Thank you for your sweet and bitter fruits....

I was at a show a few weeks ago, one of those ultra hipster things that only the 9 people who've heard the band on MySpace turn up at - the kind I always used to go to when I was thin and single and obsessed with music. As I looked around the room, all I could see were mini versions of myself from the good old days, all kicking like colts in their ultra hip outfits, getting drunk on a Tuesday night because they don't have real jobs to be at in the morning, and it made me feel so tired. Later, looking through a friend's Facebook photos I saw a young girl in a knock-off House of Holland t-shirt reading "Do More Blow". Again, it made me tired.

See, I've already met the coolest person in this city and he's dead now, and these young things just look like paper dolls to me, with their self-referential posturing, looking over their shoulders for the party blogger waiting to snap them into a flash of fleeting hipster fame. Chris transcended "hipster". He never postured, he swaggered. He existed purely in real time, and if you missed it, he was gone. He'd never wear a t-shirt that said Do More Blow. Instead, he had a love-hate affair with an addiction that eventually killed him.

Chris was the spark that flies when a match is struck. He was radiant, incendiary, luminous... he was hyper intelligent, absurdly talented and, like any good icon, he was an arrogant prick who made lots of enemies. He may have, in his darkest moments, been wracked with insecurities like us humans, but in his brightest moments, how like a god.

His brother said to me, after Chris died, "he was two different people - he was Good Guy Chris who'd walk through fire for you, and he was the Animal, who didn't give a shit about anything or anyone." It's true, Chris could be nasty. He'd piss on your front steps if you kicked him out. His laugh was sarcastic and cruel, and he'd say anything that crossed his mind, even if it cost him his career - which it did, eventually. But he could also be the kindest person, the most gentle, the most self-effacing. He was full of constant wonder at the world around him. 

There's a line in that Joni Mitchell song that sums it up pretty well: "I'm frightened by the devil, and I'm drawn to those ones who ain't afraid". That's what Chris was for me. I saw myself in him - not the "me" that I am, but the "me" I wished I had the guts to be. We shared 98% of our DNA, but that 2% shoved Chris into the stratosphere, made me feel like a monkey. He never compromised. He was unapologetic. His confidence brimmed like Mick Fucking Jagger. He was ballsy, and I know it's what killed him in the end, that willingness to go over the edge most of us are afraid to even go near, but I still admire him and his kind. They are so rare, like alchemists who actually make the gold instead of just talking about it.

Chris and I only ever had one argument: Exile vs. Sticky Fingers. I have been, since a very young age, a die-hard Sticky Fingers fan. Exile on Main Street was at worst disjointed and at best played out, but Chris sang Sweet Virginia to me one night, and although I was all prickly and 'yeah whatever man, you and the Q107 army ', I can't hear that album now without thinking of him. In my many moments of despair I always say 'scrape that shit right off your shoe' and get on with it, thanks to Chris.

But as much as Exile makes me think of him, Sticky Fingers is the true narrative of our relationship. From the knock-out punch of Can't You Hear Me Knocking, which makes me think of the times Chris wound up drunk and confused in my stairwell in the middle of the night, to Dead Flowers and I Got The Blues, which express what we both knew was inevitable, the arc is obvious. At last, Moonlight Mile says everything my goodbye to Chris should say, from shimmering cymbals to the cello crescendo, at least one of us is on a strange trek home now.

This man was and is my muse in life, and in death. That such a being could even deign to exist almost scares me. Inside this space-shuttle of a human body, there was a fabulous, irreplaceable soul that's gone now. No amount of House of Holland t-shirts could ever add up to the visceral reality that Chris was, and no living person could, in my mind, hold a candle to him. All the tight pants and kefiya scarves in Williamsburg will never be as cool as Chris Rogers. I will miss him for the rest of my life.

Current influences include death, and a photograph of Anton Newcombe playing guitar like a Pentacostal snake handler, with one half-open eye rolled back in his head....

A little psychedelic something for my old pal Chris....

Christopher Jordan Rogers, 1974 - 2009

Last week I lost someone very important to me as an artist. My friend and influence, Chris Rogers, passed away unexpectedly at the too young age of 35. As a painter, his talent was unmatched, and his warmth, wonderful smile and joie de vivre I cherished. Even the briefest encounter with Chris left an indelible mark. His spark lit a flame in me as an artist and as a person, and losing him is a very sad event indeed.

This afternoon, I walked along Queen St West and realised that it won't be the same without Chris. Everywhere I looked, I saw reflections of him - the galleries he showed at, the cafés and restaurants he spent time in; the very street itself is such an expression of his amazing, unique personality. Chris was vibrant, talented, kind, intelligent, fun, eclectic and a true joy to be around. I'm so grateful that I was lucky enough to know him these last 20 years. He'll be with me for the rest of my life in the music and art we both loved, his spirit a constant inspiration.

If I could speak to him one more time, I would tell him that he changed my life and I loved him for it, and that I'd worried about him, but had faith he'd find his way. I'd tell him he was tops.

It really does take a village...

The older I get, and the more my friends have kids, the more the adage “it takes a village to raise a child” means to me. When I was eight or nine, I vowed I would never get married, because marriage meant divorce, pain and poverty. Most of my friends’ parents were divorced, and all the moms were struggling to raise children on their own, with little support from their ex husbands, while their ex’s remarried and lived comfortably in nice houses, and somehow justified to themselves that being a dad four days a month was good enough. What woman in her right mind would get married if she knew at nine years old that exhaustion, poverty and nervous breakdowns are what women get out of marriage?

When kids are involved, divorce disrupts Maslow’s hierarchy of needs at the “Safety / Security” level, and everything above that becomes so much harder to achieve. Divorce is tantamount to natural disaster to a kid - it destroys everything you know, and you have no control over it. It ruins self-confidence and self-esteem, takes away the joy and freedom of being a child, splinters families, destroys the stability children need to grow emotionally, fractures siblings, and makes kids grow up way too fast - and that pain never goes away.

