Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The moon and the stars and
The sky. There is always
Quick heat in mouths touching, built
with brick around
frost, and hung
with a thousand particles of
light around brick.
Stolen, not taken. My world
is the same as any other (because
what is a world?) if a look is taken
at the brick and
the frost, the lights
in the dark.
But between? There, in the
tiny, apparent barren space that
no one bothers
or, maybe, looks close enough
There is a rise
It is steady, it is even. and
I have seen what a world is after all.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Last year, same day. December 21. I wrote this.
Months and years past of train ticket machines click-click-clashing my passage to and from a place that I knew was my home. I took a train again this morning in a sweater two sizes too large for me, and stared out a frostbitten window knowing that I don't know where that home is anymore.
And, far more significantly, knowing that it's alright to not know.
I expect that having figured everything out at the age of 23 would make for a horribly dull, albeit easier and more manageable existence. I could be wrong, of course, so if there's a 20-something (or 30, or 40, or ever 50-something for that matter) out there who believes that they've obtained such clarity, please send me an e-mail...I'd love to hear all about it. So, for the time being, I'm unsure as to what direction this is all going in, and I mean that in the broadest sense possible. Past, present and future blogs, schools, careers, homes, shoes, cigarettes, planes, trains, automobiles, holidays - you name it, I've probably not quite figured it out. And the great clarity I've been seeking for a longer time than I would like to recollect kicks in when I remind myself that it's not something I even want. I'm in love with not knowing, and for right now that's good enough.
A few days ago my oft-alluded to man and I sat in our beautiful tropicana coloured kitchen nook, where we sit most every evening and enjoy the beautiful meals we alternately prepare for one another, and we talked. We always talk.
It's nice, being with someone who likes listening to you talk, likes the way your face moves when you listen to them talk, likes talking to you.
Our talks range from making silly noises and singing at one another to examining existentialist treatises to congratulating each other and ourselves on the accomplishments of the week (songs, chapters finished, meals made, dancing fun had). This time we talked about happiness. What it means, where you feel it, whether it's in your chest or bones or stomach or skin or brain or all of then at once. How it doesn't change who you are, it lets you be who you are. And even though I still don't know what it is, or how to explain to anyone how to feel it like I do...
Happiness. We came to this conclusion. When you can just be, it just is.
And this? This I know.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
open place in a lover. Where are
those qualities of bravery and sharp
compassion in this group? What's the
use of old and frozen thought? I want
a howling hurt. This is not a treasury
where gold is stored; this is for copper.
We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change. Lukewarm
won't do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by? Not here.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I like you.
And I think I understand you. Mostly.
Some afternoons I sit here in this very spot that I’m sitting in now and I watch you on my computer screen: burning it with all your clipped words of white-hot love. It helps me sometimes…I think.
It helps me think.
And there you sit across from me in the screen, sitting the same way every time: being positive, elegant, generous and loving and all of the things that we all should be. We all should be…and yet none of us are. No one I know is. I try to be. I know I’m not.
But you! You are.
Even after the merciless and horrible things the universe has brought upon your tiny little head, still full of your shiny short hair at 73 years old, you are.
See, if I were you, Yoko, I don't think I'd ever be able to say I love you again.
And you! You do. You say it every day, to everyone and no one at all.
God, you’re so fucking strong, Yoko.
You make me entertain the thought that I, too, could maybe be as amazing as you are one day even though I’m admittedly selfish (and, quite simply, not as amazing; simply in that I never want to have to be). But I still entertain it. I let it loose up in my head, like hair that’s been confined from tight braids it’s been in for weeks, like a child who’s eaten nothing but Pixie Stix for days on end and runs up and down the block to burn it all off.
This kind of simplicity? It’s so nice to have sometimes.
I wonder, Yoko, if you too sometimes get sad or bored with yourself, and the feeling that you’re not actually very good at anything at all?
I try to be creative most days.
Most days I can't even tell if it's working or not.
Most days I think I could do anything at all and none of it would matter to anyone but me.
Or it could matter to everyone, but I think it would mean nothing to me either way.
