In Douglas Coupland’s latest novel Worst. Person. Ever. the protagonist, Raymond, lobs one of his shots across the bow…
“I like to see elderly people trying their hand at painting even though they couldn’t possibly have a career ahead of them because they’ll soon be dead.”
This may be true but the error this young whippersnapper is making is in assuming “career” is the end game.
Here’s the latest from The Bunkie/Studio…
Middle Beach Tofino
Acrylic on canvasboard 9×12
Surface
Acrylic on canvas, 20×14
“If you hear a voice within you saying you cannot paint, then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.” Vincent Van Gogh
In other news – Jamaica, the land of Number One Son’s birth, has become the latest country to decriminalize marijuana, another country leaving us behind in the dust. Which reminds me (I trust the statute of limitations has expired on this tale)…
31 years ago this month we moved to Jamaica where we were to live for the next 2 years on a small mountain just outside Kingston with views down over the city and out to the Caribbean. Our first week there I asked a friend of someone we had known in Canada if she knew where I could get some ganja. “No problem” as the expression goes; her neighbors across the hall were Rastafarians. A couple of days later she showed up with a paper bag, the contents of which can only be described as a very tightly compressed large brick. The amount was staggering. We hadn’t talked about quantities and she had shown up with a jaw dropping pound of pot – 50 bucks.
We were living in a hotel at the time and on weekends we’d pack our stuff up, put it into hotel storage and head up to the coast. The weekend after taking possession of this huge windfall we headed up to Ocho Rios for a little R&R on the beach – completely forgetting to bring the brick. Not to worry, I said. All we have to do is take a stroll down the beach. So while our massive amount of ganja was stinking up the hotel luggage storage room back in Kingston, we went for a little walk along the Ocho Rios beach. Within one minute, we were approached by an eager young man, and voila, there we were, all set for the weekend. Later that night we were having a wee toke on the beach while enjoying the sunset when we passed the hotel security guard. “What you do dere, dat’s illegal” he informed us. “So?” says I, continuing on my merry way.
Well not anymore it isn’t. Go Jamaica!
Postscript to The Brick. Despite my best efforts and those of assorted visitors, when it came time to leave Jamaica two years later, the brown paper bag was still not empty. We donated it to our driver, Campbell, who no doubt put it to good use.
