surveillance systems

they swept us from room to room. a grandiose turn-of-the-century Ikea showroom and at its centre, amid all the fussy furniture, was a table laid out buffet style. all of your family was there at that table, sitting amongst the rest of our restless tour group. you and I hardly spoke and didn't sit next to each other. at one point everyone started exchanging gifts. so I lowered my eyes and did my best to sink deep into my seat. your father was talking about anything but. and then I thought I saw your mom squeeze something into the crumpled brown paper bag that was closest to me without saying a word. I crumpled with it and felt even more terrible for not having gotten her something back. I held my breath for any gossip that might have cut the tension. nothing. we finally left to meet up with our respective high school friends in some flashy hotel for some kind of graduation ceremony. except we were older than we should have been. a twenty-year reunion seemed the furthest thing from perfect sense. on my way down the subway stairs I complained loudly about how the place I was about to see had been built only to impress. whoever it was that had chosen to accompany me that night agreed but then said nothing more. it felt empty without Puji. we reached the reception and I was wearing my sunglasses. why I had anticipated everyone mistaking the unmistakable glow for a tan I'll never know. the forgotten faces came fast and furious. and the biggest hugs came from the most random of them. and still I could feel your eyes on me the entire time. watching me through a one-way mirror during those perfectly drab encounters. misreading my sadness.

in the simple words of Dellardi

we were downstairs in my parent's old basement, Jules and my brother and myself. catching up. and you could tell it had been a while. i had to replace a shelf and was taking measurements that i kept having to double check because i was too distracted by the conversation. Jules was talking about his latest project, some surreal video they had cooked up in another one of those crazy weekends. like usual, he insisted. it sounded like some strange Lynchian Beatleesque Number Nine piece with Italian narration and what sounded like the word Dellardi being stretched out and repeated over and over again while images of blue ceramic cats and bicycles and a girl walking through grey skies in some bleak city kept unfurling for the camera. he was super proud of it and i was watching, half confused and half jealous, trying to remember those measurements. he kept pointing out to my brother how every last syllable of the narrator's dreamy words were being manipulated for effect. perhaps he figured i would have noticed on my own. my bro simply responded by assuring him he was cooking up something of his own as well. i said nothing. when I had originally asked what he had been up to, he had given me the snippy "maybe you should go online and find out" answer. now, it almost felt like he was ignoring me. like it was only the video that was speaking directly to me.

my Antenna and me

My brain's ability to bust out the most random songs at the most random moments never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes I feel like the SEEK knob of some imaginary radio dial, erratically jumping from station to station until a clear signal just bursts right into my mind and through my vocal chords. And it's as if all those other memories I can never seem to recall are lost in the clutter of these otherwise meaningless tunes and lyrics I am subconsciously holding onto and/or tapping into.

About ten minutes ago I was just brushing Pepe as he was doing his best to squirm out of my grip and slip out the patio door when I started singing Homer Simpson's take on the Frank Sinatra classic:

When I was seventeen
I drank some very good beer
I drank some very good beer I purchased with a fake id
My name was Brian McGee
I stayed up listening to Queen
When I was seventeen

Funny thing is I haven't seen this episode in years. Earlier today, it was some cheesy early nineties pop song that I just kind of started singing after hearing the opening drum beat while in the Canadian Tire parking lot. The day before it was some other thing else I can't even remember now. It's gone. As fast as it came. And this happens quite regularly - mostly when I'm alone, but sometimes in public.

And if the song is embarrassing and I catch myself in time, I'll usually just whistle my way out of it. Most people don't really notice. But I notice. I notice.

caught on tape

I woke up way earlier than what I have become used to.
Before my alarm and before the sun. Without even the slightest residue of any dreams.
The plan was to fall back asleep - or close my eyes, at the very least. Never happened.

So I got up and went straight for the coffee machine. Stirred my Latte with a real spoon. Opened up the snack machine and counted coins.
The investigation is ongoing.

I actually came within ten minutes of a 6:15 am encounter with the prime suspect. My mind only registered that quirky little fact about half an hour later, mind you, as I mined the security cameras for more proof. One more snippet for the memory stick. And, save.

I catch myself rewinding the part where I wander sleeplessly to the bathroom after he leaves. Everyone is more captivating when they're all grainy and lo-fi.
And caught on tape, of course.