Saturday, July 24, 2010

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

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 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,



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..’”

Friday, July 16, 2010

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.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

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 to tell me I’m doing the right thing here. I know I am, but your support is appreciated.