What is being creative anyways? Just…creating? Well, I could create anything then. I could write you a letter, I could draw pictures of paper coffee cups piled up on desks with words like I’m so fucking sick of this scrawled over them, I could draw them over top of worse renderings of with tiny waists and long legs of extra-terrestrials spreading their fingers atop the open palms that face their audience in surrender, saying come in, I’m letting you in, have a fucking look and don’t fucking look at me and I could make a million dollars.
People make a million dollars making much stupider, much dirtier, much more inane things than these.
I wish my mind was clean.
I wish I could make a million dollars.
I wish I didn't wish to know everything all the time.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is…I feel like you must sometimes feel like I do, Yoko.
You certainly never show it. I'm working on that, too, the not showing of it. Not letting it get in me in the first place is hard enough, but at least not letting it out...it's kind of like those affirmation things that you’re supposed to do when you’re depressed. Someone told me to do them when I thought I was depressed, but I don't think I really was. Just sad. I did them anyways.
So tell me Yoko, please, because I actually need to know whether or not it’s true.
Do you ever get sad? Do you ever go on your early evening walks and feel nothing but loose street gravel below the soles of your little feet, do you alternate between conversations and shapes and numbers in your head, do you find yourself unable to speak of it, not because you don’t want to but because you don’t know what your insides are made of, let alone what words to use?
I hope you do, Yoko. I hope you are sad sometimes. I hope you hate sometimes. I hope you’re just as confused and fucked and afraid as the rest of us.
But as much as I need to know that you’ve got bad on your insides too, Yoko, don’t worry. I know you don’t. It’s why I like you.
Monday, November 16, 2009
1. Your water breaks. And the words, they come pouring out as though every major artery in your body (heart included) has just been swiftly and mercilessly slashed open. It's all kind of disgusting really, or would be if not for the fact that you're kind of excited because you're having a baby goddammit!
2. The birth commences. But you had to take public transit to the hospital during rush hour, and now that you're finally here, not one kind soul is being magnanimous enough to stab you in the ass with an epidural. Yep, this part fucking hurts.
3. Postpartum depression sets in. How on earth do you get this monster to go to sleep, or at the very least stop caterwauling at you for five minutes? You're approaching the beast from every angle, and it's deflecting your advances like a pro.
4. It is a screaming terror of a toddler, and there are moments, more frequent than not, wherein you believe that it is either you or it. Only one shall survive, and it's not looking like it's going to be you. You feel inefficient, paralyzed, and just about ready to put the thing up for adoption. Or kill it. There's always that option, too.
5. Alright, it's finally learning to talk and walk and is even starting kindergarten soon. Every day gets a little bit easier, and maybe you're learning to be good at this whole thing after all?
6. Ah, so this is why people do this. It's quite nice actually, having a little partner, a little consistency in the day, watching it grow into a more compact, recognizable version of yourself. You start to enjoy making it after-school snacks and tucking it into bed at night.
7. Nuh-uh. Wrong again. Did no one warn you about the terrible teens? It's become its own person, or so it thinks. Stays out too late with boys, talks back at you, is openly smoking cigarettes (and, you suspect, worse) and is its 'own woman', or so it thinks. Still lives under your roof though, and therefore your rules. Thems the breaks, kiddo.
7. Evil, evil teenage years. War of the wor[l]ds, every day. Where did it all go wrong? You need a vacation, from which you consider never returning. Or, once again, killing it. You brought it into the world, you can take it out. Right?
8. You can't help but sometimes marvel at what you've created, and the fact that, via some semblance of both a competence and will of your own, it's still alive. Holy shit! And really. It's quite beautiful, smarter than you usually give it credit for being, and objectively pretty damn cool. Still a pain in the ass sometimes, but who are you kidding? You love it to death.
9. The bittersweet day comes that it's accepted into college. You knew the time would come that it would fly the coop to go and become someone else's problem, and after all that you've been through, it's more than a little bit exciting. You'll see it on holidays and for the occasional visit when it needs money/attention/affection...but it's never going to be just the two of you again and you both know it.
10. "Hoorah! You're free! You're freeeeee!" chants a little voice in your head, over and over again. Yes, indeed. You are free. And you miss it terribly already. You sit back. You finally take that vacation. And you wish with all of your heart that it's being taken care of, that you taught it how to take care of itself, and that no harm comes to it. Ever, ever, ever.
