For the last few months I've been going by Salvador Dali Lama, needless to say the adventures have been marvelous. Enjoy.


http://thesalvadordalilama.blogspot.com/

A poem for Rebeca in exchange for a Tarot Reading

Charly the dancing beetle

There was a cute beetle named Charley
Who’s limbs loved to flail when he danced
Over meadows, through valleys, by fields and rocks
He would twirl and spin and prance

Charley moshed and grooved with all his might
Casting doubts and fears far away
One day he flew inside of a kitchen
Door closing behind in dismay

By a big window he bopped on the pane
On faucet and cupboard he twirled
He did a quick jig on the knives and forks
On the salt shaker he boggied and whirled

He started to miss the world outside
The trees and grass that he knew
Charley the beetle missed his bug friends
So out came his wings and flew

Against that window with freedom so close
Did his best dance of liberation
But the glass it would not give
It was time for the dance of salvation

Focusing energy through his bug chakra
Reviving great moments of movement
All who have ever dance, and then healed
Help him channel all powerful groovement

A blaze of wings, antenna, shell
Light, sound emanated his ora
The ground shook with the worlds dancing feet
Glass got soft, charley smelled flora

A great flash of lightning struck through the house
It poked through the glass like a needle
Charley squeezed through, it was just big enough
And away danced happy cute beetle



This tale has a moral, that much is true
Dancing is best all the time
So dance like a beetle when you ‘re yellow blue
To make sure Charley’s dancing too.


ps. Matt Epp and a brief but pleasant exchange.

Letter to Vancouver magazine georgia straight

-Folk Festies

The lack of spontaneous jamming was because charging $ creates an exclusionary environment, as an anarco-spiritualist banjo player, I chose to climb the fence. Volunteer, DIY, Barter is Better, Post-Capitalism, Permaculture, Maximalism! Use ski goggles and single gear bikes in the winter, cargo bikes all year. The festival was an event in world healing, our growing festival culture is mother earth waking and being empowered. Continue the vibe, propel yourself though life by supplying love and demanding nothing. Cause humans, we’ve made it, food, shelter and information are abundant once more, time to allow the wave of good times flow over all over us. Viva las Lesbian Revolution.

Dalai Lama aka Maxim

maximk7.blogspot.com
maximk7@gmail.com

Why I chose to get arrested.

Why I chose to get arrested for not having a last name.

Maximalism, to me, is about doing away with the superfluous, being anchored in minimal structure for the purpose of attaining greater freedom, consciousness and knowledge; it permits the hints and guidance of the universe to be more readily exposed. One bit of structure that I’ve adhered to is the banjo, sauntering around all day playing, healing haunted woods or entertaining babies, filling my environment with beautiful music, stopping for anyone who dare flash a smile or mouth the name of the instrument. Sharing my passion, spontaneous smiles, jam sessions, hoedowns and sometimes moshpits breakout and the world reverberates with love, pleasure and appreciation in a multiplicity of forms, further validating and sustaining my existence. A result of this lifestyle has been a dissolution of harmful illusions into a new sense of clarity; when you clear your life and mind of all the baggage, existence becomes lean and effective, you develop the tendency of cutting through any flawed logic or blockage that might hinder healing and healthy growth. Myths that ensnare much of society simply fade away, such as the notion that money is somehow intrinsically linked to survival, fulfillment and evolution. “Having something to show for it”, is revealed as a core fallacy of an aesthetic culture eagerly awaiting a meaningful existence.

At the amnesty international booth at the Vancouver folk fest, posters said, “Shelter, food and education are human rights”, therefore, spending any more then a few moments each day focused on the acquisition of these things, is a waste of time. Negotiating away the pursuit of excellence for the purpose of “paying the bills” negates access to the pinnacles of life. Exercising Maximalism, I’ve indeed been experiencing each moment as a pinnacle. Having no home, everywhere is my home, with no state I have no laws but my own, with no possession, with no second thought, I’m free to grab a back pack, banjo and skateboard to then sail to the next city, festival, moment. The hints are getting ever stronger along the way as more and more people are tickled with a banjo tune, a good philosophical chat and the wild notion that the best way to be happy is to have no virtually no material belongings. I’ve learnt that best things in life aren’t things, it’s the intangible feelings that fills a space when people share something beautiful. When you minimize structure, it get’s infused with your energy, grows with you; after four years of studying English and other things at university, my writing, spelling and grammar, remained fairly lousy, it wasn’t until I started blogging about the few topics that mattered to me, that all my fundamentals of communicating in English improved. The method was doing me so well, that when I took off on my first Canadian tour, I decided to perform under a single name, sleek, easy to remember, eventually it was all I needed so I stuck by it. Now after extensive travels though Canada and states with only name, Maxim means so much more then my three names every could.

Getting arrested was fun for me because it took on the form of a bizarre sociological experiment, focusing on what the enforcement wing of the bureaucratic conglomeration know as Canada, considered freedom. I didn’t set out to be arrested, I was simply skateboarding in the city of Nanaimo BC, where skateboarding is considered illegal anywhere outside skatepark. (I was longboarding actually, which is a completely different activity). The situation was ripe for critical analysis because cops were friends of mine; over the last two weeks we’d had multiple chats of decent length, all about my living without structure, the city of Nanaimo, about local bylaws which applied to skateboarding and about performing music on the street. They seemed to appreciate the chats, especially since all they seemed to do all day was bike around, hangout, drink coffee on the boardwalk and kept and eye on things. By all accounts it seemed like honorable work, I commended them for their wish to look after their neighborhood. The first time we spoke I told them I was disappointed that I couldn’t ride away on my longboard, they replied the streets were designed for cars and that the laws were there for my own protections, but we were pals, so with a wink they said they’d ride away first. One day, I absentmindedly rode past them about twenty minutes after another friendly warning, kicking their sense of civic obligation into a higher gear. As they were giving me a ticket, I meditated on the fact that I’ve only been going by one name for a while and I became curious about how these representatives of law would react to a human with only one name. This was not about standing up for any rights, or sticking it to any man, it was about plain old honesty, so I repeated that I only had one name. Apparently it was insufficient information, tantamount to obstruction of justice. “Everyone in Canada has a last name” they told me, I couldn’t vouch for everyone else, but I told them as far as our friendly conversation was concerned, and it was quite friendly, I was content sticking with my one name, that I was fine following the logical progression of what that decisions might entail.

Perplexingly, justice seemed to be maintaining a certain trajectory that day, one in which my lack of a last name, obstructed it’s course. Until I gave them a last name, or any semblance of one, “ just make one up” a girl at the adjacent restaurant offered, they had the duty, to arrest and hold me until they could find out who I really was. Since we were pals and I’d been so “sociable” as the officer put it, they pleaded with me to say my name, gave me multiple chances and as they put the handcuffs on, actually commended me for sticking to my guns, believing in something and going through with it. A crowd had gathered, I was all smiles as usual, feeling as close to a radical as I ever had, sporting handcuffs in a relatively official manner for the first time. While still politely chatting with the officers, they started digging through my bag, “I do not consent to this search”, “That doesn’t matter”. “In that case fellas, we can skip probably skip some paperwork, my driver’s license is in the front pocket” “we’re still going to take you down to the office”. The cruiser pulled up and they started pilling my banjo and bag in the back, “why don’t you just double him on your bike” yelled a spectator, “that would be illegal”. In the back seat, hands cuffed behind my back, I had to lean forward in order to not crush my wrists. Also, they didn’t buckle me in! I had to make a special request. The officer came around back, pulled out the belt and practically lay across my lap in order to clip me in, what a vulnerable position, I thought. Being slightly claustrophobic, I got nervous about being locked inside a large rolling cage, I also thought about how my mother might not have an overly favorable opinion of this particular experiment. But then I thought about how much my blogdience would enjoy the tale, did some slow breathing and laughed it off. Preparing to take off, the driving officer was even more polite and jovial, “ Officer Dave tells me your a great guy” he said. Inquiring about his line of work, he told me his job was boring, that it was mostly just dealing with a few drunks on the weekend. After 25 years he was sick of it, I felt bad for him, it looked the uniform weighed heavy, although he seemed pretty happy over all. At the station, for some reason it took 5 people to book me, go through my bag, photocopy my passport, count my cash, check the serial number on my lap top, (which I hadn’t even yet done) and to everyone’s amusement, started reading through my journal aloud. A young cop stopped at year old to-do list and offered out loud to the group “Graphic novel, yoga, monster bike, breakdancing, wow, you have a really interesting life”. They took my picture and were even kind enough to throw away the paper napkins that had been sitting in the bottom of my backpack. An administrative assistant asked If I wasn’t proud of my last name, I told them I quite proud of it and of my family, but my issues was with their authority; in BC, there are virtually no treaties with the natives, we were on unseeded land, therefore my captors were an occupying force and since I identified myself as first nation Metis, they were violating international law. They explained that since they’d found my ID, they wouldn’t press the charges, I guess I was lucky, because if I hadn’t had government issue ID, I would have found myself in front of a judge, whom if it suited, could have apparently held me indefinitely, again until they could find out who I really was. Within 45 minutes I was back on the street, telling my story and hanging out with an adoring group, one of whom offered me gig at a bluegrass festival, we played some songs then I ate some delicious sea food.

I chose to get arrested in order illustrate the point that everything we think we know about structure, any structure, be it a thought, law, bond, promise, word, building, concept or social organization, is a fluid thing that can be manipulated in any number of ways. In my case I manipulated the law in such a way to expose it’s utter absurdity: the cops were literally pleading with me to produce a last name, any last name, which as it just so happened I was short of, so that they could be relieved of their ridiculous obligation of arresting a “great guy” like me, for an arcane reason. They didn’t want to do it, and were getting annoyed that I was forcing the technicality. What I was doing was prying open an administrative anomaly, exposing a euro-centric, bureaucratic anachronism. To distill some significance of my arrest, one could suggests that only those with at least two names are welcome in this Canada, and those falling outside of that perimeter, will be subjected to a greater level of scrutiny, control and enforcement. In essence, it’s a racist rule that has no place in any society possessing basic comprehension of how the world actually works.

