30.EP.27r: October
1, 2002.
"The War Party, part 17:
The Language Of Love."
Mr. Treadwell's sister died. Her first name was Gladys.
The doctor said she died of lingering dread, a result of the four days
and night she and her brother had spent in the Mid-Village Mall, lost and
confused.
--Don DeLillo, White Noise.
IF YOU CAN'T LICK 'EM OR JOIN 'EM, SIMULATE 'EM....
And so now it's Saturday.
And so now Alex and I are
going to drive to Edmonton, and we're going to visit the West Edmonton
Mall.
If I can't find any hope
or focus in the "real" world, maybe I can buy some....
GETTING THERE
NOTES: The highway to
Edmonton may as well not have a speed limit. It doesn't matter how
fast you drive, everybody else passes you.
And, this early in the morning
my eyes can barely focus. So, right now, Alex is driving. But,
in reality he's no better. His job is wearing him down.
And the radio situation
in Alberta is insipid to the point of horror. I flip the dial:
Country music.
Country music.
Country music.
Country music.
Polkas.
News.
Country music.
Classical.
Oldies.
Talk radio.
Talk radio.
Religious station.
Country music.
Country music.
Country music.
Country music.
Oldies.
Country music.
"Okay," I say. "Is
there anything on here that's not drivel?"
"Nope. You don't actually
hear any new music in Calgary. Not unless it's Shania Twain.
There isn't really anything that plays Top-40. Or, well, actually
there is but most of the time when I tune in it's the oldies show."
"Oldies are fine," I say.
"But even the oldies channels don't even play any good oldies. It's
all CCR. How about some Bowie at least. Or even, like Beatles
or something. Even goddamn Flock Of Seagulls beats 'Big wheels keep
on toinin' / Proud Mary keep on boinin'....' Something that isn't
country-themed."
"Wrong province for that.
Everybody in this place thinks they're Texans."
"Yeeee-freakin'-ha."
I snap off the radio and
we're both silent. The minutes pass. All there is, is the sound
of the tires on the pavement. A low-grade sound that's both hiss
and roar.
Eventually, I notice that
we're both nodding off.
"Christ," I say, snapping
on the radio. "Maybe I can find some Pink or something. Maybe
I can find this magical Top-40 station somewhere. Hell, at this point
I'd even listen to Britney Spears."
Eventually, I find something
called Tradio.
TRADIO NOTES
The purpose of Tradio
is a to provide a radio forum where people can trade goods and services.
It's "trade" plus "radio." Put them together and you get "Tradio."
Cute, huh?
(And it turns out there's
variations of this type of show everywhere. It's not exclusively
an Alberta phenomenon. The shows all have different titles, they're
not all called Tradio, but they're essentially the same. And
I didn't even know this. Show how much I care about the radio.)
And today it's got a wild
cast of characters:
There's:
the guy who wants to know
if anybody needs a carpenter,
the old lady who has a bunch
of jars of jelly and jam,
another old lady who has
a bunch of tomatoes,
the guy who needs something
done but doesn't tell anyone his name or phone number or address,
who then becomes the guy
who needs something done but doesn't tell anyone his name or phone number
or address, and then phones back and tells everyone his name,
who then becomes the guy
who needs something done who just told everyone his name but not his phone
number or address who phones back again and tells everyone his address,
and then the woman with
a bunch of kittens,
and then the guy who needs
something done and who just told everyone his name and address but not
his phone number who phones yet again and tells everyone that it's lumber
he needs moved, that's it, it's a bunch of lumber so he needs someone who
has a pickup truck and then by the way he finally coughs up his phone number,
then there's the old woman
who goes:
"Oh, could you just hold
on?"
HOST: "Uh, what?"
OLD WOMAN: "Just hold
on a second please."
HOST: "Uh, look miss I can't
hold on this is the rad--"
OLD WOMAN (shouting away
from the receiver): "BILL! BILL GET OVER HERE!"
(BILL says something muffled.)
HOST: "Look, m'am--"
OLD LADY: "BILL!
TURN ON THE RADIO! I--"
And then the host hangs
up on her.
HOST: "And, uh, we'll
be back after these messages. Just remember you're listening to Tradio!"
