Friday, June 29, 2007
Still Missing
Where in the world is Henry Tennyson? He was here one minute, then gone the next. Disappeared without a trace, like a wisp of cotton smoke left lingering above the doorway of a run down bar in New Waterford.
What happened to him? I barely recall our last gig. We played this rinky barren bar in the north end, stayed a few hours after closing drinking the cover charge down, then headed to the dirty dance hall on foulmouth street, crusing for girls.
I vaguely remember seeing his cockeyed smile over a glass of rum, the neon lights casting a bone white hue over his face. Menacing, these rotten vibrations, these empty soul pigs who put on the airs of entertainment for a few hours, only to lure you back to their 9.99 apartment and feast upon you like vultures on a rotting corpse. Dicks. He was right there, in the thick of it, lavishing in the energy of the dance bar, being seduced by the beat, breaking his resistance to bad noise.
I was getting worried about him. He was on a steady decline, even more so than the rough and tumble events of our past. No, no firearms and rum running, just sketchy characters, pillheads and serpants of the night, wrapping themselves around him, closing in, always pressing harder and harder, until they block out even the light of the noon day sun. I knew he could take care of himself, well, I knew he was a survivor, but he was teetering on the brink with these slime balls. Men and girls who tried putting up walls between us, ruin our friendship with gossip and politics, stupid apple bullshit.
It had been sometime since I last wrote about him. I had been avoiding the topic really, waiting on word from the Grim Reaper or worse, Johnny Law. My Agent had been trying to distract me from him, fearing for my safety, and my reputation.
"Tibs, forget about him, I've got another project for you."
I blew up. How dare he, even as my most trusted advisor, tell me to forget about a friend, espeically a friend who could need help. Then the Grim Reaper did speak. I received a call from Susie one night, after finishing a glass of rum with supper.
"Tibs, It's over. I've broken off the engagement. We're finished. I done with that fucking scumbag." She hung up.
Tennyson was definately swimming with the sharks now, hell, he may have even become one of the beasts. Predators, the top of the foodchain, sure, but a lonely existance all the same. What the fuck was he doing? Committing suicide slowly, it seems. Destroying bridges with people who would always have his best interests at heart, and not in their pants. He was sailing solo now, adrift in a fridgid ocean of bad possibilites and rough realities. I felt like preaching and after three weeks of investigation, I finally got a contact number.
"Tennyson! What the fuck are you doing?"
"Hey mang," he replies in a daze, he doesn't seem to detect the anxiety/irritation in my voice. "Not too much."
"Where have you been?"
"Cockburn."
"That sounds vaguely ominous."
The line disconnects, I try to call back, but its been disconnected by the phone company. Shady fucking dealings man, shady fucking dealings.
Where does one go from here? I'll put the feelers out, try to keep track of him, I only hope this old soul will remember that all life is art, and not to piss on the canvas. And sure, I'm no saint either, but no chemist ever told Wordsworth what to write.
From a musty apartment,
S. Tibs
What happened to him? I barely recall our last gig. We played this rinky barren bar in the north end, stayed a few hours after closing drinking the cover charge down, then headed to the dirty dance hall on foulmouth street, crusing for girls.
I vaguely remember seeing his cockeyed smile over a glass of rum, the neon lights casting a bone white hue over his face. Menacing, these rotten vibrations, these empty soul pigs who put on the airs of entertainment for a few hours, only to lure you back to their 9.99 apartment and feast upon you like vultures on a rotting corpse. Dicks. He was right there, in the thick of it, lavishing in the energy of the dance bar, being seduced by the beat, breaking his resistance to bad noise.
I was getting worried about him. He was on a steady decline, even more so than the rough and tumble events of our past. No, no firearms and rum running, just sketchy characters, pillheads and serpants of the night, wrapping themselves around him, closing in, always pressing harder and harder, until they block out even the light of the noon day sun. I knew he could take care of himself, well, I knew he was a survivor, but he was teetering on the brink with these slime balls. Men and girls who tried putting up walls between us, ruin our friendship with gossip and politics, stupid apple bullshit.
It had been sometime since I last wrote about him. I had been avoiding the topic really, waiting on word from the Grim Reaper or worse, Johnny Law. My Agent had been trying to distract me from him, fearing for my safety, and my reputation.
"Tibs, forget about him, I've got another project for you."
I blew up. How dare he, even as my most trusted advisor, tell me to forget about a friend, espeically a friend who could need help. Then the Grim Reaper did speak. I received a call from Susie one night, after finishing a glass of rum with supper.
"Tibs, It's over. I've broken off the engagement. We're finished. I done with that fucking scumbag." She hung up.
Tennyson was definately swimming with the sharks now, hell, he may have even become one of the beasts. Predators, the top of the foodchain, sure, but a lonely existance all the same. What the fuck was he doing? Committing suicide slowly, it seems. Destroying bridges with people who would always have his best interests at heart, and not in their pants. He was sailing solo now, adrift in a fridgid ocean of bad possibilites and rough realities. I felt like preaching and after three weeks of investigation, I finally got a contact number.
"Tennyson! What the fuck are you doing?"
"Hey mang," he replies in a daze, he doesn't seem to detect the anxiety/irritation in my voice. "Not too much."
"Where have you been?"
"Cockburn."
"That sounds vaguely ominous."
