A bell in the dark

Erkki

I met Erkki Turunen on a playground in Edmonton in April 2008.  It was the second anniversary of my grandfather's death, and almost the end of my first year of university.  There was a lot swirling around.  Less so for me, I should say, than for the rest of the people there: they were all on mushrooms. I had decided to stay grounded in the world of the living, to make sure my friends didn't light themselves on fire or jump off the roof or anything.  I had no idea if those were things people  tried while on mushrooms, just as I didn't know where people went when they died, or what they did when they finished university.  I was the only one worrying about that kind of stuff, though, and this comforted me for a while.

That evening there were seven of us, of whom I knew three the best:  Brian Yoshida, Joel Whitten, and Joel Byrne.  When both Joels were on hand, the rule was to call Joel Whitten Joel-Joel (for he had been in this group of friends the longest, and was presumed to be the Joel), and Joel Byrne was called Loud Joel in order to distinguish him from Joel-Joel.
Two exchange students were there that evening: a Finnish one and a French one, both of whose names eluded me for the time being.  I had an inkling that the French one was Martine, but this would prove to be false.  The Finnish one... I couldn't even take a stab at his name.  Huck Finn. Damn it, I had known it earlier.  Reminded me of junior high for some reason.  Anyway.
The last member of our crew was Sam, who was there because it was his house.  He was Brian's roommate, and that was all I ever knew about him.

I looked at my phone just as it struck the hour of two, and as the credits rolled on the nth episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force.  Fuck, that show irked me enough as I was.  These guys were all on mushrooms.

The word irk skated through my mind in search of something to connect with.  I jutted out my lower lip, locked in thought, and Joel-Joel shot me a weird glance from across the room.

"We need to go the park..." he half-sung, spiral-cutting a finger through the air, "Mr Gatekeeper!"

At this, the rest of the team lolled their heads towards me.  Park...? they all seemed to groupthink at me.  There was a kids' playground across the road.  But it was 2am.  Ground rules were vital.

"Don't fuckin shout when you're outside.  And if you have to piss..."

"PISS," said Loud Joel.

"Yeah, in here, before we go." I said.  Those were the rules.  Loud Joel scrambled for the can.

When he emerged, I told them let's roll, and roll did we let.

***

At the park, most of the Psilocybin Psquad just wanted to sit and rip up grass or feel some dirt.  This was good.  I was glad to be in the company of other people and kind of alone at the same time.  Late nights in mid-April are still some of my favourites for being outside and semi-alone.  And this was an especially pretty night.  A we've-survived-the-winter kind of night.  Spring was a go.  The sky was wrinkly obsidian (somehow).  Maybe there were clouds, maybe not.  A flash from high school English, the moon lies fair upon the straits, fit the bill at the time.  But I think that line's actually about the beach.

I had climbed onto the old play structure, and found a little red bridge to lean on, all the time scanning the sky-wrinkles.  I was eyes-deep in that dark, that hugeness, distantly wondering if my grandfather existed, when someone asked me if I had heard that.  Heard what?

"Somebody's speaking Elephant back there, man.  Some kinda elephant talk," said a lean space cadet.  His words clinked like a box full of cups.  This was the Finnish kid, Rikki, Kirkki, Ikkri, Krikka, I knew it had two Ks in a row, anyway.  Probably two of everything.

I looked back and saw Martine, the other exchange student, pouring some ebullient French down her phone at somebody.  She was on the other side of the park, but her voice was big and round, her words were strange, and her teeth made Morse code blinks in the dark.  She was hard to miss.  Perhaps this was the elephant whisperer this guy was talking about.  I told Kokiri-Forest-whatever-his-name-was that Martine was just speaking French.  When I swung my face back towards him we almost clocked our heads together.  He was trying, it seemed, to stare into my every memory.