The greater meanings of this sociological experiment were beginning to make themselves abundantly clear; according to the Canadian state, freedom is not a right, it’s a privilege deserving only to those capable of presenting the correct pass code at the arbitrary insistence of armed enforcers. To reiterate my claim of absurd, any last name would have done, I was arrested for not having two names. More observations: beyond multiculturalism not given the slightest consideration, since countless cultures employ only one name, the inclination never even surfaced that a duo-cultural or single name human might possibility exist, without being considered a threat. The greatest lesson I took from the situation was that these cops, like everyone else who’s caught up in a pursuit of money rather then excellence, spend most of their time fluctuating between being stressed out, bored, hungry, tired or probably watching TV. And like everyone else, instead of dealing with the minutia of the daily grind, such as arresting a smart aleck twenty four year old over an archaic procedural technicality, would in all probability rather be engaged in acts more productive, suited to their talents and beneficial to the world at large. But then again, perception is a fluid thing...

When it comes to any notion of reality, these laws and structures are for the most part already mute, they have no real bearing on our lives; everyone breaks which ever law gets in their way, if you want something, it’s really just a matter of how bad? There is no law or rule that can’t be broken and go unpunished without appropriate foresight and/or resources. We are all beings striving towards some kind of peace and happiness, we don’t need anything telling us how we should or shouldn’t act, in general or towards each other, everyone knows already. One cool way to think about life, which I heard on a TED.com talk, is that traditional eastern philosophies appreciate both structure and chaos, that the two need each other, like ying and yang, and that they function best when working in harmony. That philosophy has influenced Maximalism, that the soul will soar and reach it’s greatest potential when it ‘s intertwined with a few simple and glorious things, like a banjo and a macbook.

If this piece sounds exceptionally resonating, it’s because it’s the most important thing I’ve ever written and I’d like humbly suggest, perhaps the most important thing you’ve ever read. It is my “coming out” piece as the spiritual entity known as Maxim, and now that you know about me and my philosophy, there’s simply no going back. I’m having the time of my life, every single day, and I owe it all to simply letting go of all the clutter, junk and bad systems of life. Letting go of all expectation of others and the self, of all the physical things, all the drama, all ambitions and desires and just plain loving you, learning from the universe and the heart. All bodies are just going end up as ash one day, so we might as well start living in the spiritual world now. The alternative to my lifestyle has made itself abundantly clear: it’s the alberta tar sands, the BP disaster and any resource based conflict. These are the repercussions of an ideology, that believe it’s somehow important to “own”, the result is disaster, pure and simple. The purveyors of the global monetary systems would rather go on creating wastelands on earth, rather than consider the possibility that their way of doing things is anything but perfection. I would suggest, and I think you already know, that it’s the absolute worst.

Unfortunately none of our hands are clean of these schlockmeisters’ actions, and any minute contribution to the petroleum or big business game validates and perpetuates, my answer is permaculture.


That’s do it yourself, build your own life exactly how you feel is should done, never relying on anything but the local community and the traditional cultures of the land. Take your cargo bike to the coop farm, work the crops, write a blog on the communal computer, take part in the hoedown, skate the park, read a novel, rite a play, hunt a dear, make a coat, do a million other fun and productive things that don’t require the consumption of fossil fuels, like taking a nap with a friend, pick up the chicken jerky you’ve been curing, who’s meat was generously donated by your friend clara the chicken, who lived a long and wonderful life in the yard when she wasn’t laying delicious eggs in the hen house, and go track down the last few homeless alcoholics who may not be coherent or responsive enough to outright thank you for the blanket and food, but who will appreciate it none the less.



In conclusion, and in all seriousness, I’d like to respectfully challenge Don Cherry to a fist fight. For those who might not know, Don is a commentator on the long running “Hockey Night In Canada” on CBC, and is a main proponent for fighting in the sport. I’m not a violent person, in fact I’m one of the calmest and happiest people about, but as the tittle of this article would convey, I believe in sticking to my guns, so as a lover of both hockey and sparring, I feel they should be enjoyed separately. Fighting and hitting don’t have anything to do with hockey, contact ruins the flow while choking out the true talent and beauty of the game; stick handling and skating. I challenge you, Don Cherry, to a fight me, Maxim, because as you’ve said so many times, “it helps settle things”, this is an issue I’d really like settled. I’ve weighed the options and I feel it’s the best way to calmly and effectively raise that issue with you. In all truth, I’d much prefer that you just knock it off, your position poisons the minds of millions, making people believe that fighting is actually an acceptable way of solving anything. Maybe I can trade you a poem or some manual labour if you stop, or how about some oral pleasure? Any man who spends that much time and money obsessing on clothing can’t be completely straight, I’ll bet dollars to donuts all machismo is just a cover, isn’t it Donny? Maximalism is as much about effectiveness as anything else, so if you’d rather not trade skills, I’ll trade blows. If I win, you stop promoting fighting in hockey, maybe it’ll inspire you to create a new sport where two guys put on pads and skates, go out on some ice, then beat each other senseless, we could call it “ice fighting”, I’ll even take part! If you win, by all means go on promoting violence in sport and society, watch as it continues to permeate playgrounds, marriages and peewee hockey, I’ll even agree to whatever punishment or humiliation you might dole out. Just remember Don, if you don’t acknowledge me or refuse to fight and go on with your diatribes about the importance of “throwing down the gloves”, everyone will see you as a double talker, an instigator, a bully and a coward.

Love you all,

M

PS.

I met some travelers yesterday and we were one-uping each other on the porous nature of the Canadian border. “At one place in Alaska, the border is just a guest book”. “At my grandparents old house in the eastern township, it was their neighbors backyard”. “You can just sail through the gulf islands, It’s the just coast guard who do any checking, and they don’t do very much, you can just say your on a day sail”. “Most first nations don’t recognize the border, you can just cruise right on through a reserve, if you’re polite and have something to trade.” “On Pender and Gabriola Islands, the border was a rusty old sign at the doc saying ‘all those arriving in Canada please call customs at 1800..’”

Maxim get's arrested

Today was one of those days when I got to really test my theory of holding a few simple truths close to your heart and living by it. I live with as little structure as possible, it means no possession, no plans, no ambitions, no expectation, only the few universal hints we’ve all been blessed with. I know that my path is spiritual leadership, to show people until cast away everything and follow our pure hearts, we will only dream about our true human potential.

So, woke up at allies, still in nanaimo, prayed with ganja and yoga while ridding a long board while playing the banjo. Wrote a new song, recorded it a up it up on youtube, it’s called “Masturbate Daily and Nightly”, the lyrics are:


There was a nice man named Maxim
He had a very nice banjo
When the bi-law officer took it away
He said no no no no no

“Officer if it’s a bylaw”
It should go both ways
What do I get to take from you?
To make equal law these days?

The bi-officer, he said with glee
You can suck my pride
While you’re down there drink my pee
Common and open wide

Now maxim loved golden showers
He loved playing jack in the box
He loved getting filthy dirty in general
But the cop had penis pox

This trade it sound real tempting
Maxim told the scabby red beast
But please just give to me my banjo
Plus I’ve contracted an infectious yeast

The beast he started puffing
Shooting red daggers out his thigh
He said by god, the church and state.
You not allowed having fun to get to by

So maxim started throat singing
To heal that wild control freak
He let it all go with a passionate blow
Then the beast heard children speak

They said, it’s our talents that matter,
We will never behave
Don’t you every try to keep me in a desk
I’d rather be in my grave

That cop he started crying
His tears were salty sweet
Then he relented that there banjo
Said, I’ve gotta start beating my meat

Cause men who ejaculate 5 times a week
Are 60% less likely
To develop cancer down in the prostate
So jerk off and nightly

