Friday, 24 January 2014

MaryMary’s Christmas Letter
2013: packaged and stored.

Much as I’d like to be a flowing being aware only of seasons and the solstice, I’m not immune to the arbitrary devotion and containment of time through a calendar.  I remain on the rails of years driven by religious festivals and tax returns.  So, in celebration of my unremarkable outlook, I roll down a condom over the year, tie a knot in it and fling it in a bush along with the green bags of dog shit.

Metaphorical condoms, because of course, I had my nuts fixed in twenty thirteen (see previous post).  Unless some axis shift happens to my sex life I will only ever be tying these analogous knots in contraception.  Right about the time when my goat bag got the knife and the completion of my fortieth year was celebrated, I fucked myself up on a snowboard-  a brand new ride, given to me by my considerate partner as an accolade of two score years well lived. I was only four hours into steering a board the equivalent of a 2013 Audi after I’d been butchering turns on the snowboard version of a ’93 Honda Civic for the last ten years, when I lost control in a steep wide gully. The god of mercy sliced of a morsel of pity and whilst I was rag dolling seeing sky, board, snow, sky, snow, I missed all the rocks and finally came to a stop, spitting out snow while coming to terms with what a knackered knee might mean, and how shit I looked just doing it.  Sushi that night on crutches.

Still, I wasn’t that bovvered- the weather was shit for climbing and really, the ski hill kind of pisses me off- all those saps vying for the best run of the day, the best experience, the freshest pow and generally dressed in the most hideous of fashion- the young’uns all punk rock, skiing in their own mental video, middle aged vacationers keen to get back to the hotel room and upload their unedited head cam footage.  Please, can someone jam our culture with more crap, self absorbed video? (I’m only doing it in writing)

I was then, not distracted by outdoor recreation and that afforded me more time to get some stencils cut for a couple of shows.  The results, as ever did not meet my expectations but suggested the possibility of achieving something satisfactory if I keep labouring at it.  Those punk rock skiers mostly filled up the opening night of the show I participated in at Whistler.  I got really baked before going, which usually gets me all chatty.  It was a cliquey self congratulation party though and I felt unclean gabbing on about my work, desperate to sell something.  So, I shut the fuck up and felt embarrassed for the ‘breakdancers’ ‘throwing down’ in front of the DJ.  Why can’t these events have decent tunes?  Hang the fuckin’ DJ allright.  I sold one piece for cheap and got 50% back from the corporation putting on the show.  Fuck it.

Art work withered, receding like a vampire from the good weather.  Forcing the knee to comply I took my time to the rocks for the drier months.  And who wouldn’t?  I’ve been climbing rocks for so many years, its like doing self acupuncture to my brain.  I think I’ve stylized levels of fear and excitement to a point where I can palpate my mind with quite accurate levels of adrenaline.  Often I’d work toward just a taste of doubt and risk lobbing off a cliff in more or less safe conditions.  And I’d always sup up the flavour, check myself looking primal, but vogue y’know- with mah pumped muscles claustrophobic in a t-shirt, too small with a picture of a girls’ ass on it.  Then ride our newly acquired moped home, road raging big trucks in my way, trying to pass them with 50cc’s pinned.  And then, barfed out of my afternoon and into the house to make a semblance of healthy dinner for two small children before bath, teeth, stories, song and kiss.  All the time trying not to lose my shit with a screaming three year old… processed, done, off the clock.  Downstairs: hands through hair, examine bagged eyes and flick through records, decide what aural candy should replenish my psychic cannons.  

My ill mood though, was oft cajouled down the underpants of my mind, where the demons of bitterness tried to bum me out with thoughts of how bad shit the graffiti is around Squamish. 2013 certainly was a banner year for fuckin’shitty graffiti in this town.  But, after an evening bifter, soon my psychic energy began refueling to the likes of Carlton Melton, all shivering wavey riffs decorated with pyramid infused stretchy guitar solos, I left the grime and ascended back to the correct vibration.  And from there I could address the music I was hearing and ponder what was it that I was going to put on next that could be rival.  Western, privileged , first world problems.

I got into several new bands and discovered old stuff that was knew to me.  If anybody wants a DJ 2014 in 2014, that’s me. That’s my DJ name, DJ 2014.  It’s going to be a big year.  Just don’t expect a professional.  Expect someone who might be freshly haunted by a Vice report about Syria, or Afganistan.  Things will probably look up after a couple of lagers however.  Not that crafty honey lager shit though.

2013 saw another year click by in our claustraphobic slice of  high density Canadian town-house living.  Most of our neighbors burrow deeper into their winter jackets to avoid acknowledging each other.  Loud guy is still about though. ‘MIIIILLD’ he said- shouted the other day. Yup it’s mild alright.  Thank the gods we’ve got weather to talk about, because sure as global warming, no one gives a toss about anything but the most boring of modernity in our neighbourhood- mortgages, payments, retirement.

So here’s to 2014- one foot in the grave, the other on a blinding beam of infinite light.  I’m going back to the cutting bored.  New work up at the Kozo Sushi in Squamishtown for Febuary.

Love marymary.

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