Human beings are at their best when raised by two parents (same-sex parents included), in a loving home, who work together to do right by their kids, no matter what. Our species has evolved this way, and the ideal of the species can only be achieved this way. If we were turtles, maybe having absent parents would be ok. If we were lions, being raised by single moms while our dads wandered off might be ok, but we’re not. If you or your partner is not 100% committed to raising kids, don’t even consider it.

For one thing, raising children is exhausting and everyone needs a break once in a while. When you only have one parent, she doesn’t get a break. And I’m not talking about every-second-weekend, I’m talking about twenty minutes here, an hour there every single day. No one could be a single parent for very long without losing their marbles from pure exhaustion. One woman cannot be the provider, the caregiver, the disciplinarian, the teacher, the shepherd, the romantic advisor and the breadwinner all at once; no woman can be a whole village on her own.

My friends are all now becoming parents, loving it and being exhausted by it, and experiencing all the ups and downs that go along with it, and I can’t imagine any of them doing it alone. And this is a generation who waited longer, and had careers before having families, so you’d expect that they’d be better equipped to be single moms if they had to, and I still can’t see any of them considering it. This generation of men devotes an extraordinary amount of time and love into being parents too. Maybe being raised by single moms taught them just how hard it is to be a good dad, and how important. Ironically, maybe the 50+% divorce rate of the ‘70s and ‘80s has reset the human race in North America, and we’re now back to cherishing the key to survival of the species – good marriages, and good parenting.

Divorce simply isn’t an option for most people I know. They’ve witnessed first hand the destruction it brings, so they have been patient and chosen their partners carefully. They’ve experienced life before settling down, and relinquished the desire to wander. They’ve completed their essential Hero’s Journey, faced their own worst enemies – themselves – and become a mellower, more humble version of their impulsive, rebellious teenage selves, and have the skills to make marriage and parenthood work pretty well. They also seem to realize that being a parent is the most important job on earth, and they do this warmly, lovingly, selflessly and joyously, and with their “village” of friends and family around to help, instead of giving up when it gets too hard. I’m very much looking forward to watching your kids grow into amazing little people, and eventually into great adults and great parents themselves. This goes out with much love to all my mommy & daddy friends – thank you for letting me be part of your village, and for showing me what good marriages and good parenting looks like. You've given me faith in both.

On Mother's Day...

Hello all my ladies! As some of you are being smothered in flowers, brunches, handmade gifts and "Good For One Household Chore" coupons on the one day you get real recognition for all you do, I thought you might enjoy a little feminist prose poetry (leave it to me, right? ;)  along with photos of a few ladies whose lives are like embers under us all to be our best, uncompromisingly and unapologetically.

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*MAYA ANGELOU'S WHAT EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE *

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to
see her in an hour...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
a youth she's content to leave behind...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old
age...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her
family...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal
that will make her guests feel honored...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
a feeling of control over her destiny...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
how to fall in love without losing herself...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
how to quit a job,
break up with a lover,
and confront a friend without ruining the friendship...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or
the nature of her parents...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
that her childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
whom she can trust,
whom she can't,
and why she shouldn't take it personally...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
where to go...
be it to her best friend's kitchen table,
or a charming inn in the woods,
when her soul needs soothing...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
What she can and can't accomplish in a day... a month... and a year...
------------------------------ 

Samsara

Lately I've been thinking a lot about black holes; imagine a thing with gravity so great, not even time can escape. They're made from stars billions of times bigger than the sun, which collapse in on themselves, sucking whole galaxies into their centres, pulling neighbouring galaxies into collision, and causing destruction we can't even begin to fathom the size of.

Black holes are at the centre of every big galaxy, and the Milky Way has one of the biggest known to science - four million times heavier than the sun, it holds our place in the infinite, and it probably has a lot to do with the anomaly of life on Earth. Maybe we're made from the dust it flung into space when it died?

Our black hole is colossal. Trillions of light years of space-time are constantly being sucked over its event horizon toward an inevitable, inconceivable unknown. It is lightless, emotionless, it feels, thinks & sees nothing, it is indiscriminate, and nothing escapes. We're not even space junk to it, we're so insignificant. I think about this a lot.

I think about it when something asinine is on TV. When people at my job make life hell for everyone around them. When I wonder how things are made, like petroleum-based plastics, and keyboards and then thoughts typed on keyboards. I think about it when people find more pleasure in making misery than making joy. When insecurities turn us into ferocious animals. When Samsara clouds the mind.

We waste so much time on such unimportant things. But then, I think 'why not waste time on unimportant things?' It's all indiscriminately meaningless - the profound and the shallow, the erudite and the ignorant. Nothing means anything, when you get right down to it. Samsara is just friction along the path that gives us the illusion that things actually matter. It gives us wars and love, righteousness and self-righteousness, humility, and the belief that our existence is more than a complicated accident. It puts weight behind every stance we take, it makes us bold, puts our clenched fist into our hand.

The non-stop chatter of the ego - where does it come from? It's like radio static from space storms constantly raging. The emotions that flare up and wreak havoc on our lives because we can't unhook them from our coats and let them go out the windows. Backed into corners with the desire to see attack coming from all fronts. And I say "desire" because we make a choice to see things the way we see them. Absolutely nothing is intrinsic, except maybe nothingness. Our interpretation of everything in the universe is just a chemical reaction in the brain - a constant white noise of left and right brain functioning.

I think about this a lot. Especially when I pull myself out of the white noise, and listen to it objectively. When I see people around me, even intelligent people, all knotted up in it. I wish they'd all turn off their radios.