1. No, I have never had a child. This is just what I imagine it's like.
2. I am currently somewhere around stage 8, occasionally reverting back to stage 7.
3. I think it's self-explanatory, but publisher/public = college/world.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Do you know what I mean?
Sometimes I don't want to write I just want to look at pictures of Anita Pallenberg in 1968 and study the angular sharpness of her face and wear more fur smoke more cigarettes draw my eyes black and heavy and wake up at whatever hours I want.
Sometimes I just want to be horrible and not care and not bite my hands, not hate my arms every time I pass by a mirror.
Sometimes I don't want to read about hope or love or see any more long-legged girls in beautiful outfits that I could never fit into or afford.
Sometimes I want no one inside my head but him and I take back everything I've done and...just, sometimes, oh.
Oh. Suck it back, stamp it out, oh.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
To be 23 and on my own was great. It was great, terrible fun. And it was what I needed, even when I didn't know that I did.
But to be 24. To be 24 and not on my own is more happiness and more sadness than I've ever known. And everyone should know how it feels to feel both.
Because when I'm wiping the playground sand off my best friend's shoulders as he runs off into the night, chasing something that even he can't say, I wish these moments of swing set park declaration huge, massive, overwhelming happiness for every living, breathing, thinking thing in the world. I watch the rest of them jump off picnic tables and let their feet take them where they're going. I know that just because I've been found...well, that doesn't mean that so many aren't still lost.
But the greatest thing about a love like this?
All it takes to heal the world inside my head is having him, at the end of the night, to rest it on.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
phones with broken buttons
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
But rest assured, my dearest few readers, I'm actually writing more than ever. The novel is coming along at a pace that surprises even myself, the short stories are being banged out on the weekly, the poems don't stop falling out of my fingers and it's all actually getting published. Which, of course, means I can't publish it here first due to the simultaneous submission rules. Such is life, and such are the consequences that I'm more than pleased to live with.
Alas, I am going to attempt to be at least a bit of a better blogger, starting today. Just don't expect anymore boy-directed nihilism, as I'm quite simply and honestly more and more in love with my man with every passing minute.
Real post tomorrow, cross my heart!
Monday, August 10, 2009
FUCK OFF AND DIE.
Love, and many exes and ohs,
Thursday, July 30, 2009
You're the Clyde to my Bonnie (circa Beatty and Dunaway because, like me, you wouldn't have it any other way) in Floridian seafoam green, clutching my pool blue fingernails and holding bottles of wine on my couch. Telling you stories of worlds I've never let anyone understand.
I'm in my war bride dress wearing a half-stupid smile running into my room with you, leaving traces behind that napkins could fix but in the meantime it'll make us laugh, laugh, laugh and I want to laugh with you forever.
We're in a bubble with books about Hollywood vs. Aliens, sunflowers and azaleas on the windowsills smiling at us while we curse my late alarm and break into someone else's place.
And as I sat there with salty hands and cupcake lips, shelling pistachios to the drifting sound of the gates going up next door, I knew in my heart that I've never really loved like this before.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
making out in public
Californian red wine
Lucky Strike Mexico
answering e-mails from mom
boxes of office supplies
bathroom bang trims
late wakeups for work
early bedtimes for two
broken paper bag groceries
typing things out
acrylic paint inquiries
mock-ups of banners
no time for my real job
writing a real book
meeting the parents
happiness that's so full it hurts
$4 pints on patios
being so into this
letters from the editor
walks for more wine
blue nail polish
stolen sunglasses I miss
high waisted skirts that pinch
being in love. love. love. love. love. love. love.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
in the expanse of this place's yellow lined pavements
and our lips that can't stop touching and pulling
at the throats of all of our friends in our blissful
reveries on the
of where you grew up and you showed me
coloured concretes and red-bricked buildings
and birds of your father's
and kitchen sinks, dishwasher fillings,
interrogations lovingly spent over cups of
coffee and I took another sip, saw
into a flash of light, same
colour eyes and I think you could
really love me
Friday, July 17, 2009
So last night they watched from the step as I made my stumbling stop carrying bags of dryer sheets and cheap wine, and I expect they saw through the untruths that even now I don’t regret telling. Sometimes the change came fast and sometimes the change comes slow but most certainly of all we must, absolutely must at this point know that it’s going to. It’s going to happen to all of us. Unspoken but not unacknowledged, the awkwardness won’t really go away and baby I’m just a fool tearing all my heart out just for you.
