Category: writing

police

07-27-2011_n1_900

 

The police officer is circulating the metro station. Escalator teeth sink into tiles, reminding you of waves, disappearing in the floor. Your feeling is that, as the metal step dissolves, it is gone, like the wave. The police officer is sitting beside you. Plastic boxes for the fluorescent lights, above, hold dirt, and bugs, and you only notice it for the first time, now, bored enough to examine the details of the station. The police officer is sharing your view. For better or worse the dirt of these lights and the teeth of this escalator are part of the cities’ landscape, and we notice them as much as the country kid notices squirrels in branches. One step is one step – one wave is one wave… It’s more beneficial to have a thousand individuals walking around a metro station than a thousand people who know each other, who can empathize and learn from each other – individuals need to Find Their Selves in products or political movements, vote for us, we aren’t those old bastards, you’re a rebel if you buy this thing – you will end up with this white woman, and look at these jets bro! The police officer is asking you a question. You answer: Waiting. Another stair sinks into the tile. The impression is that the wave is separate from the ocean: It is never that the ocean is touching the beach- slapping it, really. Life is always one piece splitting away, independent. The police officer is asking you another question. When you entered the metro you paid for your individual ticket and placed it in the turnstile. The machine clicked after you pushed the metal bar so that the person behind you knew this stranger had passed through and it was their turn to enter. It’s easier to control a shape if you tell each electron they are the most important, you can be a nucleus someday if you work hard enough, don’t mind all those others – you have nothing in common. The police officer is circulating the metro station. The same piece of gum keeps on coming up on this same stair.      

 

word by Liam Lachance

colour by Agilmore

kids are out of touch

tumblr_mub50oMDCt1rp2h1mo1_1280

Vinegar hints sweeten when wine ages: The value grows like investments in Congo’s coltan when the American iPhone hit e-shelves… That last sentence shouldn’t infer that the 2013 wishes it was the ’05, any more than the ’05 wants to be the ’13. No. It isn’t that the ’05 thinks the ’13 is necessarily dumber, or more ignorant, saying smug things like I was doing this when you were in diapers, kid. No. It isn’t that the ’13 doesn’t understand the world like the ’05 does, that it isn’t aware of why it likes what it likes because it doesn’t get the same (dated) pop-culture-references as the ’05, that it doesn’t think as critically as the ’05 because of a lack of years of winning or failing or just getting by, figuring out how to survive like an ’05. No, the ’13 does just fine, learns how to shake off pop-culture, soaked with information, wet and hungry for things that it hasn’t seen, new ways of breaking down things felt in high school or ideas cemented at parties, and, with all respect to the ’05- what a year– it might be drying up these revelations faster than the ’05 had, back in ’02. All these numbers… Please consider the following example: The ’13 just had one of those mind-blowingly-unreal revelations about ‘meaning’ and ‘purpose’ that the ’05, well, is going to have next year, a couple years late, but, uh, pull back the vines on this whole speech a bit, it’s really coming off thirteen-ish, isn’t it, let’s balance the thing with the fact that in no-way-not-a-fucking-chance-imaginable does the ’05 envy the ’13 and wish that it could switch bottles to be that age again, and work those part-time jobs again, and pass the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth sessions of exams again, to push out the intangible borders of Independent Life from high-school dependencies to capital-A-Adult controls, look at me, I am somebody, recognize me, to build new friendships and relationships and to figure how to tie that intangible border into a rope, something dependable to scale a cliff, tying knots for a net- not a noose, as those providing dependency might fear- pulling up, toward something new. The point is that time has made the ’05 sweeter but it has not made it better. Time has made it not only too expensive but also too bitter for people who like a wine that slaps you in the face at dessert and stains your teeth. Colours on your teeth help you feel that bit more responsible while brushing before bed.

