San Francisco Vignette no.1

It was 11:15pm. I stood at the corner of Ellis and Cyril Magnin, slice of pizza in hand poised to satisfy a late-night craving. There was a lot of activity on the streets, something foreign to the sleepy northern village I call home. Sirens blared in the distance. A mentally ill man to my right shouted obscenities at no one in particular in between reciting random bible verses. Cars honked incessantly at a cab in front of me. The light was green, but it remained stationary. A shirtless man was trying to open the trunk. I assumed he was loading gear. 

"What the fuck?! HEY!!!" the cab driver exclaimed upon looking into his rearview mirror. The shirtless man continued to be transfixed with opening the trunk. 

A scuffle ensued as the taxi driver physically pried the shirtless man away from his vehicle and placed him next to me near the curb. I started to contemplate which self-defence technique would best work against this clearly high-as-fuck individual should shit go down. I didn't want to lose my pizza, but it was probably inevitable. I noted the shirtless man also wasn't wearing shoes. His gaze was as vacant as a zombie. 

Without incident, he made his way back to the trunk of the cab. The driver again exited his vehicle and braced for round two. The mentally ill man to my right proclaimed that God is great. 

I continued munching on my pizza. The walk signal lit up. My hotel was two blocks away.

The symphony of the streets played on. 

Mou Hitotsu no Kenkyujo

My second current obsession from Japan is the work of artist Mou Hitotsu no Kenkyujo. I've been developing a lot of digital animations lately and his beautifully detailed flip books, complete with enhanced print features such as die cuts that reveal secret chambers, are providing a mega dose of inspiration. The books are becoming coveted collector items. I recently purchased "God of Bug Eater (Vol.8)" and the pages are already curling from overuse. 

For more information on Mou Hitotsu no Kenkyujo's amazing work, click here. 

Terada Mokei

Last week I visited Japan Town while in San Francisco and discovered several things that I will probably be obsessing over for the next few months. The first is the 1/100th scale architectural model series by artist Terada Mokei. These very tiny, intricately detailed paper models are sold in sheets that recreate various vignettes of life, from the hustle and bustle of the New York subway system to a competitive swimming event. I really want to assemble one; I feel it would be a great test of patience while learning to hone one's craft. 

For more information on Terada Mokei, click here. 

Terada Mokei New York subway scene

Terada Mokei New York subway scene

Terada Moeki competitive swimming event scene

Terada Moeki competitive swimming event scene

Terada Mokei wedding scene

Terada Mokei wedding scene

Terada Mokei rice planting scene

Terada Mokei rice planting scene

Terada Mokei fishing scene

Terada Mokei fishing scene

Terada Mokei symphony scene (my favourite)

Terada Mokei symphony scene (my favourite)

To truly appreciate the effort involved in constructing these (and get an accurate sense of scale), watch the video below: 


A Tale of Two Aliens

It was the worst of times. 

The final weeks of my father's life were spent fluctuating between the grim reality of the salmon pink cell he was imprisoned in and whatever worlds he was invited to while in deep pharmaceutical haze. This included a spaceship manned by aliens. 

One morning I entered my father's hospital room to find him wide-eyed and skittish. "Boy did I have a wild night" he stated before telling me about the drug-fuelled adventure he experienced upon waking at 3:00am. With no clue where he was or what all of the intermittent beeping was signalling, his mind raced to the only logical conclusion he could fathom in that altered state: he had been abducted by aliens for interplanetary research. And now he needed to break free. 

*Beep* 

My father arose from the bed and studied the numerous picc lines in his arms, quickly attempting to remove them and the mysterious substances they were injecting into his body. This only caused more beeping. As he heard footsteps approach from the hallway, panic set in. With mere seconds to spare, he made an attempt to reach for his cane, a solid weapon he could use to beat the alien species with and show them that lifeforms on earth kick ass. 

*Beep* 

He never got it. 

*Beep*

Instead, he got tangled up in the curtain, numerous cords and other medical paraphernalia that surrounded him. Imprisoned him. 

*Beep* 

The "alien" entered the room. 

*Beep* 

After untangling my father and gently asking what he was doing at that early hour, the "alien" put him back to sleep with the aid of more of that mysterious substance being pumped through his veins. 

My father laughed at this story but also showed serious concern. In the moment, he believed he actually was on a spaceship being tested against his will. He was also anxious about what would have happened had he managed to secure his cane. "I could have seriously assaulted someone" he reflected soberly. "I don't know what they're giving me in here."

Over the past few weeks, I've noticed a word that keeps popping up in my social media feeds (often as part of a dire news headline): Fentanyl. I normally would scroll by something that doesn't pertain to my life, but this word – this drug – has now become a part of it, triggering memories of my father's final weeks. A time spent in-and-out of lucidity. 

Winnipeg Free Press, October 15, 2014: Vancouver overdoses linked to Fentanyl, not heroin. 

Saskatoon Star Phoenix, October 18, 2014: Kayle Best has done meth, heroin and crack but no drug was as destructive as this. 

CBC News, October 24, 2014: Two suspected 'bad heroin' deaths not caused by heroin at all. 

Fentanyl wasn't the only pain medication prescribed to my father, although it appears to have been the strongest of all the opioids that were part of his treatment. These included codeine, morphine and oxycodone. Despite this abundance of pharmacological aides, my father continued to suffer from immense pain. So much so that the simple act of turning over in bed or being the recipient of a hug would result in wails of anguish. How much did this combination of drugs help? How much did it hinder? I suppose I will never know that answer but it does give me pause. My father's diagnosis was terminal, but I can't help wonder if the toxicity of the prescribed substances was the final shock to the system for a man that rarely took Aspirin.

Imagine being on medication described as 40 - 100x stronger than heroin and still feeling pain.

This is the life of a cancer patient.

Burned with radiation.

Poisoned with chemotherapy.

At constant war with their own body and forced to hold abstract faith in a world where impiety is more resolute. 

My father's medication to treat pain from Stage IV esophageal cancer. 

My father's medication to treat pain from Stage IV esophageal cancer. 

Diary of a Cancer Patient

This has become my most valuable possession: 

It is but a simple, coil-bound notebook approximately 4" wide x 6" long. Weathered. Covered in doodles. Most people have something of this nature in their drawers or at the bottom of their purse, perhaps near the phone if a landline is present. I have several that I use with varied purpose from compiling grocery lists to recording thoughts and ideas that present themselves throughout the day. This notebook was at one time in my possession but eventually ownership was transferred to my father. He used it as a medical diary of sorts. 

There is no linear narrative. Dates bounce from page to page and may contain anything from the day's food intake to a concise recording of every medication that was ingested. My father was on a lot of medication. I'm just now learning how potent they were. 

What makes this simple, coil-bound notebook so valuable to me are the final messages that my father wrote on June 28. They are indiscernible. The hand – and mind – used to write them clearly reeling from the effects of a massive stroke that would, in a matter of hours, steal all mobility from the man I often described as a "Clint Eastwood"-type. A strong man. A tough man. Someone that was rarely vocal about the pain he experienced but was ultimately vulnerable enough to record it. 

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My father's final writing: "me go".