Saturday, September 29, 2012

Wonder




Wonder

In bed I stare at slatted wood blinds
That let autumn moonlight in,
Slicing at it, making shapes like spines.
Hey Psyché, come for a spin.

I stare and wonder what went wrong,
I stare and wonder what went right.
And as upon creeps dream-song:
Is there a difference in moonlight?


September 2012


Feo.






Saturday, August 25, 2012

Streams of Consciousness


  It rained hard this night. And that means quite a bit coming from me; I live in a Canadian city where the summer is fractured by raging thunderstorms that shake windows and illuminate the skies for hours. But it rained hard tonight, here on the border between France and Italy, and it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. At home, the thunder booms. Here, it sounded more as though some great whip was being flung at the sea below. It crashes here.
  Or maybe that was something that wasn't typical, something special. Neil Armstrong passed away today. Maybe that was the Earth weeping his inevitable fate, the fate of all life that finds itself on this blue expanse we call home. Weeping that the first man who stepped on what is quite probably a piece of the Earth itself had to go further than any other astronaut can. Maybe our planet weeped because we, that life that had taken so long to bloom, had reached its ancient sister, and so had finally bridged a gap of sorts. And now this bridge was collapsing once again.
  I remember that when I was younger I didn't believe in the moon landing. I was completely convinced it was a grand performance staged by a desperate government. I held this belief for a long, long time. I guess I'm still not fully convinced in its happening. I don't think we "normal" people will ever know if it truly happened, not until we set foot on the Moon and see for ourselves the footprints left behind so many years ago. There's no atmosphere on the Moon, and so no wind to sweep those footsteps away. 
  But I have faith that it happened, because if it did, there are only good things to say.
  I wonder where astronauts go when they die? Maybe Neil Armstrong is on his way to a second Moon, one that none in the realm of the living have ever seen. A moon that is kept hidden by our ignorance of the inner (or perhaps outer) machinations of the Universe. I'd expect that that moon has a fresh gelato stand, because even astronauts get sick of freeze-dried ice cream. Maybe they each get a little space station to live in.
  Am I religious? I would say yes. I would say I'm a Christian by definition. I believe in God and in Jesus, and that Jesus is, in fact, the son of God. Although I'm confused as to who the true mother is here. But I also believe that the Sea has a consciousness all its own, and that if you mock it, it will answer accordingly. The lightening that tonight brought sharp blue arcs crashing into the coastal mountains seemed alive. It seemed to be making its own decisions, haphazard as they may have appeared. I also believe that praying for forgiveness will not cleanse you of your sins. Bringing something good to your fellow humans cleanses you of your sins.
  I don't believe in Hell, and I don't believe in the "cloud city" image of Heaven. I prefer to believe that when we move on, we live in peace with the Earth. We are free to roam it in whatever way we see fit, under the condition that we act as guardians towards our loved ones still in the realm of the living. I hope to watch over the people I love when I pass away, to protect them when they truly need protection.
  So I guess I have my own modified version of Christianity. But I am immensely happy to have faith in it. Faith is a shoulder to rest on.
  I don't know what love is. That's what she told me. That we are too young to know what love is. But how do you know when you know what love is? How can we separate the lies of our mind from the truth of our heart? 
  But then again, I don't believe in loving someone without being loved in return. What is the point of spilling everything we can find in our soul if there is no one to appreciate it? I believe in the possibility of convincing someone to love you. However, I was not able to do that. I say 'love' because I am a romantic. 
  I guess I'm over it. But I miss our conversations, the ones that would sometimes go on for hours. It hurts because those conversations don't happen anymore. I don't have conversations like that anymore.
  It ended because it didn't start, but before it ended (or started), I wrote differently. I wrote like the rain that crashed tonight. I wrote the sea, the sky, the mountains, the men, the women, the children, the eyes, the orange sunsets, the veterans, the snow, the lovers, the donkeys, the mattresses. I wrote because I needed to, not because I wanted to. My infatuation leads to sublimation which leads to creation.
  After it ended because it didn't start, I decided to write a story about Cupid shooting people with a sniper rifle. Absolutely no connection, I swear.
  That's what the rain made me think about. It made me question my beliefs and rest in them. It made me look at the past year of my life and remember how sublime sublimation is; how wonderful it is to create without wanting to. It made me realize I'm missing something right now, but I'll find it eventually.
  You can believe what you want, but I want you to look hard in yourself and tell me that the rain has no soul.
  