colour by Telmomiel
words by Liam

dogs belong tied to posts

tumblr_lpnwk0B9Uq1qeafreo1_1280

Meeting in a group on four different occasions means judging strangers to build profiles that, sure, might blind you from getting to really know someone, but the survival reflex- To Judge- also means knowing what not to talk about, something crucial in CABBICY (Controlling Anger Before It Controls You), such as nothing-that-resembles-anything political to Mary, the anti-everything online news commenter who threw a chair at you the time you suggested something about capitalism being bad for the rich, and you didn’t duck; nothing-anything-remotely-close-to-anything-about meat to Sean, the Enlightened Vegetarian, who, after seeing you eat gummy worms, for some reason, called your dad a hypocrite, before apologizing with a medium Double-Double the next class, I’m sorry, but think of the bone marrow; or anything-whatsoever-that-resembles- any-words-in-the-same-dictionary as the word ‘dog’ to Jasmine, who just threatened to light your arm-hair on fire. 

All I’m saying is that not necessarily your dog, just dogs, in the general sense, in my opinion, are happier in the country.
Sure let’s tie the dog to a post so it can roam fifteen feet of land for the rest of its life in the rain!
All I’M SAYING is that some people have dogs on farms, where they’re supposed to be, in my opinion
What do you think: People who lives in mansions are jacked, and people who live in apartments are fat?
Don’t really follow you there… all I’m saying is that, in my opinion, dogs deserve to be in the wild, where all animals are from
Do you know the slightest thing about the past couple thousand years of domestication?
All I’m just saying is that, in my opinion, it’s unfair to have a dog in an apartment, because they should be tied to a post
You aren’t entitled to an opinion in something you have no idea about- this isn’t the fucking weather!

And so went the pre-armhair-burn-threat conversation, finally interrupted by the moderator. Eliza, the anti-dogs-in-the-apartment student, takes offense to the fuck your opinion comment, says I’m entitled to my opinion, whether or not it’s completely unsourced and just for me to feel like I am part of something, and Jasmine’s reply of Nobody is entitled to ignorant ideas gets a laugh from the circle- a rare thing. 

By the sixth class, you were able to guess accents, favourite styles of music.

By the eighth, you knew ticks: Sean’s giveaway ‘I think you’re an idiot’ eyebrow raises, the moderator’s tendency to repeat lines from the therapist on The Sopranos when he felt cornered, And how does it make you feel, Anthony, or Jasmine’s nails scratching her scalp when Eliza spoke, to grind away tension in her skull.

The tenth class means catching things that people try to conceal: Nose-picking, the half-second stares at you, between looking at things behind you (window to your right and the clock to your left), catching this secret examination, some glances building an image to remember you by, puzzle pieces to shape you together, Eliza. You forgot that it also meant your concealed glance had been caught by her- the necessary fact of meeting eyes- your attempt to go planter-Jasmine-moderator, light-moderator-Jasmine-plant.

colour by Aryz
words by Liam 

I’m the center of the galaxy

geometrieva

I am the center of the galaxy:People and buses and buildings and cafés curl around me, the main character of the city, planets orbiting the sun. (The fan slices air toward the radiator, fighting a -37C draft from this old window.) Being the center of the galaxy requires that you are in the right universe, the right city- otherwise, you might agree with that saying about how it doesn’t matter where you are, but who you’re with… The universe is more important than the stars. (You can’t help but blame your ancestors for having moved to such a frozen place: Who stumbles upon this death cold climate, where birds are flying away from, and says Hey, honey: I think we really found the place!) Control from the center means that everything happens to you, or that you are making things happen to others: All phenomena is because of you and your actions, at the center of the story: You receive the most praise or have the worst luck, stand in the longest lines, behind the worst drivers, in the hardest jobs: You confess in an intergalactic reality show booth, sharing your life with a camera for planets who want more of you, you, the star. (You can’t imagine how it could be colder, how things could be worse, with cold toes, your blanket only going so far, even if, sure, Mars whispered that, hey, -37C is warm to me, no offense, you know that they’re just trying to sound tough like Canadians who laugh at emergency closures when snow stays on the ground in the states, or Toronto.) What does it matter if the planets have problems- You’re a galaxy: Things happen to you for a reason, and, whether or not Mars is colder than your room, people rely on you- your life is unimaginably complex, different, and more challenging than these planets. (Planets couldn’t understand the troubles of a galaxy if they sent trillion dollar space equipment, whether manned by Einsteins or monkeys.) Spring is just around the corner.

