From : chris lloyd
Sent : May 5, 2004 11:12:38 PM
To : pm@pm.gc.ca
CC : chrislloyd5676@hotmail.com
Subject : June 28 federal election a go as parties agree on debate format: sources
| | | Inbox
Dear Paul,
Decided to spend the extra thirty dollars and fly back to Montréal; sixteen hours on the bus would definitely drive me batty and around the bend. Nanny and Poppy dropped me off early; they had just arrived at my parent’s place from Sarasota. Had plenty of time to make some phone calls and have some beer at a very bland bar in the departure are called “Legends”. Had a long telephone conversation with Jen about the state of arts funding in the province; my newly formed right-wing views are starting to surface. Since most arts jobs don’t pay enough for people to live off, why not abolish them altogether? And the market should really dictate what is quality artwork. Let the good artists really work for it and sell to make a living. If no one wants to buy it then it isn’t art. Let the “market” decide. Shut down state-funded galleries and museums; people can learn all they need to learn about themselves and others from TV. Who needs an independent voice when it comes to culture? Culture is not important, unless it is the culture of money, and everyone is getting some.
On the other hand, I had a nice—albeit brief—talk with Svava at the Khyber yesterday. She is one of the artists in residence (Swintak is the other). She is continuing work on the theme of undisclosed animal substances in commercial products. Of course it is important that artists are granted the time and space and resources to create works that challenge our thoughts and senses; that’s what we do. (I guess I still consider myself an artist? Can you enlighten me as to why I possibly qualify? My thirty-five thousand dollar student loan?) But for too long artists have adopted the non-confrontational, non-political position, safely wrapped in debates of aesthetics rather than substance.
I mean, geez, I bought a paper (Globe) today, and not one word of arts-related news. What gives? There is lots of art being made today, this very minute. It just doesn’t fit into the format of the “news”; hence, it is not newsworthy. Why is a spontaneously occurring flesh-eating disease that affects only thirty people out of over thirty million such news? Fascination with the horrific? Is this the state of the avant-garde: shock and awe through the mainstream news? (Please tell me it isn’t through art that bores to tears). What exactly are contemporary artists out to prove anyways? Hell, you might as well just throw as much money at them as they want, seeing as they aren’t going to reach anyone beyond the already-converted anyway. We’ll all end up with our loans forgiven and working as elementary schoolyard teachers or accountants; fine, upstanding contributors to a global society hell-bent on self-destruction. Sure, we’ll all recycle and compost and weed out as many bad habits as possible, as we let Star Wars become a reality, continue to drive our cars (or planes) everywhere, and continue to argue and fight and kill one another over the pettiest of differences.
For three days straight I have been fighting the urge to smoke many, many cigarettes in a row. I should be working on my French. I should be thinking about my art career. Ha! What career? How the hell can someone make a viable career about unanswered email to the CEO leader of a barely-populated overshadowed, second-rate western country? What the hell was I thinking anyway? I should be thinking of a career—any career. How many years have I been saying that I am sick of being poor? Maybe plumbing is the way to go.
So anyway, Aaron and I picked up Trevor from work once we got into Halifax yesterday, and we went to his place for lunch. Then we drove around in circles looking for Liz; we didn’t have a way of contacting her, she wasn’t at her apartment. Went to the Khyber, said hi to Andréa and her (and my) replacement, Emily Vey Duke (and retrieved my Cyclorama Last Supper bauble). They were both busy with the upcoming mailout. I changed my address with them; I miss getting the mailouts.
Does Avril Lavigne sound better as one gets drunk, or is it just the familiarity?
Anyway, after a couple hours Liz called, and she met us at her place, and we unloaded the whole van in fifteen minutes, and then we hit 1333 Dresden Row. There was a huge mêlée; Lyndon and his two lackeys were there playing cards, taking a break from painting the whole place. A huge screaming match ensued, and Lyndon fled the premises when I started throwing things—the can of paint was highly effective; a very nice pattern resulted from it striking the wall and ceiling in the living room. We loaded up the van with a bunch of bags of Karina’s fabrics and I tore down the curtains and set fire to Sarah Fork’s cork collection as a final gesture. Drove like a bat out of hell on the way home, through periods of heavy, heavy rain.
Oh yeah, so Greg got the Atlantic nomination for the Sobey Art Award, good for him (I never did get the email, maybe I’ve been ostracized?) Maybe now is the perfect time to embark upon my musical career as front man for a wacky punk band. Either that or become a plumber. Fuck this art thing. They are all just a bunch of whiners; all bark and no bite. I WANT MORE BITE!
