Results tagged “writing” from dead prophet

This year, with my kids getting a little older (3, 4 and 5) I'm making a pledge to get out and do more things. Like at least one thing a year to start. And what better place to start than Ottawa's free arts festival, WESTFEST.

The festival spans all divides of art with musicians, visual artists, authors, spoken word performers and live theatre. There are literally millions and millions of performers poised for powerful presentations of proactive imaginative machinations of pure pleasure.

Among the artists readying their creative outbursts are Lynn Miles (my favourite Ottawa (if not Canadian (if not worldwide... not really even joking))) singer/songwriter who was introduced to me by my lovely wife and whom I have had the pleasure of seeing live more than once, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Kinnie Starr, Joel Plaskett and many, many, many more.

And even though after a close examination of the list of hosts you might begin to think this is a subversive attempt by the CBC to take over a few city blocks with radio and television personalities, if you have the time and you want to mingle and rock, make an effort to join in the fray.

The festival takes place June 11 - 15 in Westboro Village, Ottawa (Richmond Road). And don't forget, it's free. For details check out westfest.ca and get crackin.

Oh, and they need volunteers for like everything.

Oh, Oh, also, they are linked up with Make Poverty History as well so it's all good, all the time.

It's a humble opinion, but true nonetheless. And given how easily I tend to slide into the rant, let it be said this isn't a beef, but an observation.

For all it's purported goodness and love. For all the talk and hope of the playing field being leveled. For everything that the internet is supposed to be and supposed to offer, really, all it's done is turn the world into one gigantic high school.

Hear me out.

Okay, maybe I'm the unpopular kid that nobody recognizes no matter how many classes they have with him. Or maybe I'm just the transfer student that nobody has had the chance to meet yet. Regardless, for all the billion dollar buyouts and social celebrities, when the digital dust settles and the typographic tumbleweed rolls on through, on the internet, what we're left with is a typical, cliched high school with all the good, the bad and the nasty.

Let me illustrate.

I'm finding a road
that runs through my head
I'm thinking out loud
while I'm lying in bed
I'm drawing a line
between this thing and that
I'm wearing a coat
and a lumber jack hat

I'm rambling on
So I'm singing this song
I'm happiest knowing
that my friends are all wrong
It's raining in spain
I'm feeling you pain
I've marked all the cards
but I'm losing again

Oh, it's kind of crazy
Just how lazy I can be
Oh, if it's just a game
then it's a shame that I am me

It's later than ever
It's now and it's never
I wish I was smart
but I'd settle for clever
I'm still in my bed
and you're still in my head
and I'm thinking to hard
about all that you said

Oh, it's kind of crazy
Just how lazy I can be
Oh, if it's just a game
then it's a shame that I am me

i can see the stars
i can see the moon
i can see the sky
i can see the clouds
i can see a passing airplane
i can see a bird
i can see a tree
from my prison cell

We need more content creators.

There are too many content reviewers... To many internet observers... too many apologists and evangelists...To many tweets twittering the latest and feeds feeding ravenous on their own selfish and anything but subtle self analytics.

We need content creators of diversity and vision and uniqueness.... risking the critical eyes of the observers in their millisecond glance and off-handed dismissals. Dancing a dirge in the mist of the vociferous fangs of the technorati and their buzzfeeds.

At least that's what I need.

10 times I looked out the window and saw 

"Dave!", she screamed from across the crowded bookstore.

I hate it when she talks so loud in public places. It makes me feel so... noticed. I hate feeling like that guy everyone looks at. I hate interrupting coffee shop conversations with a loud voice or a terse scream. She knows this. She senses my discomfort. She presses her lips together, waiting for a response. I close my book and begin to walk towards her, nodding to the young employee who has been raptured by my wife's screams.

"Dave!", she screams again. "Fucking hell, would you please come here".

My ears are burning. I'm aware of every single nerve ending in my body. My walk feels awkward. I'm trying to assimilate the fact that she both swore at me and said please at the same time. Please do not yell again. I want to be home, alone in my misery. "I'm coming", I said from across 2 aisles. I'm in self-help; she's looking for books for the kids. It's the second time in 3 months we've been out together without children. I'm sad. I miss having friends. I miss being friendly.

I'm finally next to her.

"Did you have to yell?", I ask. She is annoyed and looking for a fight. I should have backed off. I didn't mean to accuse her. Just feeling so insecure in this place.

"Did you have to ignore me the first 4 times I called?", she says. She's not looking at me. I'm looking at her ears. I used to kiss those ears. I miss those ears. I miss the way they felt when I first touched them. She's so bored with me. She's so impatient with me. She doesn't want me anymore. She won't admit it, she wants her idea of me. But I'm just me.

I'm just me.

Checking in.

It pumps

It's cold here.  And dark.  I didn't think it would be like this.  In my mind it was warm, dusk and full of life.  

stillness now
and then a quiver
the mud comes first
and then the river
the river runs
and so do I
the peace that passes
passed me by

I would like some french fries please. Could I also have a hamburger?

But remember, it's just pretend.

And I would also like a pine cone and a candy cane.

Here, I'll get it myself.

When you're feeling low

"Hello?".  His voice was rough and tired.

"Hi, sorry for calling so late."

"Who is this?"

"It's Sam.  Look, I'm sorry for calling but it's important".  Whatever was going to be said had to be said and whatever was going to happen wasn't going to be pretty.

"Sam?"  His voice picked up a notch while he registered the callers name.  "Is everything okay?"

"No, not really.  I'm in a bit of trouble."

"Tell me you didn't lose it."  Another notch up the panic ladder.

"Well.."  This wasn't going to go well.  "... that's kind of the problem."

"Shit Sam!"  There were no notches to describe the voice now.  "What the hell did you do!  Fuck!"

There was a very small silence that meant a very big deal.

"Sam!  Do you fucking know how many people are going to get killed know".

first things first
because the singing is the song
because the feeling is gone
because the days are too long

first things first
because my hair is on fire
because the bird on the wire
because the heart's desire

first things first
because you're lovin' what you see
because you're sitting next to me
because you're turning 33

first things first
when you've run out of time
when you're searching for a rhyme
when you're drunk and I'm high