Monday, July 16, 2012

Siberia: Red Rain


Episode One: Red Rain

  On February 25, 1956, First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Nikita Khrushchev made a speech that would be recorded as one of the most pivotal in the history of the Soviet Union. This event became known as the "Secret Speech". 
  It was the last day of the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, held to review the outcomes of the fifth five-year plan, and a private, unscheduled session for Soviet delegates was announced that morning. There, Khrushchev would denounce the personality cult and dictatorship of Joseph Stalin, and would call upon the Party to eradicate that cult of personality, the elevation of Stalin to such heights that he took on the supernatural characteristics of a god.
  The term "Secret Speech", however, was a misnomer. The following night, Eastern European delegates were allowed to hear the speech, slowed down to let them take notes. Copies of the speech were mailed throughout the Soviet Union, marked "not for press" rather than "top secret". Soon, they were read at meetings of the Komsomol, the youth division of the Communist Party. Within a month, an official translation appeared in Poland, where 12,000 additional copies were printed. One of these reached the west, and so the entire world knew of the speech before Spring had even fully bloomed, quite possibly much to the pleasure of Khrushchev.
  That day marked the beginning of a new era in the Soviet Union. Slowly but surely, censorship on the arts eased, leading to some of the Soviet Union's greatest artists emerging and creating art and literature that would be acknowledged the world over. 
  Soviet citizens were allowed to travel more than ever before, with 700,000 travelling abroad in 1957 alone. Khrushchev believed the Soviet Union could match and exceed the West's standards of living, and so was not afraid to let Soviets see Western achievements. Foreigners were allowed through the Iron Curtain, the true scope of which was seen when Khrushchev authorized the 6th World Festival of Youth and Students to be held in Moscow. Over 30,000 young foreign visitors attended, which served to shatter both Soviet and Western stereotypes.
  But arguably the hugest achievement of this 'Soviet Renaissance" was the rise of the Soviet space program. The first man-made object sent into orbit, Sputnik-1, launched in 1957. Soon after, Yuri Gagarin became the first man to fly into space in 1961, and Valentina Tereshkova the first woman in 1963. The space program continued to make firsts as the Soviet people reached out and prepared to touch the stars. A future where space-travel would be as common as a trip on a plane no longer seemed so far off. 
  And so the defining words of this era, a bright future, seemed truer than ever. The first generation of Soviets who had never seen the horrors of the Second World War had grown up and were ready to create this future, to build a new country. The windows of enlightenment had been opened, and anything seemed possible.