I said masterbate daily and nightly x3

Alli was painting as I was writting, it was a great combo, plus there was a number of views on a last youtube upload. I skated down to town for an appointment, while playing the banjo, and turned down a road in order to run out some speed. Finding myself in front of the police station, I strolled in and inquired about volunteer possibilities, the gentleman at the desk was quite helpful, but as we were speaking a steroid case cop covered in tats said to a young fellow on the bench, sorry I’ve got to arrest you. No, please, really, I’ve been really good. You gave the wrong address, you’ve got to come with me. It was a probation Issue, I assumed and he was handcuffed, “can I tell my dad at least” “yeah”. I got someones name on a card and a map to get to the community center, which I left there. Leaving, a native guy asked what it would take to take a trip down to the states, they were checking out the possibilities. Leaving I was wondering if I was becoming a conservative, reading Ayn Rand and all. On that subject, I’ve been enjoying Ayn Rand, because she actually decries any religious or traditional whims that might effect man’s moral code, as well as any self sacrifice for a greater good. It came to me that should I embed myself in the beast, it would be to take it apart. Cruised down the sea wall and met Carla Heywood, right on time, we played wicked tunes together in the park, sharing tunes we’d written and even writing one together, we also discussed a book called Total Freedom, it’s about exactly what it sounds, a bit dense though, my work will say similar things, only in plainer language. It was pretty amazing, sitting in that beautiful park, singing, picking, heavenly really. Carla had to go work, I read some of L’etranger by albert camus, wicked good, and took off to find food. On the way I ran into my bike cop friends, two dudes named dave who I became pally with recently. The first chat happened when some tourists eating smiled at me and asked to hear a tune, they were enamored and gifted me with some change. The bike cops said there was busking could only happen at designated spaces, with a license. I made it clear that I was not busking, nor did I ever attempt to make money, money now seems to just come to me. We chatted about my book about zero structure and how it’s illegal to skate board anywhere in the city limits. They were impressed by my alternative lifestyle and with my cordiality, I told them I was disappointed I couldn’t ride away, they said they’d leave first, and I rode away. The second time I was tree dancing, they made jokes about destroying public property, counted leaves that fell, the more serious dave took out his notebook and announced the price of the fine. This morning as I rode by, they and two others were having coffee on the boardwalk, laughs and jokes as usual, some reference to the board. On the subject of volunteering, anyone can dress up with a suit and run from attack dogs, all four of them had done it. After masturbating in the handicapped stall of the port authority center, I rode a few feet to the boardwalk and listened to Danny and a lovely lady sing and play at Trollers, the cool fish and chip shop down below. The more tight ass dave came up with another officer I hadn’t met and proceeded to award me a ticket, I told them I only had one name, Maxim and they wanted more info. We had a calm and composed conversation about my objection to given them any more information, that Maxim is my only name I go by and it was all they needed and that I was willing to accept any repercussion they might offer. They commended me, were impressed by how I stuck to my guns, as they handcuffed me. As small crowed was highly supportive at Trollers as I kept my big smile going as usual, more then willing to get arrested on my own terms. I’d never been arrested and I figured the use of one name, my name, something I’m willing to stand behind. “We’re proud of you!” The girls yelled from below. They kept giving me chances, "we don't need to do this" and finally called in for a ride. It was entirely civil and I think the cops were actually proud of me as well, sticking to my guns. I gave them my uncle who’s a lawyer’s name, even though he’s in ontario. After cuffing me, they started to dig though my bag, which contained my wallet, “I do not consent to this search” “It doesn’t matter, we have the right”. “Well I’ll tell you right now that all my information is in the front pocket and if your going to search me because I don’t have a last name, we can probably avoid some headache, the info is in the front pocket”. “We’d rather do it down at the office”. “Need any help max?” Danny hollered, “I’m groovy baby”. Another cop named dave cruised up in an suv. That dave was an highly pleasant man, he said “ Dave tell’s me your a good guy” “ I like to think so”. Apparently his job was quite boring, mostly dealing with drunks, for the last twenty five years. They didn’t buckle me up at first, which was slightly disconcerting, but acquiesced upon my request. Hands cuffed behind my back was slightly uncomfortable, but in general I was stocked, I was looking forward to the logical conclusion of this adventure. That chat with dave was quite pleasent, and hooked back up with dave at the station. They took my pictures, rifled though all my affairs, checked the serial number on my lap top and asked me questions, some I answered. The funny thing was that I counted five people processing me, counting my money, photocopying my drivers licensee and passport. Content with my government issued information, they eventually grew tired with the little dance and issued me with a pieced of paper. They spoke about how it wasn’t okay to live out side the rules of society while in a society, but as ayn rand says, society is not an entity, and when a minority comes together in the supposed name of that group, it entitles them to act with any whim, I told them that there are no treaties on the land that we stood, the canadian government is an occupying force, the little bits of paper with names and pictures are in the big picture, meaningless. They told me that if someone can’t be identified, they can be held indefinitely, without charge. I told them that was illegal, they disagreed. Leaving, the younger fellow who’s asked about my yeast infection medication and guitar capo, was reading though my journal and hand written book with the keen interest of a little boy, who couldn’t wait to dig deeper into the few possession, that ride on my back, which express my existence over the last few months. He saw an old to do list, “grafic novel, yoga, breakdancing, fix bike, write essay, wow, you’ve got a really interesting life” “Don’t I know it” At the end, Dave decided not to petition the court to issue a summons, which would request my presents at court, over the matter of obstruction of justice, which was the reason I was arrested, and fined me 75$ In the car ride I was a bit nervous, because our system of law is based, purely and simply,, on the basis of vengeance. They told me if they couldn’t figure out who I was, I would sit in jail, for as long as it took, and these were my pals. I found this unreasonable.An argument of this concept would suggest, but if we can’t count on government ID, what can we count on? If not the RCMP, who can we trust? I got physically detained, handcuffed, placed the secured rear of a police truck, for the crime of not having a last name, you can only really trust yourself and anyone else. I trusted Dave, my good buddy, who kept telling me how sociable I was to, do his job like he’s supposed to, but because he’s a cop, but because he’s a straightforward, dependable person, whom you could trust anything with. But mostly trust yourself, know that since you possess a moral code, you do not need to be governed. Point in case, every law get’s broken every day, these are fluid things, it becomes a “crime” when someone who disagrees with it, notices. Every day in parksville I would tresspass and break an enter, into a garbage in order to feed hungry teenages, and everyone was cool with it. There are just as many “illigal” drug users in the world, and “illigal” immigrants ,as their are toasters. Everyone speeds, everyone drank before the age limit. It goes both ways, as in the public enemy song, in the ghetto “911 is useless”. There are certain citizen’s needs being met, and others get shafted. The thing to do is simply take it all in your own hands, as we all do know, realize what you want to do with your live and circumvent any restrictive circumstances. Some laws are simply worth breaking, do what ever’s necessary to further your peaceful, fully righteous existence. However, as mark emery says, we just want to live peaceful lives, and we won’t accept your sick control for much longer. Back at the Trawlers, I joined the band and we ripped it and told my stories, all the young girls at the shop were highly supportive, as was a lovely lady who came up, sang and played with us, we did will the circle be unbroken, a dude in a white cowboy hat, sunglasses and a white mustache, as well as a good crowed chimed in. Another lady told that the by laws had no effect in the port authority, where I got busted. Apparently her nephew fought a skate ticket and won, and theres a collective law suit, buskers against the bylaw, that’s going into court in november, to further establish that bylaws don’t apply to the port authority. So I was well received, and... the lady we sung with happened to be the MC at the Coombs Bluegrass festival, and she invited me to play, it’s at the end of the month. Munched some good chow, met with some young locals and we cruised around, on longboards, in a group. If it’s a bylaw, it should go both ways, unless maybe it’s part of the penal code. Eventually wound up at Travis’ house, there were some week old kittens who’s eyes were barely opened, they gave them flea baths, they showed me how to make hash oil, I wrote, then ate the big beautiful mushroom sitting on the coffee table. Off to a bbq real quick, then to the red room for the end of the open mike, I missed Carla. Strolling, saw Harvey my DJ, haircutting friend, then strolled to the Globe, the strip club. Bruce is the proprietor and he’s into having a great time all the time. The shows were alright, nice physicality and some quite athletic pole usage. A muscley, shorty asian fellow got excited, took his shirt off and tired to rush the stage, the dancer put her boot out and he was wrestled away by the bouncer. Became friends with D, as in DJ Han Solo, Jamaican via toronto for the last thirty years, starting fresh, also cut hair, has the space above the vault. Played for all the younun’s coming out of the bars, my friend Aaron walked up and yelled, “Masturbate Daily and Nightly!” For a moment I’d forgotten I’d posted the video and was baffled, but it came back, he said he like the song, and practiced it. Plenty of real pretty girls walking around, and it eventually it was just me and a fellow in dirty clothes named Ricky D, who liked my playing. Sitting on a bench as the sun came up, chatting with an older dude named gary, we spoke about mountain biking, which he does all the time. Mountain biking came out of california about 25 or 30 years ago, by a group of cyclists who wanted more, now they are the most sold bikes in the world. I think it’s like that will all innovation, people being inspired and creating new things. I slept on the bench for a few hours and then danny came sailing in to refuel, we through out some trash and sailed away towards vancouver. At first it was rough, we took turns on the helm, then it calmed down, we took turns napping on the decks. As we pulled in I went into the bunk and crashed. Up this morning, changed out of my magic pants into the old time/ beatnic uniform of black pants, black jacket, light boots, striped button up shirty, grey cap, canvas belt. Read about the neanderthals and the evolution of human conception of our own past, which continues to be altered dramatically, but especially over the last hundred and fifty years. Rowed to shore, rode the long board while playing the banjo to a coffee shop, checked my email, and started writing again.

Pure adventureism.

Hey, the laptop has chosen to find itself back in my arms, although writing hurts my wrists a lot. Here’s a brief recap of the last few weeks.