And then a commercial about
threshers.
"I have to admit, " I say.
"That was funny."
"It's always like that.
You don't know how lucky you have it back home." Alex swerves to
avoid a panicking squirrel. "You've at least got a community radio
station. They were talking about it in the office. Apparently
your community radio station is one of the best ones in Canada."
"Huh. And here I thought
it was just a bunch of college students who always press the wrong buttons,
punctuate every second word with 'uhhhh' and 'um,' play ten minutes of
dead air, and can't even pronounce the names of their favorite bands properly."
"Well, it is. But
it's one of the best. And at least it's better than this."
A commercial for pesticide.
Then something about adult diapers. And then Tradio comes
back.
And we drive past a big
red smear and a bunch of scattered animal legs.
SCREEN WIPE TO:
People everywhere. I have
gone from crowds of unfocused protesters, to crowds of unfocused shoppers.
But, somehow, here I feel more at home. Even if I have no money.
"I have no money," I tell
Alex, "and that's pissing me off."
He ignores me because I've
been bitching about lack of funds all day.
And it's true. I am
almost broke, right now, at this moment, and even though I'll be getting
more money when I get back home-- that money's still back home, and not
here. And so that doesn't really do me a lot of good. And my
broken toe is also beginning to hurt me.
"My ex-broken toe's hurting,"
I say. "Let's go get a drink and then I can sit down."
"Okay," Alex says.
FINDING NIRVANA IN AN EMPTY WELL
Everywhere I go, I feel smothered.
But at the same time, I am comfortable.
Sometimes I feel like flailing
my arms and hitting random shoppers in their dazed, distant faces.
But, at the same time feeling this panic comforts me.
And it's probably because
I'm indoors, and it's air-conditioned, and there's no meaning here beyond
the vague, quasi-sexual, quasi-transcendental hollowness of consumer culture.
No one in the West Edmonton
Mall is trying to make a point, and therefore no one is failing to make
a point. No one here is claiming to be for the people while going
through highly exclusionistic rituals. No one here is jumping around
proclaiming their individuality while surrounded by thousands of others
all proclaiming similar individualities in the exact same way. No
one here is a hypocrite. They're all just here to shop, to buy something
nice and empty. Forget their cares and themselves and wallow in capitalistic
bliss.
Consumer culture may be
hollow, but at least it doesn't pretend to be concerned with anything more
than itself.
And the people around me
talk about inane things.
And the colours of the mall
are neutral and soothing.
And there are dolphins here
and an amusement park: Kids whipping around on rides made of chains
and wheels. Someone was killed here a few years ago. One of
the rides broke and the kid flew into space and then crashed into another
ride.
And there is a lagoon with
a pirate ship and a submarine. Someone died here, too. He'd
been drinking, fell in and got pinned. After he'd been dead for a
few days he floated back up to the surface during regular store hours.
And there's a skating rink.
No one died there, I think.
And a big swimming pool
that looks like an artificial lake.
And a hotel, too.
They should have their own
airport at the West Edmonton Mall. That would make the whole thing
complete. It'd be a perfect self-contained environment.
"They're thinking of building
a condo in here," Alex says. "Or a condo that's attached to the mall,
somehow."
"Cool."
"That way you could actually
work here, and live here in your condo. You'd never have to leave
the mall."
"Is there a grocery store?"
"I don't know. But
I think there isn't. But if there was a condo or two, maybe there
would be."
"You could be in a situation
where literally you'd never need to be outside...."
"If you had kids, though,
you'd have to go outside to take them to school."
"Unless you had a tutor.
Did home schooling. Or there was a school built into the mall."
"Actually," Alex says, "there
is a school. There's a business college that has one of its campuses
in here. So, if you're old enough to go to college...."
There are rumours that streetpeople
live in the mall at night. That there are roving gangs. That
the mall is so huge it cannot be effectively policed and so these people
can hide in ducts and come out after closing.
But those are only rumours.
ARCHITECTURES OF DESIRE
The ceiling of the West Edmonton
stretches up, up, up.
It may as well be a sky.
They could paint it baby blue and draw some clouds, and no one would be
able to tell the difference.
After all, no one looks
upwards anymore, anyway. So they have nothing to compare it too.