  January 1964
  Bratsk, a relatively large town in mid-Siberia, began a steep increase in both population and size during World War 2, when Soviet industry had been moved east of the Ural Mountains on account of an advancing German army. Although this increase in development slowed after the War's end, when resources were needed to rebuild European Russia, Bratsk was finally put on the map when a 4500-megawatt power plant was built there between 1954 and 1966. It received town status in 1954.
  Because of Bratsk's central location, it served as a favorable place to build military bases around. Although the area's major airfield and civilian airport, the aptly named Bratsk Airport, was built in 1977, many small bases already surrounded the town prior to the airport's arrival. Little more than outposts, these bases were equipped modestly because while the location was central, it was far from any borders or significant population centers. As was standard in the Soviet Military, the bases received the name of the largest nearby village, town, or city, and a number. One of these outposts was Bratsk-3. Located almost 200 kilometres northeast of Bratsk, it was the furthest of the Bratsk bases. The oupost closest to it was Bratsk-1, about 120 kilometres southwest. The small team occupying Bratsk-3 received the quiet (which happens to be a common synonym of 'boring') position for a reason: they were not the best of the best in any sense of the phrase. They were all deemed unfit for positions anywhere else, which stemmed from anything such as physical incompetence to an inability to retain any basic skills learned in training. However, the six occupants of Bratsk-3 wanted to be in the army for various reasons, and so did their jobs as best they could. Led by starshina Igor Bogdanov (a position that ranked slightly higher than a common soldier), the team essentially did three things: scanned the surrounding airspace, cut down firewood for additional heat, and occasionally shot a deer because canned food is boring (which is, in this case, not a synonym of quiet). 
  The other inhabitants of Bratsk-3 were two common soldiers, Kostya Sapozhnik and Maksim Glinka, a medic, Ilya Nikitsky, and two radio operators, Alexander Semenovich and Eva Anikina, the only woman. While one might have expected a considerable amount of sexism towards Eva, and although she did receive her fair share when the six were first brought to Bratsk-3, the others eventually treated her as an equal because any sort of conflict in an isolated place like a tiny clearing in the infinite forest they were based in could lead only to bad things (case in point: Eva physically assaulted and forced Kostya to sleep outside on a cold early-April night following an unappreciated crotch-grab a day after their arrival, much to the amusement of the others. It was at this point that Alexander fell into what he decided must probably be love. Ironically, and unfortunately for Alexander, she was the only one at Bratsk-3 who did not realize this). She was quite beautiful, but the lesson taught to Kostya stayed with the rest of the base, meaning that any advancements the men may have had in mind were dissolved quite early on. That, and Alexander was too shy to make any advancements. She translated thoughts into words quickly and perfectly, making her an excellent radio operator, and excellent at winning any argument at Bratsk-3, even if it had nothing to do with her.
  Kostya Sapozhnik was everything you could ever want in an incompetent soldier: lazy, a joker, endowed with a painfully average intelligence, but endlessly kind-hearted. The skinny, blond-haired, blue-eyed bungle's 'tough-guy' routine had yet to fool anyone. He and Maksim were the ones who usually hunted for deer, having nothing better to do. They were occasionally joined by Ilya Nikitsky.
  Maksim Glinka was actually Kostya's best friend since childhood. Although he was quite a bit smarter than Kostya (and indeed, most people he'd met in his life), he loved Kostya like a brother. When Maksim realized that his friend was to be shipped off into the forests of Siberia, he pulled some strings, which is another way of saying that he "accidentally" pushed the Polkovnik of his and Kostya's training camp into a septic tank. His fate was sealed then and there.
  Ilya Nikitsky was a quiet, soft-spoken man, and an excellent medic. But he had a strong limp in his left leg that meant his speed was greatly inferior to his colleagues. And because a medic must be able to undergo the same basic training as a soldier, his limp quickly sent him to the bottom of the class, and to Bratsk-3.
  Alexander Semenovich was born, so to speak, with a passion for electronics. And plants. He became a radio operator in the army because of this love of everything that had a current flowing through it. He also happened to be the only person at Bratsk-3 who was there voluntarily. Being a child of rural upbringing, he told his supervisors he wanted to be placed somewhere far from the city. So they did. He kept a small vegetable garden in the base, where he cultivated the greens that complimented quite well an occasional meal of fresh deer.
  Starshina Igor Bogdanov was like the aging patriarch to the family that was Bratsk-3, in that his children were smarter and better than he in most respects. But although he was still young, a forty-something, he had amassed more wisdom than anyone else at the outpost, probably because of his duty in the War. He was the only one at the base who had ever seen people killed. He fought almost from day one to Berlin, a stubborn survivor, and returned home to Leningrad a decorated veteran. But like Ilya, he had an injury that made his career as a fighter come to an end. A splash of shrapnel covered his right hand, his shooting hand, in scars and made it virtually useless for battle. He could hardly make a fist without extreme pain, let alone pull the trigger on a gun. His dreams of rising higher than his wartime position of starshina died away. He couldn't lead soldiers if he couldn't fight with them.
  But he refused to leave the Army, and by pulling some strings (this, in fact, did not involve "accidentally" pushing a superior into a septic tank), managed to receive a position at a tiny outpost somewhere in Siberia. And here we was.
  There were no antagonists at Bratsk-3. And in the end there were no protagonists.
  Bratsk-3 brought in the New Year of 1964 as they had done the past two years. They made each other the gifts that they could, considering their modest resources. Kostya and Maksim made a rabbit and elk dinner, with Alexander supplying the first harvest of a plant he had only recently planted: peas. Ilya wrote a long speech in the form of a poem, describing the friendship he had built over the past two years with the rest of Bratsk-3. When it brought Kostya to tears, he said it was caused by the onions he was cutting earlier. There were no onions for dinner that night.
  Together, Igor and Eva managed to have the delivery truck driver, who drove in supplies every two months, bring some fireworks. 
  They stood together in the freezing cold and watched red sparks rain from the black night. They drank a toast to a bright future. The last year stepped aside, and 1964 began with a cherry downpour.
  There are really only two phases to life: the calm, and the storm. When someone basks in joy for too long, life simply balances it out.
  Life brings a storm.

Feo P-S

Tomorrow
Episode Two: Transmission Received

Friday, July 6, 2012

Huge New Project: Siberia!

  
Siberia: What is it?