PB and I went sailing with Danny for about a week and a half or two weeks. Up to pender island from where we play lots of tunes, heart new about a sail boat that needed fixing and maybe a new owner, harvested oysters, then headed back north towards Van. The boat was owned by someone undergoing a sex change, needles (in wrappers) andhormone drugs were scattered around, lots of strange energy, I took the hair clippers. Back in Van we hooked up with Wolf pack, awesome crew, and the great and powerful Sarah Scouten made a brief appearance. Good skating was done, awesome fire all night and day under the royal vanouver yacht club. While still blazing on LSD, two five year olds showed up and we hung out for hours, their pop appreciated the break. Couple wild sailboat parties with the van friends, at one point a crab trap got caught in the rudder, we went into full emergency mode. Larry is a funny, funny man. On our way back to Nanaimo, Dan and I were eating mushrooms in the cabin and called PB forward, who was working on the back of the boat, as she came forward, she screamed and slammed the wheel to the right, we lurched, and a giant rust colored wall came up on our port side, there was a powerful bump and we continued on. It was a tanker, auto pilot had cut off, had we not called pb forward, we would have hit it straight on. There’s a big chunck off the fiber glass bumper. A wicked adventure brought lots of treasure, then we found ourselfs back at the patricia, where we’d met danny. I played again and this time it was raining, so we went to Pinky’s house. In the morning some of his friends were going to tofino, we tagged along and had a great fire, that lasted five days, many folk came by. One of the most memorable new friend we named the Unicorn, in his human form, he was a vibrant and illuminating figure, expressing himself and navigating his environment is manner wholly different then I’d ever seen. A wizard with words and a brilliant humorist, we’d go on adventures, cross through the rocky paths, got to the next beach, checked out the famed poole’s land, and jogged back to our beach through the town. When ever cars would come up, unicorn would get stressed out and cough. Unicorn asked a guy named scott who was in love with army how we was, many times as was his fashion, scott was not okay, and tried to take the unicorn, it wasn’t pretty, it just something that doesn’t happen, so don’t try and tame a unicorn. Then another guy named scott came by, we shared jokes and stories, he’s a musician. He said he could use some help at poole, so we cruised on in at one point or another. Huge “lungs” of grass went around and we blessed the communal kitchen with our music. That night I stayed up all night and cleaned out all the junk that was in front of two big double doors. Under the junk, the doors were boarded shut, it was a fun challenge getting them open, then all were flabbergasted by the change. At that point I’d never vibbed so hard, the energy was powerfully flowing through me and a new environment of community settle as Scott and I talked to a fellow named happy about building community, the communal fire was built, we planed a grand party, working on a dance floor that was constructed with huge found logs, rocks, rope and planks, full fun. One part collapsed, so we fixed it all again, sylvester from france and simon from Belgium, and scott the magician, also from ottawa, and I worked real hard. friday night came and It wasn't quite done, I gave i hell, got into a crazy working mode, pushed myself to hard, and calmed, in the morning I popped my back carrying wood, the lovely Louison and her travel partner, and sylverster finished it. I slept all day, that night there were twenty or so folk dancing to the banjo on that thing. Poole came back on one of those days, he’s a majestic creature, we work well together and more good work will come. It was fun mapping out al the camp spots and finding out who was where, poole called me “the eyes and ears”, I took on the responsibility of being aware of everyone’s emotional state, that was a fun challenge, the result was that I was able to ask the communal fire to channel their love to a few who especially needed it, and it worked. Eventually ray the mystic said it was too soon for me to be hiding in the hoods, I needed to do my great work, so I took it to mean write a book, and took off right there and then. Found myself varnishing the garage of a b&b in a native community, then hanging out with the folks from medicine farm at long beach, back at the farm I played like wild, we feasted and slept well, in the morning, my job was to wander around and play the banjo, the gardens were magnificent, the food and people better, the hitch out of there was with a fellow from duncan who owns land that a commune is on, he’s all about the traditional native economies, we had lot’s to talk about, mostly the vast moral vacuum that is capitalism. On his place, all people were encouraged to do what they did best, and all appreciated for it, powerful good talks. In port alberni a bag boy was getting tough, telling me to put the garbage back in the dumpster, I refused, he told me he was going to take it, “your going to wrestle me for this garbage?” The strawberries were delicious. Walking the strip an elderly gentleman saw the bajo an asked asked I wanted to jam, we sat on his front lawn and he played the mandolin, doing all sorts of bluegrass classics. he had a model a from 1928, rad ride. Pack in parks, chilled with the great old heads at the youth arts market, open mike became story time, my tale was much longer and in-depth then anyone else. then it was laugh yoga, free signing and off to dumpster diving. Had a sweet potluck for rileys going away, so much good grub, mmmm. Then wrote and wrote, in a paper pad I found, reading back some, they fellas like it. Saw some kinda cool movies, although I find most movies get boring in the middle. Kept writing. Canada day, met two young cyclists making their way across the land to raise awareness of yet another pipe line, this time going to kitimat on the west coast, it’s time to end this addiction to oil folks, if you live in the city, laziness is the only reason you’re not bicking, stop support war, tyrants and the destruction of the planet, now. You aren’t doing enough good in the world to justify such atrocious waste of resources, cut it out, gradually if you want, but cut it out. That night the party was at theo’s, I backed a frozen turkey I’d found, it didnt work that well, but as well as could be expected, around one am it became a matter of carving off the outside as the in was frozen, around 4 am I cut it all up and blasted it at 400, then slept a bit then, back to the yam, chilled at the peace garden, and off to nanaimo to find the lap top. I was picked up by Simon, of the famed pirate yogi crew, in his new 97’ cadilac deville, black with red interior, the family car. good talks, good tunes by kiprios, keep it up kip. I was mistaken by which ferry I needed to get to saltsrping where I thought my computer was, and ended up walking into town. At the thirsty camel, host jordan said Miles Howe was looking for people to play with, and the adventure continued further to gabriola island, at the surf club, fine wild party, Palmera, miles’ girlfriend, was a lovely acquaintance to make. The morning was great over hanging cliffs where the natives went to morn the dead, then it was petroglypsh, then cool stain glass at the united church, then the small species sanctuary, which is for the most part fields and exposed rocks with puddles, excellent chats. Then gin rummy in the car, ferry, shower, then we drove to denman Island to play at a bistro, great gig, met nicky the traveler, went to the community center for a book launch concert, celebrating Islands of Resistance, about pirate radio in canada, expansive and impressive. We did a set, fully apreciated, chilled at a house in the woods, wrote, slept. M and N went to hornby, I slept. Then it was time for pirate radio, played, talked, discussed, in a the studio, which is a small trailer at the back of a sheep feild, we had to dodge dung. Ron and I talked about spiritual anarchy, we’er definetly onto something. In the morning, back to nanaimo, off to a part that housed a frizbee golf course and beach volley ball courts. Wrote more, found myself in the game and recognized by b-rad, who I’d met pulling into town a month earlier. Chilled and played with cool cats, then off to a river, more writing, nudity, fun. Wandering and dumpster diving, met a DJ/hairdresser named harvey and his crew, we had a dance party in the apartment, then went to the 12th floor to see the view of the harbour, then off to the gay bar for an open mike. Got touched inappropriately by someone who’s apparently sold a book for 2.7 million, he kept repeating, creeps begeeps. The sound system was uncontrollable, but I got folks listening, unlike the others. Then dance party, then late night escapades with two drunk girls and their buddy, who took off, and I had to sortof protect from a local coke head, who said the life style was thrust upon him, that he didnt have a choice. Met a drug dealer, climbed a cliff, found a spot, and did lines of coke off the banjo. It was the third time I’d ever done it, and like the times before, I could barely feel any effect, I hear that stuff is expensive as well. They were applauding the fact that I didn’t do extra. Back at their pad, they took care of me, lots of food and a big comfy bed. It came time to wake, then off to a beach, to write, was into maybe 35 pages at this point. Good dumpstering, hung with a check woman, she was stocked on the red pepper I found, much healthier then green. Evening, walked back to the pat, stopped by two two year olds, had them following me around the yard, moms laughing away. One ma, then picked up me and dropped me off at the pat. Cool gig with miles and peter on the djembe, more freestyling then before, as well as just telling stories while jamming. After the gig miles interviwed me, it went well, at some times rambling, but a solid talk. Morning, more writing, then in the heat, played at fish stand on the water, real hot, a cop came by and said “ we’ve heard reports of an out of tune banjo”. Strolling, gave improptu banjo lesson, met a jahovas witness who loved the acordian and two ladies ridding an electric scooter who game me some booze. Then I met two rastas, good chillen, then off to Miles and Palmera’s for a potluck, we arrived a bit late, but tones of fine food. A chap nammed bob was quite interrested in the interview, it might get on the radio. Quick end to the party, me and the rastas drove around looking for the next hint, it was on dam, near a beach in the woods, at the end of 5th avenue. Fine walks, slept in the car till the sun came up, then on the beach, woke to kids, everywhere. More writing, some playing, some sun burning. Early afternoon, new location, they went fishing, I walking, met back with danny dolan and his friend gail, back to the boat, real fun jam, check out my skate board, a big too much water in the bearing, but still usable. Yoga on the bow, then paddled to the dinghy dock on protection island, started transcribing, I wasn’t really happy with the book I then noticed, but got ten pages onto the hard drive. Excellent fried fish and margarita, attempting to pay, got the opportunity to play, they didn’t want stories, so I played away. Two couples from washington state cheered away. Rowed a friend Sue back to nanaimo, putsed around, some tourists at an alfreco table shot me some big smiles, so I played away, this got the attention of two bike cops, we had a long chat about how it’s illiga to busk without a permit, It was a nice chat, they were interested in the book, we became pals, they’re both named dave. I explained that I don’t busk, I walk around having a good time, all the time, usually with the banjo. Then got sucked into the internet, punk ottawa was interesting. At the harbour, one of the oars was mission, left in the ore locks, apparently they pop out. There was some progress, then I got a tow, they offered me a beer, banjo was played. Morning, yoga, pot, then just thinking, the path is right, must let it unfold. Cleaned a whole bunch, found a pa, napped, ate, read, slept. This morning, yoga, back to the dinghy dock, with one ore as a paddle in the front. Too early, walked protection Island, lots of bikes. Cool light house, seems like a rad little community, sadly becoming gentrified, another rich suburb. Came across a mannequin, had to meet the owner, no one there, but there was a strange instrument sticking out a garden, covered with dirt, google tells me it’s a Ruan, an acient chinese instrument, much like banjo, with a wood resonator and violin style tuning pegs. It was covered in dirt and strings were slack, obviously lot in disuse, I cleaned it up, got the strings working, and low and behold, beautiful music emerged. I couldn’t leave it, wrote the owners a note with my info. It plays well with a slide. Strolling onward, landed onto new castle Island when the tide was low, met a bunch of familes camping together, taught a five year old to play the ruan, we jammed it out. The spoke with the pretty young lady tending the bike and canoe rental hut, she wove traditional birch hats, baskets, mats and other things, grand chats. Also talked to a dude who was kayaking from seatle to juno, seemed like a wild cool adventure, ridding an outrigger, which has a little side float and foot pedals. There’s been a strong urge to finish the book, get it published/famous then go back to pools to work/invest. I dearly miss that place, but the writting was just not happening, I took a cue from terrence mekenna and tried to contact the little green men, they said go with the internet, I’m proud of the wild stuff I’ve made, it’s on there now. Back with the lap top, I’ll start again from the top. So now I’ve written two books, one about how to hve fun sexually without having sex, with is at the youth arts market in parksville, and the other is the first draft of the maximalism book, which probably no one will read, nor will they want to, since it was a bit rushed and the hand writing is mushy, but 70 pages of it none the less. Back on nanaimo, walking through the crowds of dragon boat racers, picking away, took a quick seat and met, dang, forget his name now...a forgetable name, but I called him out cause he looked cook, sasquach tshirt and a beard as well. He was off to do his radio show on CHLY radio Malaspina, community and university of vancouver island radio, which broadcasts all over the island, as well as into vancouver. I got to play and talk and discuss on the air, we had great time, an excellent time really. Spend a good deal defending the post capitalism movement, they were stoked to see someone was actually living as an art, by simply doing the art, surviving. Then stroll to the pirate fish and chips, my friend ally works here. Got some good left overs, then started writing.

Sorry it’s been so long since the last one. I can’t do this all alone, please send me an email maximk7@gmail.com to tell me I’m doing the right thing here. I know I am, but your support is appreciated.