The ceiling of the West Edmonton Mall vs. the sky. How can you tell
the difference between a mall and the sky if you never look at the sky?
If you're too busy driving from one end of the town to the other, or playing
videogames....
"Geez, Mom, you mean there
aren't supposed to be girders in the sky? If there aren't girders
in the sky how does it stay up there?"
I stare down at my feet.
A bunch of girls wearing Hello Kitty t-shirts walk past me. I quickly
glance in their direction, but don't make eye contact.
SLOW BURN
I look in bookstores.
Alex and I navigate around
people.
My toe aches and we stop
or a while, sit on a bench.
Then we go to an Internet
café and I check my e-mail. I need to check my e-mail like
I need to breathe. It's kind of disturbing, actually.
I actually feel more secure
now when I'm on the Internet. Even if I'm just surfing pointlessly
through geeky webpages.
If I go without the Internet
for a few days I start to feel funny. I start to feel duller, more
empty. I start to feel lesser, like I've lost a part of myself.
I'd like to think I'm just
addicted, but somehow this feels deeper-- and more frightening-- than simple
addiction.
And, so, after I check my
e-mail, Alex and I head out again.
"There are so many people
and so much noise, here I'm experiencing a type of synaesthesia," I say.
"I feel like my senses are strobing."
"Wanna go look at cds?"
Alex says.
"Sure."
I the store, I find a couple
of cds for myself, and an anime dvd for Kim.
BEG, BORROW, STEAL, KILL
Mall voices, snippets of conversations:
"I think there should be
a war. They should kill them all."
"Mom? Mom?"
"Catch a bus and get the
hell out of here."
"Lance Bass? I think
he's a loser."
"It's be cool if he got
into space, though."
"Open wide."
"Lookit these shoes!
Lookit lookit lookit!"
"It's in the Book Of John.
I think. I think it says that we'll all be killed by a flood."
"Maybe for Christmas, but
right now, no."
"Cut it out, Jerry!"
(Giggles.)
"He went to a rave with
her then she took something and started screaming and now she's in the
psych ward for observations it's really fucked up I think he did it."
"Pink. Yeah, I'd do
her."
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"He really cleaned up, I
think. At least that's what Carlson made it seem like."
"Tits. Yeah.
Tits."
"When can we go home?
I want to go home."
"All these people."
"She started it!"
"You two sit down right
now!"
"I'm thirsty."
"Hang on, I wanna check
out these pants."
"So hot out there, so goddamn
hot."
"He went deaf when the machine
blew up."
"Sometimes I just wanna,
like, just sit alone and cry?"
THRU' THESE ARCHITECT'S EYES
After all, why shouldn't the
sky have girders and supports? Why shouldn't the sky be inside?
Why shouldn't there be absolutely no difference between the ceiling of
a mall and the infinity of space?
I mean, it's all the same
stuff, right? Everything is made of the same particles, in the end.
In the end all we are all just fluctuations in quantum foam. Or maybe
accretions of some sort of basic particle/not-particle things that aren't
really things at all and defy all common sense and logic. So the
ceiling of the West Edmonton Mall and the sky over Edmonton are simply
abstract probabilities made concrete, are both made out of the same core
presence.
They just have varying densities.
And it doesn't really matter if one was erected and the other was "already
there." Because if we weren't here to say the sky was "already there,"
would it really be "already there?"
Maybe, maybe not.
It's kind of hard to say what the world would be like if we didn't exist,
because even the act of imagining that scenario is filtered through our
existence. And besides, if this fluffy, quasi-newage, partially-semantic
argument seems like a lot of mental masturbation and hair-spilling, it
still doesn't change the fact that the basic building blocks of the universe
seem to be a binary type of presence and absence, that everything seems
to be-- now at least-- some sort of quantum information, some kind of 1-0
arrangement where, much like in a computer the 1 is a charge or in this
case "presence" and the 0 is an absence of charge (a type of absence, or
nothingness).
And, if that's the case,
and the building blocks of reality are some sort of abstract, basic 0-1
existence in bubble form, or some sort of unsplitable value that's both
a particle and not a particle, foam and not-foam, and if the sky and the
surface of this mall can both be said to be existing in time at the same
time, in front of me now, then maybe, just maybe, in a certain way they
both are the same.
