Humdrum basement

I am once again lodged for but a fortnight in the basement of my parents' house in Toronto. It puts me back a few years, making me feel as I always did here over holiday breaks from university. It makes me think of my old blog (www.myspace.com/thesocialfabric) and of all my old fears. The old fears come back when I'm lodged in this basement, staying up until 4 am and sleeping past noon, and it makes me want to revive the blogging.

Besides, I wrote a pretty killer letter to the head honchos at work the other day to let them know they're being fools; it got me pretty psyched on my under-utilised skills. So here goes nothing.

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The keyboard on my brother's silver MacBook Pro flutters quietly like the padding paws of a nimble-footed pussy cat running over hardwood flooring. There's a big, black flat-screen monitor behind the Mac and two speakers on either side. The larger speakers are foot-tall black boxes with reverb cones staring out at me like massive, yellow eyes; each sits atop three milk crates. The desk and the piano are cluttered with cups, cans, and bottles. McDonald's and Coca-Cola creep into my peripheral vision. Screw drivers, a pocket knife, a bag full of plectrums, a cigarette lighter, dad's old digital camera. Electronic equipment-- mostly musical-- abounds all around the room. Behind me, the closets' sliding doors left open expose dad's old TV, relegated to the basement for the sake of the elder son. Well-aged gaming systems are set up and sit in wait of another session of Super Mario World or Ken Griffey Jr. Major League Baseball. Four guitars, a bass, and there's ukulele hanging on the wall beside father's framed photos of Saudi Arabia and the family trip to Petra. The cluttered stuff is nothing new, but is stuff of such a different sort from when I dwelt here.

Outside it is not cold, and I feign ignorance when asking myself why not. I swear that Christmas was always white when I was a child; but in the past half-dozen years, I cannot recall a single holiday season that boasted snow the whole time. Every year seems warmer and greyer; this year, on Christmas Day it poured like it does in the rainforest. I think the climate has already changed. How much more is in store?

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Once again, it is past 03:00 and my eyes are heavy. My mind wanders off into the mist and dimness of a fatigued brain, wanders off into the west where the rest of my life waits in limbo for the holiday season to cease. BC has been treating me well, and I wonder how well her spinach grows now and if there's snow. If there's Christmas rain in Ontario, is there Christmas snow on the raincoast?

My Nova girl might tell me but I can't yell loudly enough, and it's even past midnight there. I wouldn't wish to wake her, what with her early morning ice-cracking and lake paddling and bike straddling to do before settling down to winter greenhouse farming. So I'll just ramble on in wonderment as to whether the weather is fair, foul, or freezing over there.

Perhaps sleeping cold in a trailer, tucked tight under covers on a starry night. Perhaps warm in a farm house huddled up close to a raging fire, knitting I know not what for I know not whom. Perhaps crashed in a warm bed in a warm room in the Royal Commodore. Who's to say? Not me, nor you.

What I can say for certain, though, is that there is much too much distance here in this vast colonial nation. A single country as large as the whole of Europe! What utterly nuttered royal British nitwit decided that such a country was a reasonable proposition? Oh Canada! You are a continent unto yourself, and Shell, Exxon, and BP shall be your constituent nations. May they colonise you yet further, tear away your boreal forests, dig out your greasy black bowels, and burn it all! What a blazing bright future we might make with so vast a fire! Oh joy. Yes. We'll burn it all in a big bonfire. Stephen Harper will smile approvingly at us when we roast marshmallows over his tar-sand fires and drink Molson Export in our own country. Meanwhile his fat cat friends will proudly reap profits on earth-rape oil exported to China in exchange for more Wal-Mart garbage.

A nation too large! Seven hours to span it with metal wings, five days with the help of 150 petroleum powered horses, and lord knows how long otherwise. A nation too large for a future! I write madly and without meaning in a basement in the dark heart of this sordid, bloated country, and it is 4 AM again!

Adieu,
B