colour by Nina Geometrieva 
words by Liam Lachance 

Keep Mufasa Dead

57011736fd94bd4806f1dc037271b5a5

“Inner Glow,” by DSORDER

Mufasa is dead. The new king explores his new jungle with the same good blood in his paws as his father: Tempted by hyenas with black voices, he says, watch the throne- let’s go, Nala. The death of a perfect someone is meant to piss you off: Evil characters aren’t supposed to survive. You learn that lions are either good or evil, and it’s up to you to kill the right one. Painting Scar evil means giving him dark features that people will associate with having an empty heart, alligator tears, blackness associated with evil, subtle racism sold in cartoons, animals succeeding or failing through their relationship to the perfect hero warns kids that if you don’t try to become perfect, you’ll become Scar: Sad. What the fuck, this guy’s criticizing cartoons, I just liked the songs, get over it, Hakuna matata, brother. I know: I get it: We shouldn’t analyse everything to death, weren’t the colours nice, just enjoy Rafiki, dickhead. When stories show people who are all good or all bad, the Americans and Russians of Hollywood explosions; the Scars and Mufasas of cartoon jungles; when the story of a crack dealer going to jail is played before the CEO of a billion dollar drug dealer announcing it will take advantage of your desire to help others and introduce a pink line of drug packaging; when the viral video of the poorest black person saying something stupid is prefaced with a Lexus commercial; when good or bad characters are included in any form of media you are supposed to feel one of four things: 1. Don’t become bad, this is how to stay good, this is what I should buy, and this is the group that can help bring me there… just look at what happened to Scar: All that fire. 2. Good people help bad people become better, so they don’t die, like Scar, because they are so nice. 3. You can become good if you work harder: It’s possible to become perfect: You can become white, rich, and saved. We sell a cream for that. Ever heard of hell? 4. Bad people always lose to good people, so stay on the good side and don’t forget that bad and good people exist: We’ve done studies: Your heart is either full, or broken: This rumour that human beings are actually mixes, with hearts of daffodil yellow or pylon orange or mint green is just a rumour: Mufasa was not sometimes helpful, sometimes in need of help, sometimes tired, sometimes intelligent, sometimes unsure, sometimes fun, sometimes strong, sometimes boring, sometimes patronizing, sometimes insecure, sometimes excited, sometimes friendly, sometimes introverted, sometimes: All this realism, no, he is always perfect. The complicated nature of people isn’t sexy. It’s hard to sell when you’re trying to hook people in for a later message, the whole become good thing, Join Us, and you want people to stay in the room or to read the next page. Insert an empty page between chapters, or double-space your pages, but it had better have fake characters. When we sit up from the death of Scar, from a video warning us not to become poor, from a book talking of a perfect love, we need to wonder who benefits from the way you now think. How hard do you now work, how much are you buying, are you going to Church? In order to give people credit, we need to look at them like human beings, where there is no objective standard of pure good or pure bad. You’re stuck in a jungle, and that hierarchy rarely changes- except in the death of a king. And who replaces Mufasa?

colour by Dsorder

words by L.L.