"YEAH.  ELEPHANT FRENCH," he honked.  I wondered if he thought I was changing colour. He continued,
"Do you ever, like... she probably learned Elephant after she went to the zoo and saw their really sad elephant they have.  And now the elephant has somebody to reach out to, which is really good."

I agreed.  I told him this was almost certainly the case: that girl Martine had seen the awful languid lashes of that leathery beast at the worst zoo in the developed world, and had rushed to remember her pachyderm patois in order to commune with the creature.  Something like that.  It was all coming together.  Kekkrikki agreed with an urgency and investment I felt utterly unprepared for.

"Yeah Joëlle's pretty nice, dude," said Huck Finn.

"Who is?"

"Joëlle, man, the elephant chick.  The nice one."

It wasn't Martine at all.  Now there was a Joëlle-Joel.  I mentioned this to my northern companion.

"There's only one name out here!  I don't believe fucking this!" he shouted.

His hands were on his head.  His English, by and large, was great, but he still misplaced the odd fucking.  He laughed not unlike a cartoon dolphin, and beamed at me.  But following this, he sunk a little, and his eyes were suddenly big elephant feet.  I felt him catch some of my sky-scanning half-aloneness.  What the hell was his name?

"Dude," he cooed, "There's a sadness about you, man."

Finally somebody was speaking my patois.  It wouldn't hurt to tell him what was on my mind.  He'd probably forget.

"I had a grampa who spoke like Joëlle-Joel.  He died two years ago today, in my parents' kitchen, eating his raisin toast.  He was 65, and the night before he was pointing and shouting at the supper table, giving his own father hell -- my great-grandad, who's alive still, he's like a hundred -- and it was hilarious.  Because he'd been a bastard the whole rest of his visit.  Then he drank some wine and holy there was his childhood, on the table.  Chuckin bales.  Gettin in fights.  Maybe he didn't chuck bales actually... but I learned he had a twin brother, which I didn't know at all --"

"What's your name again, man?"

Oh yeah, I don't really know this person, I thought.  I'd really pulled myself back into old Arsène's last supper.  The playground wrung back into view. 

"James," I said, "Jim."

"I'm Erkki, man," and Erkki gave me a hug.  Then he yelled at the rest of the pack to climb up on our bridge and get in the hug.  They did.  It was glorious.  I don't know what I had been feeling while I was talking about Arsène.  It wasn't grief.  I didn't really like the man.  If we didn't share a surname I'd've said he was a pretty shitty guy.  But in that big fungus-addled group hug I made a note of how I'd never talked about it -- about any of that stuff.  Good on you, Erkki.

Erkki.  Why the hell does that sound so familiar?

"THERE'S A FUCKIN CAR!" somebody screamed.  In my ear. It was Loud Joel.  Joel Two of Three.

"No problem, guy," Erkki said.  The white surf of his voice rolled over my busted ear, and all was cool,
"We're just a buncha people huggin in a park."

It's Going To Be A Song

does he like me
doesn't mean anything lyrics
does ups deliver on saturday
does extenze work
does p90x work
does he love me
doesn't mean anything alicia keys
does he love me quiz
does fedex deliver on saturday
does rogaine work

The Dream Of The Defenestrated Dog

This is from 26 December.