The documentarian to it all, I consider that I may only do what I do because I want you to know that this was a time, is a time, when standing on dark July-hot pavement, covering wine-stain smiles and looking in each other’s eyes was all we had and all we needed. Refilling Evian bottles on broken headphone nights, tales of bike accidents and how someone else has ended up coming along for the ride. We need these moments like the sun needs love to shine itself upon in these recent glorious mornings.
So don’t count it out yet, go back to the drawing board and searching for your replacements as I’ve heard you’ve done so many times in your many moves around these streets that are so much smaller than they first appear. Don’t count me out yet, but when there comes a time that it’s the only thing left to do, just know that I’ve saved all of these words for you.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Aside from 'the problems', I've virtually always considered birthdays to be more depressing than celebratory. I don't care much for the notion of a day on which all of the attention is focused on me, and instead the day on which I was born tends to bring a sense of my own mortality much closer to the forefront of my mind than it generally is...which is saying a lot, as I'm often fixated with it to begin with.
24 has always struck me as the age at which I'm meant to really, actually, truly, wholeheartedly grow up. Which, in essence, means setting the vast majority of my neuroses aside once and for all and becoming that confident, strong, take-no-prisoners kind of woman I've aspired to be for as long as I can remember. 24 is, in my mind, when I'm supposed to legitimately become a 'woman' for that matter (I don't know about you, but I certainly haven't considered myself to be one yet - Girl, maybe? Chick, definitely. Woman...yeah, not a chance).
When I awoke on the 27th of June I begun weaving this tangled mess inside my own head, effectively psyching myself out before the day had even brought me to my feet. Typical me.
But the universe often has a funny way of reminding us of those things we've forgotten, those conversations, images and thoughts which have been stored in the deep recesses of some convoluted memory bank, just waiting for the time and place at which it somehow knew there would be relevance to the seemingly irrelevant, all of which didn't strike you as at all worthwhile at the time.
Flipping through an old issue of Harper's Bazaar I noticed two images, both of which I'd discussed with my mother while we were getting pedicures a few months ago. They are as follows:
Daisy Lowe, in a [fantastic] Meisel editorial. Gwyneth Paltrow, in a Tod's advert.
There was little debate between us as to the physical attractiveness of either, as they're both, quite obviously, beautiful (in these specific photos at the very least). And so the topic of our argument was not who looked better, but rather concerned a certain taste level.My generally adversarial nature aside, I ascertained that it was, in fact, Daisy who looked cooler, better, more awesome and so on and so forth. My mother, naturally, proposed the opposite. "What's so uncool about having clean hair and nice skin and not looking strung-out?" she asked me, to which I of course responded with "it's boring" or something equally dumb-sounding and ignorant. We continued to prattle on and on about this until the people scrubbing our feet were surely dead bored with listening to us, our polish had dried and we sauntered out of the salon - me slightly more defensive and pissed off, and her slightly more concerned about my general aspirations in life.
This was, of course, all swept under the rug by the time we reached the nearest Starbucks...god, I must sound like an insufferable yuppie right now, what with all this talk of pedicures and Starbucks....but I digress. On the morning of June 27th I came across these images again, and perhaps for the first time ever, I saw what my mother had seen.
At 24 years old I finally want to start being good to myself.
It's not that I have to grow up, it's that I actually, legitimately, whole-fucking-heartedly want to. I don't want to be a nail-biter, I don't want to have dark circles around my eyes, I don't want to eat shit food and then starve myself for a week, I don't want legs that are pale and bruised, I don't want to play silly games with dudes that I know are all wrong for me but go out with anyways. I don't want to, I don't want to, I DO NOT want this.