Nanimo concert and wild times

We arrived, set up some, the went for a stroll along the dirty nanaimo harbour, quite industrial, we shared stories about our youth and took in the beautiful grime of the port. Strolling back we PB picked up a teddy rusknin book that was all about a shrinking machine and showed things like a strawberry and pencil up close. Back at the bar we made the aquantance of a few member of VIZR, that the Vancouver Island Zombie Resistance. Aparently they take the threat of a zombie apocolapes quite seriously, since the apocalyps could happen at any time, and since they will probably be drunk when it does happen (because they drink all the time) they've taken to train with guns while getting drunk. No joke. The zombie walks that take place in many towns are, acording to them, a serious problem, and when ever it does happen, they take their chains and guns in case things get out of hand, again, no joke. I recorded an interview with Drifter, the fellow who started it, they've been stopped by the cops a few times but have managed to get out of it. They don't apear to take the training to seriously, but they're all facinated by zombies and awaite the apocoalys, which entails getting borded up in the grocery store, and then...;they don't really know. But they're convictions are well formed. The show stared with Danny the singing captain doing sea chanties and irish didies, they were quite cool, he's got wild eyes, shaggy hair and a grizly beard. The tune were all lively and heart felt, he invited me up and we rocked some cool tunes. Then the mystic gathered us all together in a circle, our hands above and below each other, and she lead a healing ceremony. I could feel the energy flow between us all, as a drunken woman questioned the validity of our practiced, she contined to haggle throughout the show. It did feel healing, together all focusing on bringing in negative energy and cleansing it in the circle, I think it worked and it was a nice addition and carrying through from the healing we did at cindy's the day before. Next up I did my thing on stage, complete with all my new jokes which went over quite well. At the end of my set I asked the crowd what BP and I should do next, seeing as how we didn't have any plans. Up chimed Danny, inviting us to go sailing on his boat, I graciously acepted the invitation. The pinata was up, bashed farly quickly exploding the plastic army men everywhere, then came the japanese DJ, who mixed some great tunes, wonderful for break dancing to. I was asked to repeate one of my jokes to a local, the one out the turd saying telling me my life was usless, it was an excremental crisis, then BP, Danny and I strolled to the harbor, got into the dingy, and I rowed the three of us the 30 minute ride, in the darkness and dimming nanaimo sky line, to the Be Fuller, Danny's 45 foot kitch (that means two masts, among other things). We smoked some good stuff in the cabin then Danny showed PB and I to the double bed in the back of the boat. Some rain was trickling down through a broken seal, but there were tones of blankets making it ever so cozy, so cozy.

A bit for yall

Well folks, sorry about the delay, life has taking me on the most mystical of voyages and is preparing itself to culminate in the form of a book. In the mean time, for all of you who like to "live vicariously through me" here's what happend, more or less since Peanut Butter aka steff, and I left the ferry at nanaimo.

My old friend Miles Howe picked us up in the white subaru legacy that we'd driven across the country in last year, Shirly was it's name. A bit more rust and the shocks were starting to go, but a flood of memories came to me from those super intense weeks of performing, traveling and extreme emotions of last year. Miles' house was being looked at by for the purpose of being sold, so he took us to the food exchange where he used to work. There were lot's of gardens, a small pond and a green house that all for the purpose of feeding teh community. Wehile Miles worked there, it was his responsibility to picked up excess fruits, nuts, veges and other edibles that people had in excess of around the city. He would o clolect it, give some to the owner of the property, some to the exchange and keep some himself, the exchange's truck and networks made it all possible. We stood over three beautiful chickens and talked about the last year, neither of us had real jobs for sometime, Miles had been playing concerts in the surrounding areas, had recorded another disk and seems to be building a fan base. He'd been given a weekly spot at a local bar and was attempting to make the shows as facinating as possible. That night beside me playing, there was a Japanese DJ, a singing sea captain, a mystic doing a seance.

Sorry folks, my skills with a knife are needed in the other room, more stories soon!

25, first half

Cindy was kind enough to pay us with some money, as well as shelter and food for our work, so after getting dropped off in the middle of town, we had breakfast and a cute cafe. The orange carrot soup was awesome. While Steph was attempting to make a call at a pay phone, I decided to throw my hat and some change down while picking the banjo, within thirty seconds I was rewarded handsomely, another moment after that steph was done on the phone and we started cruising down the highway towards the ferry. The rain was a bit troublesome on the banjo, but it was warm outside, so a sweatshirt wrapped it up nicely. No one was picking us up at that point, but the cruise was every so lovely, before we knew it the ferry was in sight and we had an hour to hang out before departure. We swapped stories and watched a child with dreadlocks run wild. Picking some tunes in the waiting room, approving glances and nods abounded. It was a quick ride of 45 minutes to horseshoe bay; while sharing a smoke we saw some porpoises and a older native guy with the word “elder” embroidered on his jacket. Getting off the ferry, we found out we could have bought tickets for the next on on the boat, but instead we walked all the out the terminal to purchase the tickets. I caught an internet signal at a local coffee shop and got the news that the album I recorded last month being carried along in post production. Then we had the notion to try and cook a steak I pilfered (it had been sitting out for a day) from around a camp fire. Our plan was to build a fire and cook the steak in the forty five minute window we had before the next ferry. Racing down a nearby path we found a suitable spot and began to burn a newspaper and some sticks, the fire got quite hot fast, but the sticks were all wet and refused catch. After a few attempts a blowing into and rebuilding the make shift fire, we abandoned the idea. Strolling down the gangway to the boat a slightly smart allecky gentleman commented that the boards should be ridden and not dragged, dodging the pedestrians we rode, striking some notes on the banjo got a big thumbs up. After tracking down a microwave in the sitca lounge, I popped in the steak and cooked it at three minutes a side. The flavor was more or less zapped out, but it was still pretty tasty, especially with the mounds of condiments acquired from the local cafeteria. A young fellow from a small town in Ontario talked to us about his job as a commercial diver, mostly taking dead fish out of nets in at fish farms. The week on week off schedule allowed him to travel all around, being based in Tofino, a spot I need to get to pronto. We also met a young traveler named Lynx with a beautifully painted leather jacket, colored nails, and white dread locks. We chatted about mind expanding drugs, dumpster diving, sweat lodges, busking and carving spoons out of wood. Apparently a carved knife is needed for such an endeavor, luckily he’s into black smithing as well.

24

Bright and clear morning, although the lack of sleep and bush living were taking their tole on the montrealers who began to snip at each other a bit. Goodbeys were made, Striker said he’d have me back next year, then Steph and I hit the road. The plan was to make it to Nanimo for the next night, my old pal Miles Howe had invited me to perform at his weekly tuesday night gig. Quite sunny, we rode with ease down the highway and were carried forward by a good bunch of people in cars. Outside of Roberts Creek we were picked up by a wild woman named Cindy Lee, she had the unbridled energy of a sixteen year old, but was apparently closer to 50. Right away she began talking about the magic of the universe and I knew we’d be friends for a long time when she asked to hear some banjo playing, she was the only driver on the trip, a group of about 10 people who made the request. She took us to a local beach to smoke a joint, there we stretched, did some tai chi, and she told us about her life creating a healing space in the middle of her small town. According to Cindy we are all healers and it’s simply a matter of finding out what your gift is, her place is open to practitioners of all stripes to come and practice their techniques. After grabbing a mango smoothie and some pie at a coffee shop courtesee of our friend Andrew, we went to see the Richard’s creek mandala. It’s a holy in the middle of a beach walkway, covering the ground is sacred paintings, apparently it’s the border point of Seshelt and Sqwamish territory. I like the idea of a sacred border that focuses on diverse peoples coming together, rather then the notion of a protected barrier that’s passible only by intense scrutiny. Around some bushes were Eric and Molly, the young banjo players from the day before, they were enjoying their daily six pack in the beautiful sun. Teaching them each some licks and tricks, they heaped love and praise onto me, quite the pleasurable experience. While doing a double banjo rendition of foggy mountain breakdown, an elderly gentleman in a brown coat and sunglasses started to do a jib, spin around, and executed a priouette. I couldn’t get my camera out fast enough. Cindy went to drop Andrew off at the fairy, while Steph and I strolled the board walk, we saw an otter up close and the fin of a seriously killer whale. Attempting to make fire with only sticks, the surface area was heating up nice, releasing the welcoming sent of pine into the air, but no sparks. More young folk emerged to congregate around the beach side fire pit, where perhaps every day, they sit and talk and love. It was a mirror of my old parksville crew, who seemed to gather together spontaneously at fire pits around the town. Cindy picked us up and took us up on an offer to do some manual labour, the job was painting the wellness center. Located in a community market, every corner had different styles of clothing, art, cards and nicknacks made and imported by the locals. Opening up a side door, we came into the massage therapy front room of Cindy’s space. A bit further opened into a bigger main room that serves the purpose of holding healing, in many different forms. We mixed purple paint and spent the next few hours taping, cutting, rolling and detailing the walls. Meditative in it’s practice and in it’s long term, painting that room was a great project, a work worthy of the new world and ways to live. Munching on borsh and then Ice cream, we were quite the happy hitch hikers. Cindy regailed us with stories of her youth and spritual growth. She was telling us about the extended spiritual community all starting to come together, all understanding the great shift that’s taking place. She spoke the native elders who cried with joy when approached about the prospect of canoe races, a tradition they thought had withered years ago. The great canoe’s can hold around thirteen people, with a drummer guide. The races have been gaining momentum and popularity in the area, I hope to partake asap. After painting cindy drove us to gibson’s to lay down in a basement apartment of a friends house. We marveled in the beauty and power of the day.