It was pretty much a gathering of everybody I know. I certainly felt like EVERYONE I knew was there, but I only got to interact/get in adventures with a few people.
All the action went down in or near a huge freaky old house. It was white. On the outside it was a larger version of what I've heard described as a crumbleshack, sort of leaning, maybe in the wind, and alone in a vast rural area. I didn't see it from the outside until later on. On the inside the place was very comfortable with bright windows and open space. At least two stories. Clean. Enough room for, it would seem, EVERYONE I knew.
The first person I definitely ran into was Jesse, who alerted me to her presence with great grace and ladylikeness and we had what I remember was a really wonderful reunion (having not seen each other in a long time), although I don't remember what was said or anything. I think the main point we both drove home was how long it had been.
My conversation with Jesse happened in the basement, and across the room Rob Grieve and Chelsea Very, who I'm sure have never met, were arguing with each other over who was better. I don't think at any one thing in particular. Just who was better. Rob asked for my help a few times, saying "Alev. Come on. I'm better right??" whereon Chelsea would sharply criticise Rob for saying my name wrong.
Paul Woida was also in the basement, and his new way to greet his friends was to lift them o'er his head like the Stanley Cup, and that's how he said hello to me. He had a t-shirt with ALGERNON written on it in large friendly letters.
I then headed upstairs where someone who I believe to be Rob Campeau was shouting "KISS ME!!!" with thespian passion at various guests. I haven't seen you in a while Rob so forgive me if this is all I could dream about.
In the large magnificent kitchen, Kyle Gardiner, Marcus Engel, and Lewis Longard were cooking up a likely incredible dish that I would guess might involve a blowtorch, Sriracha, and noodles, based on the brains involved. Maybe a spicy baked pasta dish! The three of them were having quite a time. But Marcus refused to use any kitchenware that wasn't gold. Lewis sang "Hoist That Rag" by Tom Waits, which I'm not sure he's ever heard.
I hear Paul Woida shout "ALEV COME PLAY WITH THE DOG!!!" from the gigantic sitting room on the same floor. Scores of people were piled into chairs and couches having a rambunctious time, and playing with a golden retriever. I was passed a squeaky toy and this dog, whose name was apparently Rubbish, threw his retrievin eyes on me. So I threw the squeaky toy. It landed behind a big comfy chair by the window and I thought that the dog saw this. But instead he leapt through the (closed) window to give airborne chase to the squeaky toy. I ran to see what he might be landing on, because there was an immediate stir among the sitting room throng. Cries of concern for the defenestrated dog. I looked out the window and saw that the big house was precariously perched on a cliff (what another house-on-a-cliff-related dream of mine would call a grace, "a house on a grace") and our friend Rubbish had been dealt his doggy demise (probably).
Paul Woida was the first to blame me. His humongous Woida eyes dumped soggy guilt onto my Alev heart. I wished I had been the defenestrated one. But Paul agreed to go with me to search for the dog, and so did Maddy Geneau who was there also apparently.
The three of us ventured outside to where everybody was keeping their shoes. I couldn't find mine. And all the other shoes had keys and wallets in them. So I went in my red socks to search for this dog with my two friends who have never met in real life. But we were embarrassed by the dog's name, and after shouting 'Rubbish' a few times with no success we decided to shout something else. I started shouting "ALGERNON," and my friends Paul and Maddy followed, sort of. Paul shouted "ALGERNAN" and Maddy shouted "ALGERNIN" but after a great deal of shouting, the dog, Rubbish/Algernon/an/in, returned completely unharmed, but with no squeaky toy.

Garburator Man

The thick soupy fog that settled last night left frost on everything this morning. It makes me wish I had some thick foggy soup around, but I don't really. Not the kind that I imagine would really hit the spot on this kind of grey day.
The birch trees have frost hanging off their wintry tendrils and they look like spooky old ladies telling stories, or chasing their rosy grandchildren around with their teeth out. All the other deciduous trees are wizards shouting at the sky trying to make snow fall on me. It's working a tiny bit. No lightning strikes or avalanches. A girl once told me you can spell it Lightening. But that's something else I'm pretty sure.
Things are crispier outside. I feel like anything I touch will break. It looks like I could even put a crack in the air, so I'd better be careful. Everything's dense, but in a thin way.

