man... i was a messed up 16 year old. some of this was written in europe, 'long ago'
what am i writing? it's just a jumble of words written late at night influenced by ska horns, punk sensablities and access to any money i really need. my friends from bipolar depressives who are rich enough to live in rosedale for life without working a day in their lives to a crazy gaint artest to a valley girl to... (the list continues)

but the question remaines, what makes me write this? when did this spieces first put pen to paper and wonder... why did they? why shouldn't i? now what do i follow that up with?


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john lives in the parks... well, in the summer. in the winter he tries to fine a subway grate or a 24/7 coffee shop. some days he pan handles, some days he squegees. he eats day olds from tim hortons and drinks water from the washrooms. his hair exists in many tall spikes, often drooping. his clothes consit of a cheep jacket, a hoodie, a tee shirt, shreaded jeans, and boots.

he lives like this and saves up, just so every week he could go to a show. he likes punk music, he loves to bang around mosh pits with those punks from uptown. the ones with real leather jackets and studs and professionally done piercings. he loves listening to the singer creaming about how life sucks. he goes to benifit shows like antiracist action shows where everyone hates nazis. and he knows that the ARA doesn't need people to hate nazis, they need nazis to stop hating.
he knows, and he's right, and then he leaves the show and goes back to the subway grate or the coffeeshop.


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-what is fitting in? why do we try? why can't everybodies creativity be accepted?

-if we only see what we want to, then way isn't everything beautiful?

-if i can't get in to my subconscious, then how does everything else?

-what if i want to be out of touch?



what a whiny little kid i was?