The line disconnects, I try to call back, but its been disconnected by the phone company. Shady fucking dealings man, shady fucking dealings.
Where does one go from here? I'll put the feelers out, try to keep track of him, I only hope this old soul will remember that all life is art, and not to piss on the canvas. And sure, I'm no saint either, but no chemist ever told Wordsworth what to write.
From a musty apartment,
S. Tibs
Monday, June 11, 2007
car trouble
"So there I was, sitting across the street from the museum, on a park bench. The only bench insight, the only place to sit other than a stairwell or the museum steps with all the other swine and let me tell you, there were alot of them in this part of town. Anyway, so I take a seat and I look down to my left and what do I see but a book of photos. Just someone's portfolio or something. Left in the early morning sun, maybe in a rush, maybe out of negligence? The name's been ripped off, no other contact info, just this weird assortment of pictures and all kinds man, like black and whites, double exposed, polaroids, ones that were turned into sections of a colouring book then recoloured with wax crayon's and oil paints."
"Cool."
"Yeah dude, it was such a fantastic thing to stubble upon. And it was neat man, I sat there, the sun beaming down on me, just a couple blocks up from the hotel. I'm just smiling, had a great time last night, was gonna meet a friend and suddenly this little 'tweet tweet' kind of a bird flies down and lands on my shoulder. And I just, sorta, turned really slowly and looked at him and said 'what are You doing?' and he kinda went 'tweet, ah oh, shit' and flew off into the sun. And I was like 'whoa' and I looked up expecting to see the cartoonist's hand jumping off the canvas.”
“That's fucking crazy man.”
“Yeah it was really cool, here, let me show you the scrap book.”
He gets up and walks into the hallway, starts tearing into his luggage, my mind wanders, and I stare out the window, letting the shade of the big green tree wash over me. There is a nest of blue jays making a home in our front window. They stare at me with ravenous eyes.
“Hear, take a look of this Saltwater.” He hands me the leather bound notebook. Bulging at the spine with papers, some photos fall out, some pages contain writing, and by the the looks of it, spilled red wine. A true bohemian journal.
“And it was just sitting there, on the street bench, abandoned?” I ask.
“Yeah man.”
“What a find, dude.” I pull out a black and white photo of some pigeons being chased by a child and taking flight. The definition and sharpness of the image transported me to the border of the scene. For a quick instant my mind was propelled into the photo, I knew the child, and I could feel his merriment. “There are some really good shots here.”
“I know man, I still can't believe it was left there. Some art snob publisher was probably given it, he probably sat there with his morning coffee and laughed at it. 'It's so passe' he probably said.”
“Cunts.”
“Yeah, this part of town was full of em.”
“So how was the trip back?”
“Shitty, the road was too twisted. Our car shit the bed on us about four hours off from home. We had too much gear, couldn't even hitchhike. Had to call The Manager down South to bail us out.”
“How'd that go?”
“Had to feed a pay phone about ten in change while I was on hold. Had enough change to ask him to get online so we could figure something out. But we eventually got everything straightened away. Home safe and sound. I feel so tired right now that I have tunnel vision.”
“Ha!”
“Don't laugh man, I can see through time.”
From a comfy futon,
S. Tibs
"Cool."
"Yeah dude, it was such a fantastic thing to stubble upon. And it was neat man, I sat there, the sun beaming down on me, just a couple blocks up from the hotel. I'm just smiling, had a great time last night, was gonna meet a friend and suddenly this little 'tweet tweet' kind of a bird flies down and lands on my shoulder. And I just, sorta, turned really slowly and looked at him and said 'what are You doing?' and he kinda went 'tweet, ah oh, shit' and flew off into the sun. And I was like 'whoa' and I looked up expecting to see the cartoonist's hand jumping off the canvas.”
“That's fucking crazy man.”
“Yeah it was really cool, here, let me show you the scrap book.”
He gets up and walks into the hallway, starts tearing into his luggage, my mind wanders, and I stare out the window, letting the shade of the big green tree wash over me. There is a nest of blue jays making a home in our front window. They stare at me with ravenous eyes.
“Hear, take a look of this Saltwater.” He hands me the leather bound notebook. Bulging at the spine with papers, some photos fall out, some pages contain writing, and by the the looks of it, spilled red wine. A true bohemian journal.
“And it was just sitting there, on the street bench, abandoned?” I ask.
“Yeah man.”
“What a find, dude.” I pull out a black and white photo of some pigeons being chased by a child and taking flight. The definition and sharpness of the image transported me to the border of the scene. For a quick instant my mind was propelled into the photo, I knew the child, and I could feel his merriment. “There are some really good shots here.”
“I know man, I still can't believe it was left there. Some art snob publisher was probably given it, he probably sat there with his morning coffee and laughed at it. 'It's so passe' he probably said.”
“Cunts.”
“Yeah, this part of town was full of em.”
“So how was the trip back?”
“Shitty, the road was too twisted. Our car shit the bed on us about four hours off from home. We had too much gear, couldn't even hitchhike. Had to call The Manager down South to bail us out.”
“How'd that go?”
“Had to feed a pay phone about ten in change while I was on hold. Had enough change to ask him to get online so we could figure something out. But we eventually got everything straightened away. Home safe and sound. I feel so tired right now that I have tunnel vision.”
“Ha!”
“Don't laugh man, I can see through time.”
From a comfy futon,
S. Tibs