This is for the person who has to smile

8005192520_0e0b5505b1_z

trigger warning: sexual harassment

This is for the person who has to smile

or shake their head, or walk faster 
because of a follower who wants

to be that person 

who meets people

who people love

who women love

who doesn’t answer texts right away
who repeats lines from someone smooth in the movie
who succeeds in front of friends

and is recognized

and is validated

I’m a good person, I’m
doing the right thing,

people like me.

colour by Elian
words by Liam

Find me

1_86

Find me. Find her finding people to sift through. Find them in class, hearing words about a genocide over bananas, googling new grocery stores. Find the person in the lab, contrasting numbers. Find her on the keys at night, touching, never pressing, etching circles on a ledger line. Find them on the computer, scrolling through photographs, selecting, saving, liking, loving. Find her rejecting the cover band, preferring anything unique, ting of spoon on pint glass. Find him hunting down ideas to disagree with, the comments footer a better place to hide than bottles. Find her buying wood, screws, straight angles. Find him touching sleeves, shaping hierarchies of style for the week. Find them preferring women when they are quiet, telling sisters not to wear makeup. Find me.

colour by Elian & Seth

words by L. L. 

Parents against Parrots

cc

A switch flicks, darkness brings silence, a glass smashes, a seven year old enters the kitchen, to the argument.
Dad?
Go back to your room, everything’s okay
Can I have a drink?
Just hold your horses, there’s broken glass
Can I have a drink?
Listen to your father, and go back to your room, please,
If I go back to my room, can I have a drink?
We’ll come see you soon. Jenn, I’m saying there’s no question that the system as it stands now in Ontario has been extremely effective in giving preference to young Catholic people and allowing opportunities to have a strong education.
You’re quoting him again.
I’m saying that our government has done everything in its power to strengthen the system that exists – and that means having a strong Catholic education system.
Really- her now? And what would you say, if, say, they cut funding to Catholics, and chose Hindus instead?
I really believe that the system as it exists should be strengthened, with an aim to cooperation, multiculturalism, and tolerance
I guess, well, what politician is going to engage the majority of their support base, and the christian lobby? Who wants to lose their job over that.
The debate had gone on three hours of wine too long. They went from discussing graffiti- stuck on the idea that modern art, hanging in galleries, was the climax of ‘good’ art- to the politics of tattoos- everyone will regret them, because we don’t have any- returning finally to the debate whether there were, well, dilemmas in only paying for Catholic schools from everyone’s taxes. The news was designed to share talking points, it seemed, and muzzle their critical, independent ideas.

Politics aside, Catholic schools teach our kids values, to go and do things, not just to sit around and talk about it, or repeat things they’d heard

WOW so everyone who isn’t Catholic just talks about the weather?
Values, I’m saying, of helping others, to be selfless, to be human- things you couldn’t learn on your own
You have no faith in people- is that ironic?
Jenn, I’m saying, how would you think to pack up your things, save your money, and go teach black people in their country how to be civilized? Education, that’s how-
Oh you’re just quoting the commercial now. I never understood all the clips of people in other countries: how was their suffering related to your white school board attempt to win over some parents-
Our kids went to save them, Jenn: Don’t act as though it wasn’t worth anything
mom mom I think everybody should just drink juice, can I have some

colour by ccekios

words by L.L. 

Parents Against Parents

ccekios

Children were quite a test of who you were: They walked around repeating things you said, echoing things said in kitchens, like mobile parrots. You couldn’t blame a seven year old kid for having an opinion on Obamacare, or graffiti, or the government funding one branch of religious schools, because, well, they were seven. Born in ’07. You had to give a seven year old credit: They were seven. Seven. No seven year old actually thought I believe graffiti is immoral like tattoos, or I think to backing one religion while saying you’re mul-ti-culti-raw is so embarrassing! No. Or maybe they did. Maybe they were those seven year olds from Guinness, the Youngest University Student, Youngest and Most Bored Person In This Seminar, I Just Want Some Juice.

Parents were these labels used by adults for anything, really, like those scenes in Hollywood movies where the victim got away by saying I’m a parent- I have a daughter at home, and a dog who doesn’t listen to me unless I growl, or the capital P Parent, plastered on resumes, Member of the Parent Action Committee, Volunteer Organizer at Parents Against Obamacare, Director of Parents Against Parrots, Parents Against Alternative Medicine, Parents Against Medicine, Parents Against Parents, Parent Bar Meeting About Nothing.

