The only sensed relaxation from the news media’s coverage of one its most discussed countries, is of my own making. An unconscious involuntary relaxing of the mouth, the tip of my tongue placed close to the back of my upper front teeth where I proceed to gently blow out air hissing the whispering sounds of Syria. Accusations of being over-the-top; an embellished theatrical performance, with likelihoods of reconstructing that broken fourth wall between performers and their respective audience, has become as realistic an illusion of people crossing imaginary border lines, while objectively, hasn’t it for the most part been the other way around?
More or less an anomaly, the impressions left from sautéing onions, mixed with ginger, garlic, teaspoons of red chilli and turmeric powder were of a different sort.
Mother’s staple ingredients had always the ability to reach my core. In the past it defined me, initiating from without rather than within. The resilient spices bequeathed an aroma penetrating every nook and cranny, latching on to hairs, fabrics, deep down to ones conscious perception, and in a brown skinned boys white world, the last thing desired are his differences to be more evident.
Like any global city, Montreal has its fair share of idiosyncrasies. These unique peculiarities make up the city’s distinctive identity, provide a persistent systematic motion between city dwellers and their dwellings.
That in mind, what’s to be said of Montreal’s architectural influences? This city is noted for its plethora of old buildings, long gone novelties that have survived, transcended cliché, to become something more reflective, in their ability to evoke the marvels of originality, and the past.
“For a renowned Palestinian Jew (Jesus), a few thousand years back, his activism, outlook, was based on attaining freedoms from the exploitive establishment of the Romans. As we’re well aware, Jesus was crucified for his resistance, which in today’s semantics would be labeled as counter terrorism.”
There’s something cathartic about riding a bike naked on the streets of Montreal. But that is yet to be determined as we enter our sixty-ninth minute of this ride.
The World Naked Bike Ride is an international event across 113 cities worldwide. In Montreal, we’re a little over two hundred bicyclists, unicyclists and a few rollerbladers of all ages, sexual orientations and, to be politically correct, melanin pigment levels. This diversity compliments the variety of body types and sizes. For wandering eyes like mine, this becomes much more apparent in the raw.
From the outset, Fire In the Unnameable Country hinted at possible deception.
Neatly packaged in a FedEx Express envelope from Mr. Penguin himself, a rain-shielding plastic shell concealed an information sheet presented in an environmentally conscious (or cost-effective) font and a 448-page book that crawled smoothly from its tan envelope.
An easy read and a swift review had been assumed, until a quick glance at the red and black cover revealed Jonathan Garfinkel’s blurb, “A post-apocalyptic mind-fuck, a wild ride through the netherworlds of the war on terror.”
“Boxe et littérature” was the title of the Blue Metropolis May 1st panel. A little disconcerting for those who do not wish to be thought of as obtuse and simple-minded. For them, boxing and literature are two peas that are never to share the same pod.
With my limited French, reviewing such an event felt as deceptive as the sign language interpreter at Nelson Mandela’s funeral. As the event drew closer, so did this reviewer’s apprehensions, including wondering whether anxiety disorders are genetic.