  People, I have a new project I'd love to share with you, but I need your help.
  Siberia is a literary miniseries of 'strange' fiction that details the crash of a strange object in the Siberian tundra, and the events surrounding it. The miniseries will be released in four blocks, each consisting of five episodes, starting in a week's time on Monday the 16th. I'm really excited about this project because of the way each episode will be presented: as a completely seperate angle of a story. Simply put, each episode will be told from the perspective of a different source, a bystander in one, radio transcripts in another, and so on. As far as I can tell, the format I've made for this writing has not really been done before, so this is a magical mystery journey we can all embark on together. While the length of each episodic story will vary, it'll probably stay within the realms of flash fiction, pleasantly short.
  What does this mean for you, and where exactly do you come in? In answer to the first question, this is some great unpublished summer reading that you can probably do in under fifteen minutes, every day of the working week. Bored at work? Lunch break? Constipation? It's time for Siberia. Fifteen minutes of information transfer from my mind to yours? Sounds cool.
  Now to the question of your help: I need two things from each and every one of you. Firstly, enjoy this thing! I don't want to write into thin air, and would love to hear your opinions by way of comments. Thought the last episode sucked? Tell me why so I can fix stuff in the next block. And so I know how each episode is doing as far as views go, click on the headline of the episode's post. That'll send you to the post's page, where views are counted.
  Secondly, please share! If you thought the episode was good, hit the Facebook 'Like' button at the bottom, or use the AddThis buttons at the bottom to share on your Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and a couple hundred other social networks. And so people know about this project, 'Like' this post! I really want this idea to get out there, and would truly appreciate your help in doing so. 
  That's really all there is to know, so on to when you actually get to read it.

EDIT (August 21, 2012): The schedule for Siberia has been changed in that it no longer will have a schedule. I will be releasing "episodes" whenever they are ready, with all the episodes hopefully being published by mid-December. That's when the deadline for the 2013 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards starts to loom, and I really want to submit this project.

Showtimes

  As mentioned above, the episodes will be published here on the Blog in blocks of five episodes. There will be four blocks, one published every second week (except for Block One, which will be published back-to-back with Block Two). The episodes will be released on weekdays.

Block One

Monday, July 16: Episode 1
Tuesday, July 17: Episode 2
Wednesday, July 18: Episode 3
Thursday, July 19: Episode 4
Friday, July 20: Episode 5

Block Two

Monday, July 23: Episode 6
Tuesday, July 24: Episode 7
Wednesday, July 25: Episode 8
Thursday, July 26: Episode 9
Friday, July 27: Episode 10

Block Three

Monday, August 6: Episode 11
Tuesday, August 7: Episode 12
Wednesday, August 8: Episode 13
Thursday, August 9: Episode 14
Friday, August 10: Episode 15

Block Four

Monday, August 20: Episode 16
Tuesday, August 21: Episode 17
Wednesday, August 22: Episode 18
Thursday, August 23: Episode 19
Friday, August 24: Episode 20, Season Finale

Feo.
  
  
  
  

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

New York²

  I'm back.
  Add some bass to that. I'm back for real. This isn't me saying I'll be back and then disappearing for a month. Summer's here, and I have time to spend on the blog. I'm also back from my trip to the centre of the world: New York.
  What? You didn't know I was in New York to accept a National Art and Writing Award in Carnegie Hall. That really sucks. If only the internet had some sort of way of linking you to my badly formatted post about said awards. I bet they'll figure out how to 'link' stuff on the internet IN THE FUTURE! We can only hope.

  Anyways, I spent a (much too short) week in New York City, checking out the art galleries and museums, eating French sushi (it's the way to go), and accepting awards at Carnegie. Meryl Streep was there. Everyone digs Meryl Streep.
  Day-by-day play-by-play of New York², city so nice they named it².
 Hit "Read more" to actually read the post.

Monday, June 18, 2012

FEO'S IN THE NEWSPAPER!


  Hey, chaps and chapettes!
  Good news - I made the news!
  Really, I'm sorry it's been three weeks since I've gotten back from New York and have failed to write a blog post about it detailing all the excellent things that went on there. It's in the draft section of my dashboard. I'm working on it, and I'll have it up very soon. Please don't despair.
  Back to the subject of news. You all have until this Wednesday to pick up a copy of the Edmonton Examiner in which there is an article about me and my adventures in New York! The article's title is in huge letters on the front page! Sha-bam! It's a wonderful article, and as always, I'm all over the place. GET THE NEWSPAPER! IT'S FREE FOR THE LOVE OF KEANU REEVES! And if you can't get it, here's a link: http://www.edmontonexaminer.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=3584884 !
  Thank you Aspen Gainer and the Examiner for the great article!