Starving artists are so goddamn romanticized, and at last I really do see that there's nothing romantic about it. I can safely state that, from my experience of being one and knowing many, it doesn't produce better art. It does, however, succeed in making you miserable and perpetually dissatisfied. And ugly. And, chances are, age rapidly (and I am nothing if not admittedly vain). It also grants you a free pass to make terribly bad decisions. Of which I've made many.
And so it goes. On the birthday that was chalked up to be one of the most depressing yet, I didn't get a party, but a what currently feels like a radiant, shiny new lease on life.
At 24 years old I'm going to embrace the inner Gwyneth, be my own best friend and listen to that little voice inside of my head that knew I would get here all along.
P.S. If it's been implied that I plan on turning into a pretentious, condescending, prissy bitch who never has any fun, I apologize for the lack of clarity on my end. It simply means the end of total wasterdom, and the beginning of this wonderful thing called self-care.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Instead I will be home, alcohol-less, fun-less, sex-less and hopped up on painkillers (meaning I also HAVE TO EAT (a.k.a. be fat) lest I want to suffer internal bleeding too) due to a cripplingly painful bacterial infection I incurred from shaving my goddamn leg the other day.
Unhappy birthday to me in-fucking-deed.
P.S. If I sound beyond angry at the world/myself/Bic razors/hospitals/drugs that you can't drink while taking right now it's because I AM.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I asked for definite plans to no avail - more guardedness, more one-ended phone calls and tales of time rather spent alone. Leave me alone. Stomach empty, leave my lungs dry, water bottle filled and CD cases packed full of secrets in verse form because even poetry and music feel way too fucking crushingly honest lately in my bedroom still littered with liquor boxes and lies and ink-stained pillowcases.
What about what studies have shown and movie metaphors and sun-soaked Mojave wrecking yards that I see as beautiful alone? What about the dates alone and daytime promised to be spent together and always postponed? What about the hours of talking words and showing yearbooks? Old scars and dents on my calves haven't healed that fast, and neither has my head (it probably never will).
The laughing voices of men in button-up shirts outside my window are making me fucking insane, feel fucking insane, don't feel anything or just feel like my insides are trying to get outside, are moving too fast, are not letting me sleep. Text message wake-up calls in place of broken alarms shut off by fingers of faded black polish after drenching heat bike rides, story time, novel lies, search words, slutty girls.
And all I can think about is a Sunday night of hair bows with dark roots and all I can feel is wheels stuck in reverse upon streetcar tracks and pedestrian pushes on hospital avenues.
Weird, strange, fantastic fucking week I've been having...or was that already evident?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I thought I would die
(but always feel that way on rollercoasters.)
I'm going to go
Ooh la la,
Friday, June 19, 2009
So, yeah. It's really, really, really nice having my bike.
A part of me wishes I could be more eloquent about exactly how nice it is, but that would require me going in to a lengthy and likely boring explanation of my preternatural disdain for public transit/the fact that I walk everywhere and it therefore takes me forever to go anywhere that's not within my 5-block radius of living. Which I won't do, because the acquisition of my absolutely gorgeous and enviable green and yellow cruiser is, after all, merely a footnote to the rest of this post.
I've had no shortage recently of pleasant dates with dudes and whatnot, but last night while riding about town on said bike I came to a really startling and wonderful conclusion which is entirely beyond the messiness of my current dating situation, and it's one that I think worthy of sharing.
Quite simply: there can be no date more perfect than the one you take yourself on.
I did this last night, and feel a metric fuck-tonne better about life as a result. I didn't start out the evening with the intention of taking myself on the best date ever, but somewhere between my amazing and completely uninterrupted by other people/phone checking/book reading/etc. meal on the patio of one of my favourite restaurants and my glorious bike ride over to a fantastically under-the-radar thrift shop (that I never go to because it's just too fucking far without a bike) I noticed that I couldn't stop smiling.
Yes, that's right. I was warbling along with Ray Davies in the bike lane.
"Victoooooria, Victoooooria, Victoria, Vic-toreeahh"
I most certainly looked like a moron (albeit a moron with really great hair), and I highly doubt my voice sounded even remotely pleasant. But singing along to The Kinks, cruising down College Street (which, I feel it's important to note, was not even close to being empty), it occurred to me that, in the midst of the veritable insanity that is my life, I'd forgotten just how nice being nice to myself feels.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I don't care what he says, because if being five years old on the inside feels this good then I'm pretty cool with never growing up.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Although I was planning on a 'detox' of sorts from the drinking, drugging and dating anyways, the auditioning is most certainly making such plan easier to execute.