A fairly soused older man boarded the train earlier. He had found his way into an old Sun-Ice type coat and had maybe had it on since Halloween. If you take a lid from a big casserole dish and put it on the counter, watch it warble and whinge; that's how this guy stood on the train. His mouth was a garburator. It was because of this that a young woman sitting in front of me couldn't quite hear what he said to her in his drag-a-bike-under-a-car voice. GHKJTGKJTKSGHK, he garbled. She offered her seat to him. I think that's what he was getting at. He proceeded to creak his neck up at two men who were talking about work. I'M A COP, he offered. One of the men, the very tall one, smiled and thanked him for his service to the community.
Over the next ten or so minutes the garburator man made several attempts at standing up again, each time hurling itchy broken threats at a gaggle of teens by the door. If things really did break when I touched them, I might have given the garburator man a decisive poke. The very tall man intervened.
It was at this point that, I hope, the Alev from an alternate reality stood up and took matters into his own hands. His hand would have gently and ethereally alighted upon Garb's shoulder and suggested in strangely elegant - but not obscure - terms, that the pair of them should disembark. Alternate Alev (who might have a goatee) would, by his behaviour, suggest to Garb that he was not of this earth. He would give the impression that he had never before worn shoes, and would look about the train in fleeting fascination with its various parts. Somewhere between the Help button and the door, Alternate Alev would bring Garb to ask if he was God, to which Alternate Alev would reply that he was quite a bit smaller.
But the tall man's friend pushed the Help button and things were resolved in a more earthbound way.
The silence that followed was exactly like the conditions outside. You could cut the tension with a knife. Well not the tension, but the thing that was tense. You know the car of the train. Well the people in it. You could --
The silence that followed was exactly like the conditions outside. But without scary grannies and wizards.

#2 Krushchev

AWESOME. This is the first one with Algernon Mongoose and his scary roommate Alger Non-mongoose. WHAT HORRORS HAS HE SEEN??? I don't know because I never drew him before today. But rest assured. Um. I'll think of something.

Yesterday I tried to fix my double bass pedal. I think I should be trying to fix my feet instead.

#1 "Ommelay"

One day and one day soon I'll think of a better way to get these on the internet.

This is my webcomic. It's got animals. I'll post further info, probably days after I intend to.

Translations are available upon request! And I'll make more.

You can click it and get a really big one.

What else. I almost fell down the stairs in my house TWICE today and I think it's because of my slippers. I'm eating a sandwich right now and it's helped me to realise that if math came in onion buns I would like it a lot more.

The Last (Dumb) Post

November woo!

zomg sry 4 not upd4tign

Tuesday night. There's no WAY he's getting in here. I have moved many a mountain around the mews of this monster. It never ends.
I would move many a mountain for this muse, this monster. "YOUR heart hurts?" I didn't mean to tunnel until I hit a fireball. That was, as are they all, an innocent mistake. I have hurt myself skating and I have hurt myself whilst turning leaves, whilst shaving, whilst making faces in the mirror, whilst deliberately misanswering questions. I have tripped over cordless phones, incurred the wrath of four parents, planned a hostage situation, hidden the truth, I have failed to act. Not all at once! Don't misunderstand! This is a summary.
But x, that young sprat. That variable. One setting: Um. As much as I, v, have a particular disdain for the way he operated around 06-07, without him I would just be velocity. One setting: I love you. With him I can be an integer. Balanced, wise, a stable and natural rhythmic figure, prime, even, open, curly?
x/v
2
Um/I love you.
I'm perplexed. I'm confused as hell. WWJD? What would Jojo do?
"Just trelax. End don't forgettu breathe!" Frig.
What else is there? Redemption maybe. The chance to talk into a mic to people. To appease x, a dying thespian. To dustbust some of my ghosts.
I moved down here to fight a war. "Come across and help!" Verdun.
But it scratches at my Swedish heart. Shakes it like molten light.
What if I can convince my pops that I could really cash in on an allegory about the Boddhisattva Kannon? Then I could uproot and buzz off any ole time. To "Denman Island." To Denman?
That would be dumb.
Maaaaan.

I'm trying this thing where I have a very carefully cultivated disregard for my appearance. I don't think it's working. Or maybe it is.