An ode to everything

An ode to everything, for everything is, in the darkest of times, no never alone, only yourself and everything else, the most that there ever was, the most that there is,the most that there will, the most of my will. Alll of myself, verses for everything, for life is a fight, a fight we can't win, a fight to remember, a life celebration, a fight of lovers that are lovers forever, a love for the spirit, the spirit of all, and the spirits that were and the spirits that will be. An ode to myself, since I am a part, I may not have begotten, what I have got, but I am myself and all that is not, I am myself, the parts and the parcels. An ode to Scotland, the scotch and the whisky, the wines, and the beer and the spirit. An ode, oh, my friends, an ode to distance, the internet, cheese and baklava and bread. An ode to singing, at night, in the dark, naked and listening to Beethoven that's all. The beetles and Buddha, Muhammad, Obama, Confucius and Snoopy, an ode to them all. The suns and the guns, my cloths and my cock, for coffee and cola, for the love of it all. An ode to Jesus, which repeats after all, for thousands of years, the best god of all. Explosions Hazaah, the great sextasy, and the lesser pleasures, like shitting and pee. An ode to it all, the majestic feelings, the deepest sorrows, of cats and of dogs, of horses and boars, dejection and more and more and more, ad infinitum.

Hello!!

My stuff keeps getting hacked. Fuck the Internet.

I Am Not One of Don Cherry’s Good Old Canadian Boys

I have nothing against Don Cherry’s good old Canadian boys, but they are not like me. Most of them grew up on farms in Northern Ontario or the prairies. Don Cherry’s good old Canadian boys like fighting and drinking. They have a strong sense of belonging to a group. They like the military and could have worked in construction. They are never Asian, Black or Latino. Don Cherry’s good old Canadian boys are probably pretty good people, and I admire how they are good hockey players willing to dedicate themselves completely to the group, but they are not like me. I never liked Gilmour or Clark, my favourites are Kovalev and Subban, players who play with style and skills, rather than grit and determination. I think that Europeans have a lot of qualities that are worth emulating and we should look towards them for guidance, at least as much as we look at Americans. I don’t think that Russians lack heart or passion, or anything else for that matter. And the French are my cousins, even if they are arrogant, they are family. Don Cherry’s good old Canadian boys are rarely from Quebec, although I once spent some time with dairy farmers in Coaticook, Quebec. People there were fatter than me, they wore “casquettes” at the rinks, they ate poutine and played hockey. I think Don Cherry would have liked them, they were simple people, good people, but they were different from me. As a kid, I wanted to play hockey. I was a Canadian boy, but I wasn’t good. I didn’t like to wake up early to go to games and practices. The game bored me very quickly and I didn’t like to put on so much equipment to play a few minutes per period. I didn’t feel comfortable in the arena. My parents were hippies and I think they were glad I didn’t like it. They also thought hockey was expensive and neither of them liked it. Don Cherry’s good old Canadian Boys’ parents will go to great lengths to help their kids play hockey, my parents paid for my university. Good old Canadian boys do not like downtown Montreal and Toronto. Places where people have holes in their skin from various piercings, they do not like the gay village and they do not like colourful turbans and funny accents. Most of my friends have funny accents and, in truth, I probably have one too. Good old Canadian boys work with their hands, and I work with my mind. I would rather outsmart or charm an enemy, than beat him to a pulp I do not think Don Cherry is a great Canadian, and I think he should stop talking about women, because when he does it, it’s bad for the country. I do not like Don Cherry. I don’t like how he thinks that violence is a means to an end. I don’t like his blind support for the troops, regardless of their use or actions. And I don’t like how he has become a hero to our nation, a nation that has become so engrossed in claiming it’s greatness, that it has forgotten how it has gotten there, and how to move forward toward progress. A nation that is so steeped in the comfort of home entertainment systems and backyard barbecues, that a clown can become a national hero. A nation who keeps voting for a government the objects to environmental law, a nation where the rights of some Canadians, are more important than those of others. I dislike Don Cherry, not for who he is, because I don’t know him personally, but for what he stands for, the unwillingness to change our habits and customs, both in hockey and in the nation that loves the game so much.

I have not hustled on this site for a while which is quite a shame. I will try to come back more often. I am now in Beijing where translate the bizarre world of Chinese state-owned enterprises into English. Lately I've been writing a poem for my company. I'll have to post that soon. For now, here are pictures of mountains around Beijing. This is Miaofeng Mountain.

Toronto is a wasteland

I spent most of my weekends two weeks ago taking pictures around town with my friend Lucy (who is actually called Zhangmanyun). It was a glorious time. I'd forgotten how I like taking pictures. I like how you can create a completely different reality out of a small piece of life. It just depends on the frame. I like to zoom in on things to make them appear as they are not.


I feel as though I am in an artistic renaissance after going through the dark ages. I've really found my beat as a part-time artist. I'm doing 1-2 painting a week, and getting some other things in there. This blog is also a nice outlet.

Anyway, Toronto is a nice subject for photography, it's vast and has a lot of diversity. It's the mix that is interesting, in terms of creating a mystique out of a small part of reality, there is quite a deal of reality in this down.

I can't stop listening to this song. I took two, by Daedalus. It's very genius. And it sort of reminds me of this song. They're the types of songs that make me want to go out and kick some ass. Become something more than myself. It's very hard to more than oneself. I'd say it happens only a few times a year. True moments of brilliance and genius.

Sometimes when I'm biking around the city I also feel like those songs. But I have to see it from a third person point of view. When I picture myself like that I think that it's like a drum n bass video. Especially in the city, with all these strangers around me.

Strangers are a bit odd and remind me of alienation. Now I feel that my life is like a movie. I think that is it for now.

Having had a glorious summer of procrastinating on writing my memoir for way too long, getting maried, going to visit my mother in Africa and hanging out with my father, I logically ended up unemployed in Toronto this autumn. I could have gone anywhere else, but I must have felt as though I had some unfinished business here because I came right back.



At first, I wasn't planning on coming to Toronto. I even passed through Toronto and met with some friends, being all smug and thinking that I would not be there for a good little while. Then I encountered the furry of American border agents who refused me entry to the United States. Border agents are a hard reminder of the often oppresive powers of the state. True impersonal bureaucrats imposing rules from above, use meak individuals can do nothing to counter their computer powered obstination at refusing or allowing us entry to their country. And so, in the face of assholes wearing blue suits, Native American cigarette smugglers start to appear as true anarchist heroes destroying borders one zodiac boat at a time. But I digress...

So it is that I came back to the glorious gray skyline of west Toronto where I seem to have acclimatised myself unwillingly. At first I was quite confident that I would find a job at a moments notice. I found an apartment in three days in a basement with no windows and a short ceiling that forces me to bend in two whenever I need to shower (usually once a day). My upstairs neighbour smokes joints like it's going out of fashion so that the apartment usually smells of a mix of dirty dishes and mariuana. I am forced to leave the house often and early, otherwise the lack of sunshine puts me in a stuppor forcing me to play videogames and fall asleep.

Oddly enough, I've been quite happy here. I have good friends who are similarly unemployed. And perhaps more importantly, I started painting again. The thing with being unemployed is that you get a whole lot of free time all of a sudden. This was refreshing at first, then, I started going insane. Logically I decided to start painting, but since I'm very ADD I also got a bunch of Star Trek Deep Space Nine episodes from my friend. This has caused me to paint gloriously colorful apartments while watching space opera in a gloomy basement. I've been very happy about all that.