"my block - we probably done it all homey believe me my block - we made the impossible look easy..." - scarface, "my block" and like a curling mist through the back country, there is an outlaw story woven deeply within the fabric of the suburban experience. epic tales of outlawry told tell of climbing trees, schools, and malls. defacing ads, stealing stop signs, vandalizing strip plazas and hanging out in playgrounds after dark. keying vehikills, stealing food. dumpstering, squatting, running, loving... those trails to further tales go far on til morning. from there to there to here to somewhere, and all the stories that can never be told. you could ride and see the night. ride through lives and compare notes on boredom and wonder that encircles and ensnares these sprawling bubbles of capitalism (like all sprawling bubbles of capitalism - cities, industrial farms, and woodlots doomed for destruction). but we've seen the lines and crossed over them. we've broken through and the breach is widening with basement shows, late night skate sessions, bombing downtown, and strange haircuts. who's streets? my streets. and you, who arent from here, what do you know of these beautiful secrets, our hiding spots where we laid claim to spirit, soul and the greatest living our swift bodies could get up too. where we endured tragic break ups and vicious drunks. when we broke away from the fists of fathers, mothers, friends and foe (our blood fed those rivers and streams). where the pigs tore through with blinding lights and binding cuffs. where drains explored and lovers lost and the rain poured and poured and where stale cigarettes scratched lungs after late nights awake with friends we helped escape (and we never ran again). there were hills, valleys, wooden forts and concrete. there were leaves and carpet, fire and tracks, bottles wrappers cans since times barely memorable. those fences never too tall and those orange lights never bled all the way down, all the way through the brush, on into the deepest caches of our plots and schemes. and all those cars we broke into. and the cigarettes and tapes we stole. with every car we broke into a new world bloomed as our hearts boomed and we doubted the blurry eyes of the lookouts. and the strangers we met on our trails throughout the city - we could tell them about the curiodysseys through their own neighbourhoods, exploring the winding streets, with all the same looking houses and same looking parks, searching out the rare and the unusual, obscene and profound. o the obscene! the lost porn and love letters found in the parking lots, each one a tract proclaiming freedom to the very parts and pieces we were discovering within our selves - projecting notions and motions on our immaculate bodies and minds! new revelations on the purposes of our crazy longings. our bodies moved and burned. we fumbled into darkness and came out with radiance never witnessed, and we all knew what was going down. we crashed into each other, with a violence like waves, and rolling back into ourselves we were horrified at the physical flotsam, emotional jetsam which came into creation with every impassioned fuck. we were doomed. doomed to learn pain and shame and consequence. we all were guilty of this mess. we never talked about it, the pain and shame. though those days struck me, and the shadows in memory strike me still. i know that others too are still smashed with these notions, somewhere in their ghosts, whenever someone starts talking about the emptiness and alienation of our hometowns (it's in the hauntings of all those damned houses). the long walks home took us somewhere other than our desired destinations. seeking out somewhere we could take the time to remember. remember that inside each one of those boxes where we forged our dreams, with its tv set glowing blue in the falling dusk, there lived our stories, our families, our lives bound together and torn asunder with that pain and shame and the struggles for love. but whatever. these are all just the same old stories told under flickering lamplight in the empty parking lot of some crummy strip mall. they dont mean shit, right?   . brampton the quiet .