From : chris lloyd
Sent : March 7, 2004 4:53:19 PM
To : pm@pm.gc.ca
CC : chrislloyd5676@hotmail.com
Subject : Valeri defeats Copps in divisive nomination race for steeltown home turf
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Dear Paul,
we all seemed to have a fun time at the Mile End Bar on Friday night. The sleek design of the place reminded me of Restaurant at the end of the universe, from the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy. There were lots of Claudine's friends from university and Mohanad came and we sat up at the bar and talked about work and business and plans for the summer. We became drunk. Millary was there, she is the owner of the apartment on Cartier we are working at. She was with her friend, an attractive but overly-made up real-estate agent. When she heard that I did specialty painting finishes she wanted a card but of course I don't have one. I also have to make some samples for millary over the next couple weeks. I'll have to re-learn and teach myself some new techniques.
Also when I am at my folks house I need to go through some old art and create a grand bonfire, a la Rauschenberg. A clearing out of the deadwood. To destroy something so that something new may grow. To be something of an anarchist to my own past.
We went to Mile End for a cinq a sept, but stayed until past eleven. We became drunk, and slightly obnoxious (at least, Mohanad and I did). We were trying to outdo Claudine's friend Monika with bizarre tales of sex, but her masturbating monkey story took the cake. At the end of the night Mohanad, Claudine and I went down the street for cheesecakes and discussion of the Middle East and religion.
Drinking alcohol often makes people depressed; it is a depressent, after all. Claudine was crying when we got back to her place but it was mostly from the alcohol and sheer exhaustion; she has been pushing herself hard. She was fine in the morning. I had my birthday wish fulfilled, sort of. We were up early, for a Saturday, and went out for croissants and pate and then on an afternoon surprise adventure. Claudine had planned to take me to the botanical gardens to see the butterflies, but when we arrived there was a two-hour wait. So we went to the Big O to ride the cable car to the top and look out over the city and marvel at the space-age design of the place; he Mother Ship had landed and set up shop. We watched parents with their kids in the wade pool and a man running up and downt he stairs of the bleachers. We capped the afternoon off with smoked meat sandwiches (too fatty this time!) from Schwartz's. Met Sarah Fork at the Mont Royal metro; she had my laptop and binder of slides.
Claudine packed a lunch and accompanied me to the VIA rail station. There was a problem with my ticket; I needed the actual coupon for them to be able to process my ticket with the discount. The difference was $88. The coupon is in Halifax, on the fridge. I hoped. They let me use the phone to call home; after two tries I reached Derek, who found the coupon and agreed to fax it from Kinkos. Problem solved. Chris' underlying anger at how bureaucracies confound more than they assist is abated, for the moment.
This train is fancier than the past few I have taken; the doors slide open with the push of a button. They sound like Star Trek. I selected a single seat, which is not the most comfortable to try to sleep in. There was no observation car. There are no electrical outlets in the recreation car, though there are some nice curved plush seats.Battery power is waning on my computer.
I finished reading Hopeful Monsters. I very much like how coincidence plays a large role in the book; we are coincidental creatures. I live a coincidental life, in a coincidental universe. The book has made me both sad and hopeful; that things will work out, somehow; that we do what we can do to help things along.
I know where the train is going, though for a time back in Charny we were going backwards, back towards Montreal. Back and forth. I am not so certain where I am going. To visit my folks and rent a van. To Halifax to settle some accounts and get my things; my wordly possessions; my tools, my art supplies, my cats; some clothes; some books. I have little furniture, other than the bed that Karina always wanted to burn. Anarchy to the past, destruction so that something new might grow. Once settled in Montreal I want to build my own furniture, from whatever materials I happen upon. I'll build some tables. Some benches. A bed frame. A bookcase.
Sally is performing in Montreal this week. I think she arrived yesterday, Friday. Karina will be in MOntreal at some point as well, as she is involved in the production. More coincidences; it is like we cannot function simultaenously within the same city or province, and so must leapfrog. She has no interest in talking to me.
I am most fascinated by rail travel, especially at night. Overnight passengers become a strangely connected extended family. We walk the passageways in sock feet. We brush our teeth and are all taking part in a grand sleepover. We share pens and paper; people meet, they talk. From these associations coincidences happen? The coincidences are the associations that happen? Forgive me for phrasing my thoughts this way; it is the influence of Nicholas Mosley, his style of writing still fresh in my mind. I wish I had such a hgrasop on the world, the way it works. I feel any certainties I had, the arroganceof youth perhaps, pushed aside and more uncertainties take their place. It makes me want to withdraw more from the world, from vain and pointless pursuits, and travel lightly, to try to find something more meaningful in experiences, in time, in distance. To stitch together some sembence of what it means to be human, alive, conscious, here, now.
The train for most of the time travels painfully slow, and remains stopped still for what seems like hours on end. At other times it shakes and rattles through the landscape at breakneck speed, more like a rocket than anything else. At times like this it makes me think of love: how it is not constant, how it has its starts and stops, is sometimes like in slow motion and other times a reckless rocket. In moments of speed we can barely hang on, can barely keep up with the momentum. We are exhilerated by the unexpected, the thrill of potential danger, the rush of pleasure inherent in the risk. The slow motion is like isolated moments of passion, frozen like water to tree branches, the winding down of a clock. And by what compass do we navigate? Where are the parallel tracks that guide us to an inevitable destination? The journey is made up of criss-crossing paths, the juncture points are coincidental. "We and the universe are a mutually creating organism". We lay the tracks as we go. An essential element in both love and art is mystery.
The train moves even faster in the morning hours. The moon, still full, hangs fat and low in the sky. It is tinged a slight orange hue. The woods and snow glow with a blue effervescence. The stopover in Moncton went quickly. I watched a man talk with a VIA rail representative regarding a large container of his that had broken apart. The container was full of cuts of meat. Another man mopped up a trail of blood. A large dog had broke through his cage and eaten some of the meat. Then the bus came. I listened to a demo CD of a Christmas song composed and sung by a cross country skier. He wants to get the song on a Rita McNeil Christmas special. He has been trying for four years. By the time he got off in Sussex the temperature was warmer and there was hardly any snow; not enough to ski. I wonder if there is still snow in Halifax? I left my boots in Montreal; they are only fit for worksites now.
My dad picked me up at the station. He got out at the kigh school to referee a basketball game. I took the car home. I am washing laundry. My mom is making a quilt. I am making plans.
-chris
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