Feo.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Love Hurts: A Day With Cupid



  
  "Frankly, I find it offensive," says Cupid, "that people stereotype me as a diaper wearing baby." 
  I had the unique opportunity of following world-renowned 'loveman' Cupid while he went on with his daily routine. Contrary to the image of a cute arrow-wielding baby with fat rolls spilling every which way and such that Valentine's cards love to portray, Cupid is actually 6.1, broad-shouldered, scruffy, and in possession of a low baritone voice. Today, he is wearing a black hoodie and a pair of sweats. He assures me that, despite his attire, he is not a rapist. A canvas duffel bag is slung over his shoulder as we walk through the dim halls of an apartment building. A spring 6 PM Montreal sunset spills through the dust coated windows. Signs labelled 'Roof Access' and 'No Unauthorized Entry' are taped to a door that we find to be unlocked.
  From our vantage point on the roof, we can see a small park inhabited by pigeons and some skinny jean-wearing lone wolves reading Marx, or whatever it is that lone wolves read these days.
  Cupid lowers his binoculars and holds them out to me, "See that guy reading the...uh-"
  I squint through the freshly polished lenses, "The Communist Manifesto. Definitely The Communist Manifesto."
  "Man, this'll be a tough one. Anyways, see the girl just behind that statue, sitting on the bench under that tree? The one in the flannel? Right, so she's totally the one for Lenin over there."
  "Marx. I think you mean Marx," I pause, "how do you know she's the 'one'?"
  "Listen, who's been doing this for the past eternity or so? Me. That's right, me. I've got workplace experience. I just know," he smiles knowingly and starts to unzip the duffel bag. He pulls out several polished black pieces of metal, the last of which I recognize as the body of a rifle.
  "Whoa, whoa. Shouldn't you have a bow and arrow?" 
  Cupid momentarily makes annoyed eye-contact with me, and then continues to screw the pieces of steel together to form the barrel and handle of a sniper rifle.
  "Okay, so here's how it went down," he says as he fishes around in the bag and pulls out an optical scope, "when I was still a baby, rolls of fat and all, a reporter climbed up to the window of my playroom, and saw me playing with a bow and arrow. Now, he wrongly assumed that this was my weapon of choice, though I can't see how he'd assume anything near that, considering I couldn't even stand at the time. He wrote an editorial about it, became famous, and created the image that is baby Cupid. He neglected to do any research about how the bow and arrow was a teething toy given to me by Jupiter. Jupiter always gave weird gifts."
  "So you never used a bow and arrow? Wow."
   "Nope." 
  He stands up, the gun gleaming in the orange light. He stuffs a hand into his sweatpants and pulls out a single object: a huge shining pink bullet. 
  "Because of that bow and arrow incident, people always say things like 'Cupid loosed his love-shaft'. I find that particularly tiresome. First of all, I've never used an arrow for anything but teething. Secondly, the phallic innuendo going on there is just plain disgusting. It's not as if I shoot weenies out of my gun."
  He moves his eye to the scope, the rifle now resting on the roof's edge, and pulls the gun's bolt back to lock the pink bullet in.
  His finger hovers over the trigger, "Who needs love-shafts," he breaths in slowly, "when you have .50 caliber ammunition?"
  The hammer of the gun strikes the bullet out in a brilliant flash of pink smoke. An ear-warping bang tears through the sunset air.
  Screams rise from the square below. Cupid moves his eye away from the lens in confusion, and then looks through the scope again. He jumps up abruptly and starts folding the gun into his bag.
  "Right. Okay. So 'Marx' is dead."
  "WHAT?!"
  "He moved. He moved and I hit him in the head."
  "Oh Jesus."
  "Anywhere but the heart, it's just a normal bullet," he pulls my by the arm towards the stairwell door. I follow in my daze.
  "That's one hell of a margin of error!" 
  The screams from below get louder, and the sound of sirens filters in through the door closing behind us. Cupid skips down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
  "Crap crap crap," he mutters, "Crap."
  He half-kicks, half-jumps through the door labelled 'Roof Access' and into a hallway. Doors open, the tenants peek out attempting to satisfy the human curiosity that appears whenever a loud noise is heard. Someone notices the barrel of Cupid's rifle sticking through the bag and shouts at our backs.
  As we near the lobby and the outside world, Cupid, still sprinting full-tilt, sticks out his free hand, "Wonderful meeting you, but this is where we part ways."
  I shake his outstretched hand and we crash through the condominium doors. He rockets into an alley, and I jump the fence of a nearby backlot. 
  That's the last I ever saw of Cupid.
  He seemed pretty cool, except that he really did shoot a man through the head. 
  That might've not actually been Cupid.

Feo P-S, 2012.