By Which We Should Live

A suburb of Brugge, Belgium.

Walking from the Bauhaus, past the windmills, over the drawbridge and
under the fortified walls; my surroundings change. Our guide, whose
mother was once Robert Plant's lover, leads us out of the medieval village
and into the vast expanse of suburban Belgium. A labyrinth of forested
walkways and curving sidewalks, my bearings are hazy at best; shot-gunning
those 12% Dubuisson Bush might not have been the best idea. My friend and I came across our strange guide outside the hostel and were persuaded to follow him home after promises of top-notch 'green'.

So we follow, all inhibitions set aside [by the windmill] to be gathered again at dawn. We arrive at a tall house settled on the corner of a deserted street. As we approach the door I glance over at my friend, the moonlight glints off my eyes as he smiles and shrugs; we enter. Inside, our guide leads us upstairs to a room brimming with memorabilia. Countless records fill shelves and books collect dust in every corner. I sit back and sip on a beer; talk ranges from the progression of soul music to 9/11 and its impacts this side of the Atlantic. We share our pasts; tales of exploits and excesses are reborn in the small living room of that corner house: past the windmills, over the drawbridge - and just down the path.

"...DJ Jeannie Hopper never misses with liquid love...Mark Farina at Cafe D'Anvers (Dream Machine)...The 'In Crowd'? Yeah, the story of
Northern Soul has a real groove to it..."

Night is the time when all this seemingly unimportant thought comes together to form an unexpected revelation of who you are and how you got that way. I guess that's why night hawks and street rats stick together.
Talk stops.
"I want to show you guys something."
"What?"
"Follow me."
"Why don't you just tell us?"
"Follow Me."
I look at my friend and use my eyes to ask, "What is he on about?"
*shrugs*
Standing, we exit the comfortable room and enter a colder hallway.
He jumps up and grabs a rope on the ceiling, an attic staircase slides
noisily to the carpet and stops with a bang. Now I'm really sweating,
is it his machete that he wants to show us? Am I going to end up in
8 pieces? All of a sudden the rashness of my actions slaps me in the
face, I don't even know this dude, he could be a veritable Belgian
psychopath! Why am I not back at the Bauhaus speaking broken Dutch
to sexy Belgian girls? FUCK. He slowly climbs the staircase, it creaks
with every step, I stand at the bottom alongside my friend. I nudge him
to go first but he steps back and begrudgingly glares at me in the dark
-NOT A CHANCE. I see two eyes peering down, mischievously beckoning,
"Follow me." The staircase disappears in the gloom above; I take the first
step. Is this the end? Probably not, but I'm terrified nonetheless. A light
seers my eyes, this is the brightest attic I've ever come across. I take two
more steps and the odour hits me. Turning back I grin at my friend
behind me, "Come On!"
Groove Armada - Hands of Time
This music starts playing. It emerges out of the attic, beckoning us
to listen. We all groove amongst the vegetation, slowly grasping that
we are hearing a song potent enough to change life's course.
The music becomes its own lifeforce, yet it remains in pace with my own. The
lights glare, the fans blow, the leaves brush my face. The wind in the attic
swirls that Voice through the plants and into my ears. I perspire in time with
the baseline, every note as crisp as it is natural. This green, attic world
moves in slow-motion; everything is hazy in that happy-glowing kind of way. The
scent intoxicates me as I jive through my organic surroundings, I can only
smile. I could write pages about that moment, about how I was soulful and
complete; but when it comes down to it, you had to be there. It was all in the song, and in the attic of course.

Never had my emotional range teetered so completely in such a short time. Opposite ends of the spectrum: mortal terror and utter joy arising within moments of each other. When contrasting feelings hit so close that they overlap, a rare thing transpires and an abnormal capacity to 'feel' can emerge. This must be what happened, because I'll never forget that night, it somehow meant so much more than it should have.

You know how people fall victim to their own uncertainties? They question every action and decision; always wondering how things 'could've been'. Lost in a downward spiral of hesitation and distrust, life can become a meager, paltry fixation. "If only I'd...I wish I hadn't...Why didn't I just...?" In that attic my past was given unconditional merit; it was clear that all of my prior choices and impulses had culminated in my arrival here: halfway across the world, beside a stranger and a friend, hearing that beautiful song and feeling that soulful bliss.
At that second all of my regrets were annulled.
Later, sitting by the windmill, inhibitions renewed but noticeably diminished, I knew something big had come to pass. My life had changed course; I had made it so, or was it the song?

Smoggy Smog Smog Smog

Music videos? Most are just half-ass attempts at weakly choreographed soft-porn. With the current state of Muchmusic/MTV, music (ironically) seems to be getting shafted on its own "music" television; while unutterably terrible reality TV has taken over. Pimp My Ride? Suck my dick X-Zibitch. How come the Wedge on Much gets 30 min. on Friday nights and "Yo Mama" seems to be airing 24/7? I don't even care anymore, Youtube is the new Music Television [well, sorta], so here are a few videos I thought people should see. Question is, do they hold a match to the new Paris Hilton video?



Smog - I feel like the mother of the world




Beck - Deadweight (Michel Gondry)

Why? Cause Everything is Great That's Why.

So you're outside, and your reading the most wonderful story (the kind that just goes on and on and becomes your own secret to be forever shared with the people you love), and the hot hot sun is shining on your warm skin. Your sweat beads and hits the sand just before you canonball into the lake. Your head submerged, you see millions of tiny bubbles swimming around your body. The light catches them and it seems that all your thought is bathed in sparkly goodness. Rising, you break the surface of the water and hear in the distance some sweet soul yell - "Don't you just love it all?" Yes, I fucking do my brother. And then it dawns on your once-deemed meager mind that is now only full of sparkling, crackling brightness - Art is not merely a decoration placed upon human life, it's an expression; and your life is beautiful cause the whole thing is art at its most basic - its most Real. Greatness isn't just for the elite, cause its often the simple ones who fathom what the 'smart' people falsify. Yeah, of course...How come I didn't think of that before? You dive backwards into the water, clasping the ball hurled from a mile off with a spectacular left-handed catch. WHOA! Then the drum comes in at 3:13 and you know it all, every last bit. Life's not worth shit without that beat, and you're confident now cause you know it'll always be pulsing inside of you.
Peace the fuck out.
Lenola - Jet Row
Sugarboom - Rock Star