I’ll have a pint of Guinness

Coors Light for me

I’ll follow the man with the gray hair and have a Guinness

Coming right up

I think you’re just jealous of my gray foxiness

That’s it

Miss Henderson seems to be quite the fan.

Whatever guys back to the issue: All I’m saying is that, sure, I appreciate that some people can be supported by the Government, but it’s been a hundred years: They’re not exactly some fading group

This coming from a man who drinks Coors Light.

Yeah, you forgot your skirt at home or what?

I’ll have you know that it is delicious and crispy. The point I was trying to make is that how can our government benefit with immigration and everything by saying oh, look at how tolerant we are, but we really prefer the Catholics.

You mean accepting.

You know what, I’ll agree with you, just for the sake of moving on.

You guys know what I’m saying

I think you’re forgetting the French thing: They kind of need it to keep their thing going, don’t you think?

The French: I think it’d save us a hell of a lot of tax payer dollars if we just let everyone do what they want

I guess that’s a good point, but why couldn’t they do it in a public system? How can you say we’re not going to think non-catholic means not-normal when there’s a fucking cross on the front lawn? Is that tolerance?

You mean acceptance. And I think that religion is part of culture, and so taking the Catholic away from French would be like, uh, taking you away from your water.

HA

Let’s say this whole culture idea is good, that trying to create this one idea of what a normal person is in our province is like a necessary thing in order to sell the province to companies, it still assumes that the other traditions are foreign, because they’re not Catholic, or from here, although they are now from here

Someone get me a pistol and a bag of chips

Today, in class, we’ll be talking about languages: Does anyone remember about languages? Yes, Kathy?

English is a language.

Yes, it is. Does anybody know the names of some different languages?

French

Thank you, Brian, but please put up your hand next time.

They’re stupid

ahahhahahaha

oh man

ha

you‘re stupid!

Brian: That was not a nice thing to say, please apologize to the class.

I’m so sorry

Nobody is stupid: We’re all the same, it doesn’t matter what language you speak. Does anybody know the names of any other languages?

the French are so stupid cause they took my mom’s job

whatever bry your dad drinks coolers light!

to be continued this Friday

colour by ccekios

words by L. L. 

read more info on the current school debate in Ontario

Trending now: The conclusion

Indie184_TakeMeAway

Yellow. She had recognized him from the news, and so she went on, despite his boring answers about colour, this brother of the accused murderer, wondering if he had thrown out his forks.   

Do you come here often?

Here?

To galleries, do you go often, I mean?

No.

Where are you from?

Why?

I’m sorry if I’m-

Vegas.

She considered taking the next step, asking the question she wanted to ask, about the cutlery, if his sister had ever made any sudden movements during their dinners together, of which there must have been hundreds, thousands of meals that you share with a sibling during the course of your life.

Thousands, probably.

What?

What?

You just said, “thousands,”

Oh, no, you misheard me.

She had again messed up her words, she thought, wanting to ask if she’d ever stabbed him with a fork, or at least used the prongs to fling a pea, but she was insecure about her ability to convince people of things, or draw people closer to her, through the things that she said. She wasn’t as bad as she thought she was, as is always the case with too many mirrors in a house, but she considered that, well, maybe nobody is perfect, aside from Obama, and Sir. John A, but, the point was that everyone made mistakes, it made you human, right, but why did I think I needed to be perfect to start out with?

The news.

What?

What?

“The news.” You just said the news.

No, I said, blue. I like how she used blue, for the necklace.

You aren’t too good at this whole keeping discrete thing, you know.

What?

You heard about my sister.

Did she ever fling a pea at you?

You know, taking news about someone as representative of who they are is the same as believing a stranger who writes the story of your family from your front lawn.*

colour by Indie184

words by L. L. 

see the first scene here