And maybe there is no inside
or outside.
Just these girders above
me. Except, of course, when the girders aren't there any more, and
have been replaced by an infinite television blue. Which pretty much
still amounts to the same thing. Because, always, there's something
up there, above me, framing me, always.
STYLE
Men in business suits.
Young girls wearing tank
tops and shorts.
Mothers with babies.
Men in t-shirts.
Women in blouses and jeans.
Girls in sundresses.
Shirtless boys.
Boys, girls, men, women
adorned in yesterday's cool: generic piercings littering their faces, and
clichéd tattoos fading on their arms and legs.
Women in business suits.
Teenaged boys wearing punk
rock shirts.
Teen girls in tie-dyes.
Army people: men and women
in khaki.
Old ladies wearing shawls,
walking with canes.
Old men in dress-clothes.
One of them has a walker.
Little kids running around
laughing and squealing.
A wedding party: Men in
tuxedos, women in dresses.
Cops in black.
Mostly everyone wearing
glasses.
DANGER ZONE
My toe aches. More mall
voices:
"Construction's a bitch.
This city's falling apart."
"It's always falling apart."
"I heard there's a tornado
warning."
"She was in the crowd, holding
a sign. She was there when the cops did that thing with the bikes."
"I was going to take off
my shirt, but I was scared."
"Soup is so expensive today."
"Playstations!"
"Go to hell, Mark."
"I need a beer."
"I just don't know what
to do, y'know. It's, like, I want to do something, make some sort
of difference, somehow fix things or if not, like, y'know, fix them make
them so they should at least, like, be, y'know, make everybody, like, like
it would be...." (She walks away, trails off.)
"So, this is summer, I guess."
INFINITE VELOCITY, INFINITE MASS
Then we walk around, searching
bookstores and simply looking at people.
We walk through the amusement
park again. We scan and scout. There is no point or purpose
to what we're doing. It becomes a pure thing.
It seems like I'm in slow
motion, that the crowd is zipping past, moving at a flickering velocity.
The voices of the people roar and pulse, both distant and immanent, like
television static. I'm above them all and yet swallowed by their
gravity. Consumed, crushed.
There is a paradox, here.
And I know this:
I hate people and crowds,
yet a mall filled to capacity with shoppers soothes me. I feel at
home, here, surrounded by these people.
Alex and I sit on a bench,
and we watch the shoppers dart and flicker.
And, over the warm roar
of the shoppers, I hear lush synthesizers. And it's Moby, repeating,
over and over and over:
'Cause we are all made of stars
People they come together
'Cause we are all made of stars
People they fall apart
'Cause we are all made of stars
No one can stop us now....
WRAPPING UP
After a while, we go get some
food. Then I check my e-mail again. Then I go buy a Hüsker
Dü cd: Zen Arcade. Then we leave.
LOGGING OFF
We spend some time wandering
around Edmonton.
The weather is hot, and
sometimes it clouds over and rains.
We check out more stores,
in other places.
Night falls and we drive
back to Calgary.
And it's late. And
we're tired. And I'm driving now.
Alex drives out, I drive
back.
And the radio is even worse:
old radio comedies. We were hoping for Art Bell. Conspiracy
theories keep us awake.
And sometimes humour does
not age well. Particularly old vaudeville routines and jokes about
how cheap Benny Goodman is. And then there's jokes about Negro butlers,
and shoeshine boys. And routines about Hirohito. And: "Take
my wife-- please!"
The night is black, cloudless
and moonless. And the road is wet from a recent thunderstorm, so
it's black too.
And because of my windshield
I can't even see any stars.
And there's nothing reflective
on the side of the road.
And Henny Youngman is spitting
out one-liners, now.
And I think Alex has fallen
asleep.
And the sound of the tires
is so soothing.
And there are moments when
I think I'm separating from my body. Moments where I feel like the
sound of the tires and the blackness is going to swallow me up.
Then I could fly through
space. Loose myself in velocity and encroaching nullity.
Dissolve, fade, cease.
Become everything I've wanted
for so long to be.
30.EP.27r: October
1, 2002.