybe I'm standing where they have stood, taking steps inside where they once did, and finally driving North along the lyrical roads Mike has taken a hundred iron times, along the same ocean-starry route that eventually delivered him to me.

If I require a fulcrum to swivel upon as I return, it may as well be that movie, as much a sincere and solid reminder of the unlikely turns my social life thrives upon as anything else out there. If my trip had a theme, that would be it. The tango of this person knowing that person knowing this person knowing them, corrosive echoes of decisive lives over thousands of people, verve fluttering in every direction, scattering media and music, a haunting massacre of staring moments, a deadlock artillery map of unusual experience etched ouroboros inside the memory of my skin.

It's that time of year again...

12th Annual Eastside Culture Crawl
November 21, 22, & 23
The 2008 Crawl map.
FRIDAY November 21st 5:00pm - 10:00pm
SATURDAY November 22nd 11:00am - 6:00pm
SUNDAY November 23rd 11:00am - 6:00pm

The Eastside Culture Crawl is a free, annual 3-day arts festival that involves artists opening their doors to let the public tramp through their creative studio-spaces, (and sometimes homes), to exhibit work for sale.

"Painters, jewelers, sculptors, furniture makers, musicians, weavers, potters, writers, printmakers, photographers, glassblowers; from emerging artists to those of international fame... these are just a sampling of the exciting talents featured during this unique chance to meet local artists in their studios.

Purchase something that strikes your fancy, commission something to be uniquely yours, or just browse through the studios and meet the artists, learning about their specific works of art, materials and tools, approaches and techniques. This is a once a year opportunity to meet many diversely talented artists and view their creations in the studios where they work. Be part of this exciting event, which brings people from all over the Lower Mainland, and share in the imaginations that enrich our neighbourhood and lives."

Last year Dillon and I went to a bit of it, and it was absolutely spectacular. Almost endlessly fascinating, as every room contained an entirely new collection of art. 1000 Parker St., especially, as it has the highest concentration of artists. (Though there seems to be more paintings of crows at 1000 Parker St. than there are actual crows in a fifteen mile radius of the building itself. Go figure.) Thankfully few studios were devoted to watercolour trees or flowers, instead it was a little like coming home, exploring every room as new, colour-spattered, welcoming universe. Last year there were over 300 artists showing. This year there's going to be more.

It's one of the few Vancouver events I consider unmissable, which is why it's killing me a little that I'm not going to be in town while it's happening. Instead I'm going to be in Seattle, and then hopefully on a plane, making my way South, towards Lung and the Salton Sea, the ecological disaster desert west outside of L.A. Take pictures, everyone. Attend, discover, and explore.

via Mildred:

"Zoetica and her fella were in a serious car accident Sunday, during which her dog, Moo, ran away from the accident, seemingly unharmed. We're now desperately trying to find her."

Click here to help.

Who lives in L.A.?

Your mission is as follows:

Obtain entry to the The Hollywood Knitting Factory this upcoming Sunday, September 23rd, for 7:30 pm.

Rock out.

(Tickets will be the most worthwhile $10 you've spent this year.)

Betty Hutton, once the favourite doll of Hollywood.

Transparent as sound, we are pieces of the human engine out of old mythology, pet children decanted from bottles of blood. After the boy is blown from this city, I will stand alone by the side of the road, and even if he does not look back before walking through the gate, my legs will continue to hold me up, I will continue to breathe.

That was always the worst lesson, that I will remain alive in my chemicals, wrapped in nerve endings, a collective rumbling of infintismals, (creaks, exhalations, needs), no matter how much my offerings to the gates have been smashed. The modern world is very bad at silence - cities do not hold their breath except in the moment before a bomb falls - but there are occasionally words I feel I should almost kneel to speak.

I'd like to say our first kiss was a special thing, a low slung howl of discovery, but it's never been like that. That road's been washed out, (if there was ever order there), replaced by brittle grass made straw in the sun, such-a-shame at-so-young-an-age blame-yet-another-hotel-room-romance damn-those-older-men. I almost don't care anymore. Instead I count first glances, first realizations, that pause between what I know now and what I knew then. What is more important? The date we met or the amperage of comfortable electricity that ran through my fingers the first time I touched the middle of his back with bare skin?

The proud cities I have built with people, some of them are still standing, giant proud machines of words that circle the globe like air currents of what colour my hair, how long this correspondence, I had a show, they had a child, no, yes, you can't come visit now. We are stories, novels, little threads in vast pleasing shapes. None of my relationships have been film-noir construction kits. We meet in cynical places badly lit, smoke cigarettes we take from small cases. This is just another connection, another spirit made flesh in the network. All we're missing is the small confession of where we were the morning of September 11th, year 2001.

This morning he was beautiful, a misplaced dream left over from 1985. Sitting on the bed to put on his boots like having Lost Boys on the record player; leather jacket, long hair, I used to clean my saddest house to that soundtrack album. No one wears slimmer dark blue jeans. In my head, "I like my body when it is with your body" and the memory of his eyes flickering from mine to my hands on my stockings like they do under his lids when he's dreaming, conversation not missing a beat. This is our generation gap, that I can write this here, display my day, my meaning, my worth. I grew up here, on-line. He didn't.

I can barely believe how much I still want to go back to L.A.

One of these days, I'm going to have to learn to find a home.