23rd

Steph woke around 6 with full excitement of the up coming race, she pecked me on the cheek and took off with gusto. The sound of the rain on the outside of the tarp was magnified by the tent, making it sound like it was raining heavily, also it was slightly chilly, meaning I stayed in bed until about noon, enjoying the sounds of the rain and my warm sleeping bag. Venturing forth, I discovered it wasn’t raining hard at all, quite the auditory illusion. My friend Julian who looks like chuck norris was similarly shocked at the lack of rain. Exploring a segment of the camp site I hadn;t been to yet, I got to meet Jessica from new york, who rode quite well in the slide comp, and I found out later won it. She told me she worked at something called school of rock, she teaches kids who to emulate all their favorite rock stars, as well as helping coordinate orrigionals bands and material. A pretty blond girl offered me the end of her oat meal and a fellow with dreads complimented on my music friday night. They offered a spot in their car to the big race and grabbing the banjo we were on our way. Arriving at the race spot, Daryl called to me and I joined the parksville crew up on a hill. Sitting with those folks reassured my deep connection into the fabric of that little town as well in the greater longboarding, BC and freedom cultures. Since Daryl and I have become friends, he’s taken a radical shift in his outlook at approach to life. Once he worked hard cutting grass, bought and smoked copious amounts of pot, drank a lot, then skateboarded and played punk music when he could. Now he picks mushroom in the woods, had delved deep into taro and seems to have a calmer existence, albeit with many more tattoos. We played a board game on the side of a hill and watched racers explode around “carnage corner” the one deadly corner in an otherwise calm and relatively easy race. We witnessed some wicked wipeouts, recoveries and rene bail, loose her shoe, recover, put it back on, and continue down in front of other racers. The race seemed anti climactic, not much emphasis put on the final runs of the competition, but still incredible to witness such skill and precision ridding. Pilling bails of hay into the Uhal was a fun team experience, my red and black sweater was covered in hay, a fellow with a blow wand gave me a blast of wind. Some free sausages were enjoyed slowly, a bite every few minutes and ANOTHER banjo was enjoyed on the shuttle back to camp. At the site some young locals and a native queen named Tina, all hung around picking and grinning. Molly Kennedy is a name that folks should put in their memory banks, this young lady is a fire brand. Her banjo and singing skills were superb for someone playing eight months, but she also works hard and grows her own food. Pushing Dominique on the tireswing, doing yoga shirtless, teaching youngun’s to play clawhammer was all lovely, then ross the sound guy and hoodie came up, talking amongst themselves I over heard them saying the intended to play before the awards ceremony had cancelled. I offered to play and hoodie asked if I would. After packing up a drum kit we were rolling away in the green painted station wagon of the green team, ridding in style. The kit was set up, someone asked if I wanted a drummer, and all of the sudden I was performing for a packed house again. Some of the tunes were repeated, but the general group clap/stomp/singalong was achieved again. The best part was shouting “ I say danger you say bay. Danger!...” The gig was smooth and wild, calling out to green team, red eye and the various nationalities was a crowd stoker. Ross motioned on more, I was at a loss, the rene said, “big balls”, then came my version of the song “tiger woods” by dan bern. During the set, Striker and hoodie were tossing much merch, it was humorous to see kids of all ages scamper to dive for boards, t shirts and stickers. The awards were a pleasure to see because of the appreciation the organizations, sponsors, riders and fans have for those that push themselves and those top spots and evolutions. The green wagon was full afterwards, so Hoodie and I and scoot’s sister waited in the warm evening. Back at camp, back at the fire, watching, warming, bands playing, then wild techno dance party taking, into the loco and back. Steph and I missioned for various treasures, which we found, then crashed.

22nd

Reconnecting with my old pals from team switchback, I rode with the gear in the back of the short bus enroute to the slide comp. Steph had lent me her pirate eye patch in order to test the theory that pirates used patches to train their eyes for varying degrees of light. The results were fairly trippy. Though there was some light coming through a small hole in the patch, the adjustment to the size of my pupil (spelling?) and subsequent optical rearrangement was substantial. It was as if someone had turned up the “brilliance” knob on my covered right eye. Left was the normal adjustment, fairly sunny so things started to look grey, but back to right, bam, full blast of colours. Amusing myself with these vision games, I watched all the powerfully beautiful landscape that makes up the sunshine coast, it came to me that I need a constantly streaming video camera attached to my head, so that everyone at home can see the amazing things that I get up to every day. The purpose of said camera would be to demonstrate that if one engages in the passion (in my case playing the banjo), sustenance will become an afterthought since you’ll be totally emerged in the sweet life. The slide comp was majestic, powerful innovation emerged since last year, impressive athleticism and style, full fun. The jam style was disfavorable in my opinion, harder to keep track of the riders and sharing the course made for some unwanted traffic, still a wicked show though. On the way back in an open ended uhall trailer, nick and I danced our feet on the rushing pavement below, a hand stand was attempted for the guy with a camera behind us. The brilliance of a covered eye was still shocking. More fire surfing and it it was time to ride to Madeira park with steph the montreal crew driving behind us. It was a good run, the small town was in full swing for the victoria day celebrations. Breakdancing for the local old time folk band was enjoyable for all. Chats with a local clam digger were great as well, he was quite interested in longboarding, I told him everything I knew about the sport. Up walked a fellow who had been playing drums that were suspended by springs from a wooden cube that encased it all. Called “bonggie” or something, I recalled he’d been profiled on the classic Canadian television show, On The Road Again. It reminded me of a chat with my mother about that episode, it turned out many of the shows subjects had the sub title “old people making things” and she asked me which of the segments I would remember, it was the drummer. He was in good shape, has patented the construction but hasn’t reproduced it. Wood working is his life of work, there was the possibility he’d sold the same carved bench twice. Rolling down the hi-way, a lake caught my eye, cutting down to the water two brown masses few by. With closer inspection a bald eagle was trailing a slow moving, huge, great blue heron. The heron squawked and changed direction, the eagle spun and followed suit. A second eagle joined the pursuit from above. As the Heron tried to make a move and fly right, the higher eagle swooped down, a great cry shot out, and a big brown bird plummeted sixty feet into the lake One eagle flew back to the next and the other to the fallen heron, splashing around where the bird dropped. Then with repetitive flaps every four seconds, slowly dragged the carcass to side of the lake it took about five minues. Then took it’s time tearing the flesh off the bones, the whole situation was fairly intense. Back at the park mayday festivals I watched the mechanical bull competition, a fellow named “gruff” who was quite handsome with his mustance, rode the contraption with both hands in the air. Little Quinn rode it afterwords. Pumping my legs back to the camp, the french crew picked me up and the rest of the evening was spent experiencing the lack of sleep. Eventually Steph and I crashed in her tent, this time sharing blankets and staying warmer.

Not sure which date

Warning: This blog is explicit in nature. If explicit things bother you, don’t read it.

I took an alternative, overgrown path up one side of the central stream, over a large, slightly rotting bridge which I crossed tentatively, then into the camp site. More roasted onions with Caribbean chicken sauce tasted fine as I made more acquaintances. The next few hours consisted of strolling from fire to fire, chatting with whomever I came across. Paulo from Brazil was one of my favorite characters, voyaging randomly found himself to the race. A number of introduction included “you mean the banjo boy I’ve been hearing all the stories about” or from the security “oh, the one guy we weren’t supposed to let in this year”. Reuniting with “Monster” the large, bearded bald chap who’m I skirmished with was quite amusing, as he was hugging me, he kept saying “they mixed me up for you! They thought I was the guy naked and high on acid”. I told him I fully enjoyed being beaten into the family. A dear friend Rabble, who’s got multiple face peircings, dreds and a crazed look in his eye, invited me to sample the liquid acid, I did two hits. Sound check was smooth, then I shot the shit with the extended family and awaited my turn to perform, and for the acid to kick in. The grand godfather of the race and the most central figure of the longboarding existence is a guy named Striker, who’s a mailman by day, incredibly warm and joyful soul while being a deeply silly goofball, and who happens to put together this and many other similar events. Well he plays bass in a band called loose tooth, total thrashy/metalish skatepunk, it brought me back to being 16 years old and sneaking into the various punk clubs, feelings that deep seated attraction to unbridled chaotic musical rage. The band ripped it up and the audience ripped it harder, moshing with conviction, screaming gang vocals. Punk music is alive and well in the deep bowels of BC. A lit up frizbee was a pleasure to toss as the drugs began to tingle, in pitch darkness, the lights flash and fly, prompting wild visual hallucinations and quick dashes to catch and toss. After Loose Tooth played, it was my turn up to bat. The crowd was ramped and excited, stomping out a rhythm the crowd followed with claps and the energy started to rise. Lights in my eyes blurred the vision of the crowd, by I could hear them screaming, hollering. “ Ole ole ole ole!” Started up and all sang along. With a smooth transition into What I Got, the folks were all singing along, still banging away, raw percussive devises of bottles and sticks emerged, knocking out strange counter beats. Into Fresh Prince of Bell Air theme song, with what I got lyrics, I got the whole gang rapping. Finishing off with a misfits medley, there was a whole moshpit pulsating away to the sound the banjo. A Deeply enjoyable audience, the audience partcipation was key. Black out play and the crowd was awesome. The rest of the night was spent wandering from camp fire to camp fire, enjoying the waves of LSD that flowed through my consciousness. As the sun rose, the upper field was the place to hang out, Logan kept a good eye on the megaphone and his booze, so waking everyone up for the slide competition, by banjo and skat via bullhorn, was fully enjoyable.

May 20

Greetings world, it’s 5 22pm and I just woke up in some bushes adjacent to the camp site for ATTAC OF DANGER BAY 9, the worlds biggest gathering of longboarders. Over the next few days will be some incredible partying, racing, sliding competitions, live music (of which I’m contributing to), and obscene acts of drinking, drugs and general debauchery. Tristan and I left Parksville mid day wednesday, hitchhike to the Commox ferry, rode from Powell river a good ways until camping in the woods. The next day we got a ride to the next ferry, arrived on the sunshine coast and hitched another lift to the the Lions camp ground on in Pender Harbor, arrive mid yesterday afternoon. The trip was super smooth, we rarely had to wait more then 5 minutes for a ride and all our drivers were friendly and interesting. Yesterday exploring the area, I came across an old burnt out cottage with a wood and barbed wire fence around it’s yard, upon further investigation a stable and hay shed were discovered, old tools laid unused and a weather piece of paper in a ziplock sack said “don’t come in, unsafe”. T and I had a nice long fire as we casually roasted chunks of big white unions I’d dumpstered a few days before. The onions were delicious, it was the perfect wrap up to the travel section of this adventure. In the evening we walked into the greater campsite to see what was up. Striker might be the face of longboarding, not only because he organizes the annual epicenter of international longboarding, but because he personifies the best qualities of the scene it’s self. He was welcoming with open arms and we immediately were amerced into the warm group of people I so fondly remember from last year. An good looking Australian fellow carrying a forty in a paper bag took an interest to the banjo and was asking techinal question of the construction, he then told a story about ridding home late one night and hearing the voice of a banjo from a distance. We then stumbled upon Charly, aka Clit, who’s one of the most fascinating creates in the fold. While she did just do a year of art school, she paid for it by pan handling, that method plus hitching got her down to a few races in New Mexico last month, which she both won. Quite crass but not at all rude, Charly is also a great musicians, we sang standards around a barrel fire with a rotating cast while roasting found veggies on a grill. A stroll with a young adventurer named Steff informed me that pirates used eye patches to train their eyes for night vision; allowing one pupil to adjust for daylight one for less light. After wearing the patch all day busking, she returned home one day to discover her vision radically altered. Bumping from fire to fire, I came across Scoot, leader of team green and former world champion. He’s somewhat legendary in the larger community and I’d built him up to be older and more grizzled, his bright face looked even younger then his 23. Chatting about the longboard lifestyle, the notion of “professional” I had heard he was a carpenter “hah, drywaller” he retorted. A youthful montrealer named Emily had an immediately insightful answer to the question I ask almost every new person I meet “what makes you happiest in life?”. Her joy was showing people how to follow their instincts rather then to be a result of their environments. Not listen primarily to their hearts, not the constant barrage of what we “should” be living like; especially in regards to the perceived importance of the material, when really it’s the mental, spiritual, ecological environments that are important. Sitting around a fire with Tristan, Steff and Rex, we did what folks do best around fires at 5 in the morning, talked about the meaning of life. We agreed that people at the party are definitely awakened souls and that more and more people are starting to wake up to the good life, real life, with limited possessions and ultimate freedom. The sun came up and when to crash in Stefs tent because it was raining, however without a blanket I didn’t last long and ventured over to my gear stashed on the opposite side of a creek. Last night was the first that I shared my tarp with my full pack and longboard, we were all quite cozy. Now it’s late afternoon, writing is a nice way to wakeup, I can hear hollers from the camp site, the booze must be flowing. I hear it’s going to be sunny all weekend, far out.