By the way, I am now an official Real Artist: I received my Certificate from the Real Art Laboratories in Brooklyn. I’ll have to frame it. If I do they want a picture of it in my “studio”. So now I guess I have no choice: must make art.
I’m getting drunk; perhaps I should prepare to board the aircraft? Ahh, of course, the flight is now delayed. Or re-routed? I can’t tell, can’t really hear the announcements. My flight is either leaving in another hour or in twenty minutes. Maybe I should ask somebody. And have another cigarette (yes, I caved and bought a pack). It’s foggy as hell out. It’s been raining cats and dogs (Big cats, Big dogs) in Halifax, the Maritimes, all weekend. Flight delays. Fun stuff. Maybe I should eat something? Or just watch the soccer on TV? The smoking room is much cooler than the rest of the bar. NB has a new anti-smoking advertising campaign, calling for a revolt of sorts on the part of the “majority of non-smokers”, running on the radio. But smokers are friendlier, it seems. Just met a guy from Gander, NF, going to ON to visit his sis for her nursing graduation. Was that another boarding call? I can’t hear. And I have to pee again. Be warned: this is going to be a meandering letter. Like you even read them anyway, you fake hipster-blogger. Maybe I should put my computer away before I spill beer on it?
And then, almost by fluke, by chance, I check in with the departures board and find out my flight had been changed, and is boarding in five minutes. Change the boarding pass. Go to the bathroom. Pay for and down the rest of my beer. And then I’m on the plane, half passing out and falling asleep. It’s sunnier above the clouds. Damn, why did I ask for ice in the water? I don’t need ice. Who needs ice when the sun hasn’t been visible in two days? The guy next to me stole my seat, and he’s at least seven feet tall. Reading the free in-flight magazine like it’s a major manifesto with his knees up against the back of the seat in front. Hard to get around him. And after I do he moves across the aisle. Sixty-six percent of (computer battery) power left. Just want to listen to some music and fall asleep for the whole damn flight. I love and hate flying at the same time. Damn waste of resources. All that fuel! And when the hell am I ever going to join the “mile high club”? And do I even care? With all the flying you do, you m just be a member. Are you?
This is a British Airways plane, model 146. I can’t tell the difference. The cheap cookies are the same. My Flash MX doesn’t work. The guy next to me is passed out. I just want to sleep. But at the same time I want to yell, tear down the curtains to the first class section, cause a scene, disrupt the normalcy of the whole travel by air thing (I still think it is magic, somehow).
Hmm, more shortcake biscuits are offered. And I thought Air Canada was going bankrupt.
And then there is the whole EI thing. I’ve been calling every week since April 1 regarding my “transfer of account”. As late as last week it still hadn’t gone through. Then yesterday, out of the blue, the woman on the other end of the line said that it had gone through April 18. huh?? And that my account was now “dormant”, because they hadn’t heard from me. Those fuckers! No more Mr. Nice Guy! F**ing overstuffed, inefficient, non-communicative bureaucracy! They’ll rue the day! What a hassle, all over a measly $600/month. I’ll go to the local office tomorrow and piss on the floor, just like I did at the Salisbury Irving Big Stop. What the hell was the deal with them raising the price of gas by TEN FREAKING CENTS per litre in one day? (ed. Note: and today it happened across the board here in Montréal, a big jump to 94c/litre) Is there more I can do to voice my displeasure with the status quo, with our reliance on fossil fuels, with needless wars, besides urinating on floors? BASTARDS! Why does it make me so angry? What is it that makes people just accept this bullshit as normal?
After my flight touched down I caught a transit bus downtown, and took the metro home. Had a short nap and a long shower. Courtney and Sarah K. came home and I went to the grocery store, bought some food and made a chicken curry for supper. Went to bed early. Had crazy spins for almost an hour; it was as if my brain was riding a rollercoaster.
Didn’t get nearly enough sleep, and was sluggish all day at work. Still managed to demolish the tiles in a bathroom and tear down all the wallpaper on the second floor. My arms are stinky with the gluey, pasty water.
Made supper and ate with Mohanad and Courtney. Fiddled with some of the lighting in my apartment. Went for a meandering walk with Courtney through back alleys, looking for old cast-aside furniture. Found a folding chair for one of the terraces and a garbage can.
Oh, and yaga and kuan seem to be settling into the new apartment fine. They have come out from underneath the sofa.
-chris
Ok, so Courtney is now timing me to see how many words per minute I can type—with my two fingers. Sometimes I use three or four, but never more than four. Did I ever tell you how many times I think about why I never took typing in high school? Not often, but when I do it makes me think of my finger. (64 words/minute)