May 16th

Ladies and gentlemen, I was quite pleased with that last bit of writing, a pattern of growth and progress is becoming discernible, metaphysical plains of existence are becoming fathomable. The most important lesson to depart is awareness of breathing, all the way in, all the way out, when ever possible, especially when presented with a daunting or emotionally charged moment. Smoking tobacco is a stimulant, it’s the action of taking long, slow breaths, albeit sucking down poisons, that offers the habitual smoker that sense of relaxation. Combining slow breathing with other activities like washing the dishes, writing or sex, changes the dynamic of the activity to one where pace is understood, maintained and is quite a challenge, at first. Breathing slowly alters the nature of one’s interaction with their environment. Long forgotten nooks and crannies are expanded in the lungs, more oxygen is given to the brain, calmness comes to the heart.
Yesterday I awoke to mountains, beach, ocean, a steep hill, some young and an old eagle, star fish, and yet another group of people who seem to be fully entwined in the marijuana spirit, morning meditation got me going as I ran up the side of the a hill, running near horizontally as fast as I could, as far as I could, before tired muscles and gravity got the better of me, sending me cascading down the hill. The shirt was off in the warm sunlight as washed up trees acted as balancing beam from big rock to rock, piles of purple starfish sat waiting in a crevice, waiting, hoping the tide would return to their spot of rest, dry death being the alternative.

A special day May 15th

This is the sort of day one dreams about, it was a day that caught me early and stayed steeped in the metaphysical realms for the remainder. The couch that laid my body has been discovered on the internet with the purpose of furnishing a room I had for two weeks last year. It had been moved into the adjacent apartment some time ago and was an integral part of this beautiful room, which now looks west over the water instead of east, over the parking lot with dumpster and the couch in the corner, where we sat (and I slept) last year. The night before, Theo mentioned the possibility of waking up early, getting mystical, diving into the frigid water of the Gorgia straight, then doing yoga on the beach. He and James were up with so much glee that I couldn’t resist going along. They proclaimed the ganga mediations shed the fear and awakened a wild spirit that needed to feel that frozen blast. Waking up early with people who’ve excepted, experienced and practiced the ritualistic meditation (or medicinal ritual) of smoking plants, provided a certain spring board into the type of day that seemed to be a certain “next level” of existence, an evolution of what it means to be alive and human. The buzz in the my body was tangible as I calmed my heart rate by breathing slowly, having abstained from wake and bakes since last summer. The rush that hits when toking with a rising sun is majestic. We stood basking after stripping naked and proceeded over the rocks towards the low tide. The water was frigid on my toes and I thought for a moment, doesn’t being free mean being comfortable all the time? James let out a piercing cry as he ran 6 steps and dove, Theo did the say and I couldn’t resist; being free means to test, push, fly, run, dance, scream, love in as considerable means as available. Each nerve did a jig as the water enveloped me; powerful submerged breaststroke pumped warm blood. Flipped over, the sun light up shaken sand and the salt burned my eyes. Back to shore we stretched, posed, balanced, breathed slowly, welcoming the sun and the day. Ridding back on my longboard, I furthered a previous new project that I’ve mentioned in passion, longboard yoga, which is exactly how it sounds and is amazing. All exercises mentioned above, while riding, and turning, a longboard, which is an extra long skateboard (4feet long) with bigger trucks (axel and base) and wheels. Best started on flat ground for anyone wanting to extend their yoga capacities, it can be progressed to a proactive body positioning for competitive racing. I’m positive others have combined these two complimentary exercises, let’s attempt experimentation in this field, we’re onto something. Back at the pad, there was fresh stew and a big bag full of fruit, I read the paper and was merry. As Theo began to clean the apartment, I dashed out to buy a pair of rubber dish gloves. At the gas station down the block there were none, but there were blue pacages of gum with the black letters “black jack” printed in the middle. There was no hint as to the flavor, asking for directions to a rubber glove-selling store, the gum was purchased and sampled, strong licorice, I though that my mother would enjoy this gum. The grocery store was packed with elderly people shopping with all of their might, great determination and poise radiated from the focused, white haired crowd. While washing the dishes a strength training exercise invited by charles atlas, I think, and passed along by C.B., by which one engages muscle against muscle was employed to enhance the deliberate slow breathing and mind clearing techniques. Tall legs supported an engaged core, anchoring a chest and back that was leveraging two seriously hard working arms, which focused on relatively small movements by the hands. It was a fun challenge that improved my dishwashing skills, made me stronger and more peaceful. Reading further, the singer from great big sea seems to have an awesome new job coming up. Around 10 30 our dear friend Riley came over to do yoga with Lucas, who was just getting up. The table was pushed aside and three mats were laid down, the sun continued to rise up into the picture window, into the apartment. Lucas lead us through an hour and a half routine that he’d created himself. After a few yoga lessons, he decided he knew enough and didn’t was to pay for classes anymore, and by god it payed off. His class was rigorous, creative, fun, challenging, rewarding while his body lines, attitude and suggestions were bang on. A new pose came to me for two breaths, laying both forearms on the ground in front while slowly moving all weight forward, then lifting up the body and legs to rest comfortably above. During yoga, old great pal Lea showed up, who had been traveling everywhere in Canada from here to montreal, it was a deep joy being returned to this lovely lady, sharing stories and tales. Her friend was sleeping in a field, we gathered stew as wake up offering. With no shirt I rode the town on Sherlock the longboard, a deep seated sense of joy rose in my gut, the few hours before represented an idealized morning ritual and I was free to adventure and follow various leads from the day before. We came across YAM Youth, Arts, Market, a new drop in center that my friends Anita and Mehdi helped get off the ground, and is constantly populated by artistic folk of all ages. Pirate Brad, another dear friend who was presently moving into the woods, was busily making a mighty banner advertising the open mike that evening. The building had been unsellable by account of the recession, thus perfect for donating to an arts collective, as long as they payed the taxes. Yam is an extensive old wooden shop nestled into a sloping vacant lot which peaks a triangular city block, a lot perfect for the twelve hour youth music festival thrown last month. A grand stage, couches, work stations, massive basement with walls two stories high, for some reason make for a really cool place to hang our and make art, read, jam at almost any hour of the day. I was touched and wrote my very first naughty children’s book called “ How to have fun sexually, without actually having sex. A foldup book by Maxim. 1. Self exploration, researching, touching, playing are important! I didn’t write this in the book but, but men who ejaculate four times a week are about 60% less likely to have prostate cancer, there are carcinogens EVERYWHERE these days, it’s important to flush our the plumbing. 2. Talking, to friends, teachers, anyone you trust and is willing to talk about it, you might teach them something. But be respectful, everyone has different definitions and levels of understanding. For this one I drew two little stick figures, one is saying “I like my anus” there other is saying “awesome”. 3 Writing and drawing. Art offers limitless and private possibilities of exploration “Ex. Horas was a minotaur, but he didn’t have a miniotaur penis” Complete with illustrations, as well as a drawing of helga, the mer-witch, with human genitalia. 4. Experimenting with birth control, find it, read it, practice putting condoms on different sized fruits and veggies and on yourself, impress your friends by wrapping one over your head till it reaches your upper lip, then blowing it up with your nose. With diagrams. 5. Touching. Holding, hugging, rubbing, playing, bitting, ect. is a lot of fun to talk about with a partner you cherish. Have fun sexually is always about enjoying the moment with great company; never try to get anywhere, just have fun and appreciate the energy, feelings and vibe that occurs when you hang out with your partner. 6. Actually doing it. Aren’t you glad you know everything there is to know about birth control? Now’s the time to show off that your comfortable with yourself, your body, condoms and your partners body. The name of the game is explore, have fun, be safe. Then there are stick men going at it in many different combinations. It was a fun book to make, the response has been positive so far, it’s in the washroom at YAM. During that time another friend Brad popped in and out and in, bringing a pair of longboard trucks which he then put on my deck, seeing as how sherlock was sporting skateboard trucks. The new trucks offered enhanced precision and control as we tore around an adjacent empty parking lot. Apparently rob now makes skate boards, one of which I saw at the lost and found at the yam, if I painted it, the board was mine. Beach hill was clogged with young people returning from prom picture’s at the beach, they looked solum in their nice clothes on the way up the hill, too many cars, I only did one quick run, sliding is much smoother now. At yam, I attempted to draw the biblical snake on the banana board that Rob spoke about. The apple is a wonderful symbol isn’t it? My father once informed me that sex was the ultimate sin according to the catholic church, watered down versions of that story say that eating the apple represents the learning self knowledge, finding out we are separate from god, it’s a sin because to accept self knowledge is find your own godly powers, rendering god, mute. Why did god cast them out of the garden anyway? Anyone with logic would see that if a snake in the grass can persuade you to do the one and only bad thing in an ideal situation, he can convince you to do anything. What we have to do is that appreciate that apple to the fullest extent, to know everything there is to know about the world, through better understanding of the self. People who deny the deep mysteries of the body are damned to chaff under the arbitrary heaps of traditional abstractions, imposed by those clinging fast to the rapidly sinking ship of organized religion. As the sex scandals boil over, covering the pope himself with the taint of someone routinely harboring pedophiles, the last of the hardcore indoctrinated masses of Canada rally to support the sadistically malicious prevention of reproductive health services to the worst-off people in the world. But things are getting better, the new cult of pathway to the future is through apple computers, who’s logo is an apple with a big bite out of it. Apple is dedicated to the artist, the great designer, it’s an easy to use and powerful tool allowing people to express their individuality to the fullest, to discover their inner power. Also,TED.com is here, if you want to be on the steps to enlightenment with the most thoughtful people in the world, spend half an hour a day searching, watching and listening on ted.com. Next time you want to watch a tv show, don’t, brows TED.com The snake board was coming along well, painting is an activity I rarely engage in, yet it’s so much fun and rewarding. Last time I painted, it was all bad omens, I felt relieved and peaceful afterwards, as if I’d exercised some spirits. Here’s a new terribly tasteless joke btw; While sitting on the toilet the other day, a turd looked up to me and said “you have no purpose”. You guessed it, it was an excremental crisis.” BOOO. Did I mention the cup cakes and juice boxes? Three big boxes of each, the city had too many and just gave them to YAM. Apartment, more stew and fruit! Longboard ride along the boardwalk brought me to Jammie, a woman who’s full of life and energy. Her singing brought be towards her and she performed a tune on a guitar covered in drawing from her visit to south america. Many projects and endeavors of peaceful, healing, teaching, empowering natures make her a very cool new friend. The open mike took off with a bang, lots of young people making fabulous music. Medhi and I had a wonderful moment when he complimented my shoes, then I his, and at the same moment, with the same rhythm said we “ wanna switch?” It was a replay of the first day we’d met and become friends. There’s a good video of the open mike, full of honest music and a dynamic audience, and lot’s of cupcakes, I ate too many. Cameron, Jesse and Amy made my acquaintance that day and with awesome friend and musical collaborator Island L, we ventured off in Cameron’s new blue mustang to his house, with L in the trunk. There we partied and danced and partied and loved each other. At the end, I thought about the wild, possibly perfect day.

LIfe back in Parksville, May 14th

At Simon’s dad’s place I got cleaned up and we got to work on a new song. The evening before we’d stumbled upon the phrase “find your shine” as a central point to our project and existence in general. The phrase means that we should do everything possible to locate and engage in the action which brings you and the universe, the most joy. When we engage in those actions which are mutually beneficial, all parties win and each step into the metaphysical portion of life. We all have the potential to radically alter our worlds for the better, in millions of different ways, it’s about finding the courage to step into that place of personal power, to reject fear and societal restrictions in order to fully manifest that promise that lies within. A banjo track was laid down over some sick beats and we got to writing, magic was flowing and suddenly a series of thoughtful, challenging, humorous and compelling lyrics were recorded. Eventually we took a break for lunch when I ran into my friend Brad, who I met last year and has been living in the area for a long while. His life has progressed in the areas of skateboarding and living arrangement, but not much else, exactly how he likes it. We chatted about this small town that I left ten months ago, things have been more or less chrysalides, it is a vacation/retirement town after all. Everyone we talked about seemed to be happy simply living, working a bit, having fires, smoking pot, skateboarding, playing music, doing small town things. Some went off to namaimo for school, others across the country for travel, but most still just enjoying life in one of the most beautiful places on earth. S and I work on music some more then met up with Bossy and Darma at the Beach, there’s nothing like a parksville sunset. An elderly man approached me as I was picking the banjo and said he’d recently retired and just bought banjo, I did my spiel about the history of the banjo and clawhammer, which he much appreciated. He came from Ontario but had worked all over Canada with the RCMP, he then taught forensics at the RCMP school, but had always loved the sound of the banjo. While busking, I had a few fascinating moments, the first with was a 14 or so month old girl, who saw the banjo lying down and started staring at it, while I joyfully played it, she was transfixed, her two older sisters and parents came over and suddenly we had a dance party on our hands. Twirls and stomps galore on the boardwalk. Later a young local was so pleased with my rendition of his request, he gave me a necklace he’d made with a cool quarts pendent. Busking put a few extra dollars in my pocket, but I didn’t feel like spending them, I did the rounds of coffee shops and finagled myself some good free grub and a copy of the globe and mail. The thai situation I found the most fascinating. I saw some friends going back to their apartment and I followed suit, dropped off my bags then headed for the grocery store dumpster to engage in one of the types of active meditation I most enjoy while transcending some of the most malicious social boundaries we’ve been brainwashed into accepting. Jackpot mother load of near fresh produce and fancy bread, just like last year. With in the hour I had four pots of delicious stew ready for consumption, it lasted two days with the heavy youth traffic in that apartment. It was gobble up with joy and there was tones of grapefruit, oranges and apples for the morning. If you want to know more about dumpster diving, there’s an article from december that focuses on it. I crashed on their couch and slept extremely well.

Adventure from Commercial drive to Horseshoe bay. may 13th

Hello All,

Today was a bit more extreme then yesterday. I woke up a few times last night because jason was vomiting, when he pukes, there’s a deep wretch, a gurgle, then a high pitched scream, like a little girl. It was a disconcerting, but I knew he was alright, Brian and I are (were) lifeguards for heaven sake.

Packing my bag, one of the the small straps attached to a bigger strap, ripped off. I considered using my smaller bag, but it just wasn’t in the cards, I wanted to be comfortable should I have been forced to camp unexpectedly. Examining the broken part, I saw the seam was ripped along the top of it. A stitch in time saves 9 “they” say. After reinforcing the seam, the strap held. All day, and it’s looking good. I started off to cross an easterly bridge that was near brian’s house. It was the first time I’d attempted to go long distances with that backpack and banjo setup. The banjo started out around my neck, smiles were plentiful in the city. But it and the backpack were cumbersome. The pack was dumpster dived 6 years ago, then brought to France and the Netherlands. It’s over sized and the bottom sags, but the framework is steady and the hip, breast and attachment straps are fine. I made the load as light as possible, then took for the road. So, traveling west along the river, breaks were in order to keep up the pace, eventually I made it to the lion’s gate bridge. Upon stepping onto the bridge, a man on the opposite sidewalk was emphatically attempting to get my attention. The cars were too loud for him to yell so he made some quick signs; glasses with his hands then pointing downward. I looked over the bridge, which quickly goes from about three to 7 stories off the water. I saw nothing and kept walking, the fellow and the woman he was with continued to frantically look over the edge. I kept an eye on the water below and strolled to the crest of the bridge. There on the other sidewalk was another woman speaking into a phone attached to a yellow box, the emergency phone. The couple made their way up the bridge and finally there was a lull in traffic, “someone jumped”. Within moments a cop pulled up and stepped out. “Who saw it” he said, looking at me. I pointed across the bridge and they started talking. I kept my eyes trained on the water. Visualization popped into the mind’s eye, immediately I created a look, a figure, a perhaps disenchanted soul that decided to test the limits and boundaries of mortality. As the police boats sped by and the ambulance and fire truck pulled up to the low road, I looked up the number for the local CBC radio station and gave them a call. “Hi, I have a tip, someone just jumped off the lion’s gate bridge” “Did you see it”, “I didn’t see it” “So he hasn’t jumped yet?” “No he’s jumped, the witnesses saw it and told me to look down, there’s cops all over the place” “Oh, thanks”. I stayed a while and tried to see my first corpse. The cop boats were dropping markers and criss crossing the area,
at one point I saw a white and black thing bobbing in the water, then disappearing and coming back near by a few moments later, I think it was an animal.

Im in the woods right now and the light of the screen might be attracting visitors, off for now, more on today tomorrow.

Back, so I turned left after the bridge and commenced my trek to horseshoe bay by longboard with that huge bag on my back. I think it was about 35km or so and I would estimate the bag at 40 or 50lbs, it was a fun challenge. Quite a bit of up hill which got more extreme about three quarters of the way in, however I’ve attempted to employ something I call “ambidextrous pushing”, most people push skateboards with only one leg, balancing on the other; the result is an eventual sharp pain in the balancing leg and a tired pushing leg. Switching legs with each five pushes or so balances out the effort and makes life easier, especially when going up hills. Even then I had to walk up a few hills at the end when my knees started to ache. Going down hills was an entirely different experience. Descending the lion’s gate, I put on a work glove and pressed down on the railing to slow myself down. That combined with the foot drag style breaking offered ample control. With the extra weight, I made sure to stay within a speed that I could control, although when I saw there was a decent runout, I took advantage of the added speed and bombed some hills. When there were no cars about, I could make wide turns, slowing down that way. At one point on a deep frontside turn at a decent speed, the wheel lost traction and began sliding sideways. Normally this is an enjoyable occurrence, I had to hop off and run a bit to regain my balance, that was the only momentary loss of command. The sun was beating down hard as I headed directly into the it’s glare. It shawn beyond quarter to nine when I got to the ferry. Before leaving Van I checked my bank account online and saw in there 14$, the exact amount required to take the ferry. Upon arriving at the terminal, to my dismay they took only cash or credit, no debit. With utter futility I was rejected by the atm then the credit car machine. Thankfully the lady at the desk made a call to the office on the second floor, luckily the secretary was moment away from leaving when she did indeed answer. I dashed upstairs and was able to transfer those 14 electronic bits of digital information necessary to board the ferry. It was a great ride, the powerful engine smoothly shakethe whole boat. I met a fellow named Stewart who was also into longboarding and we went to watch the sunset on the upper deck. We hung out for a while then came across ten twenty year old surfers on their way to tofino. We danced, sang, ran and play like little kids, these folk were packed full of youthful energy, crystal children perhaps. After the ride I rendezvoued with Simon and Bossy, we caught up on old time, I showed off my newest b-boy moves and we talked turkey about the upcoming project. It was great hanging out with my old friends again, they’re working on getting pregnant and they going to name the boy child “Maximus” after me, and another friend of theirs named max. It was deeply touching to have been honored in that way. I recalled the three of us having conversation a year ago when Bossy was still with her husband, I was pointing out that her marriage seemed imbalanced. or unhealthy. Apparently S and B recalled those conversations as well. We hung out at Bossy’s spa with the dogs and talked metaphysics about the direction of the Pirate Yogi Crew, apple computers came up in the conversation, they have a core belief about computers that work well and easy to use, but also offer all the mythology surrounding the tree of knowledge. We were brainstorming what we believed to the core. It came down to expansion and exploration of the soul, universe and dimensions as well as living up to the potential that we know rests inside of us. To deny it would be an act of fear, also something we which to overcome. We hung out at S’s dad’s place for a bit then I went off to the estuary that I lived in on and off for about a month last year. I found my old spot with ease, did some writing and slept extremely well wrapped in my sleeping bag and tarp.