I feel not dead for the first time in ages. And my skin looks fucking fantastic.
Productivity has its benefits, no?
That being said, it's been seven days of a prim, proper and productive Lush, and I terribly miss certain things....Diet Coke, for one. And coffee. And substances. And my [party] friends.
How I'm even surviving being alive without the first two I've no idea; I suppose I have more willpower than I've previously given myself credit for. The other stuff...well, yeah. It's only been seven days, and for those of you who are far, far more well-behaved than I that might not seem like a very long time. I will elaborate no further than to say for me, it is. Very much so, it is.
Tonight brings some of my good behavior to an end, as I will be going out. I'm well aware that some people out there can, through what I assume to be some type of magic, voodoo or witchery of some sort, manage to abstain from drinking entirely when out at the various places I frequent, but I will never be an individual who can exert that kind of demi-god-like self-control over myself. So sue me, it's just the way it is (I also consider 'casual smoker' an oxymoron, in case you were wondering).
So yes, I will be going out and I WILL BE DRINKING. HOORAY!
I won't, however, be staying out all night.
Tomorrow morning brings yet another audition and a film shoot, meaning my usual hot mess Saturday self needs to be sans the mess part, for real. It's all kind of well-timed, considering I'm also in the middle of the Universe's curse that happens once a month to human beings unlucky enough to be born with vaginas. See, productivity really is bringing out a new responsible side of me!
The work day (and the aforementioned curse, for that matter) cannot end fast enough.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
with drugs and chalked love on the sidewalks outside
rejecting cabs that pass by?
Do you want to play dress up and mess up my room?
Do you want to lie down but put a line down instead?
Do you want clear skin and clean hair, not an ounce of waste anywhere?
Do you want tiny reminders to remember you were there?
Red and orange paints,
sleep all days,
dead phone calls,
fur hats and panic attacks?
What do you want?
All I can give you is
all the same words
on all the same days
stranger than the ones that came before them
and likely no stranger than the ones that await.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I didn't complain when my walk to and from work every day became comprised by having to weave through thousands of shouting Tamils on too-narrow sidewalks on a daily basis. Nor did I say anything when I was knocked on the head by one violently waving around a massive sign with President Obama's face on it...and, like, what the fuck, he's not even our President (?!).
Four weeks of this have worn my patience, sure, but I get that Sri Lanka is 'in need' of Canadian intervention or whatever and have kept my mouth shut about the whole debacle accordingly. Politics don't particularly interest me and I'm not very informed about whatever it is they're protesting. They're quite vehement in their persistence, so I imagine it must be bad...but really, I have enough on my plate as it is and the plight of the Tamil people isn't something I feel equipped to add to it at this point in time (yeah, so sue me, I never claimed to not be self-involved...)
The reason I am writing this, though, is that they've finally gone too far. According to various news sources around the city the Tamils are planning on taking the TTC hostage at some point today - and I don't care who you are or how desperate your cause is, you do NOT fuck with our transit system.
Truthfully this isn't a selfish stance to take - I'm fortunate enough to live, work and access everything I generally require by walking, and any TTC service disruptions make absolutely no difference to my quality of life. Instead I'm thinking of the millions upon millions of Torontonians who do rely on a functional TTC to get to work, pick up their kids from soccer practice, meet their friends for dinner, etc.
This is no longer peaceful demonstration, it's terrorism. Not only are they getting increasingly scary in their downtown core protests, they're now hindering people's mobility as well. So I'm going to come right out and say what I've been wanting to, politcal correctness be damned:
GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY AND FIX YOUR OWN FUCKING PROBLEMS. There are obviously enough of you to form a not-so-small army, and you seem to have the rage bit covered, so GO.
As if Sunday wasn't enough (yeah, you saw that right, that's the Gardiner Expressway. If you know nothing of Toronto here's a little backstory: whatever retarded city planners made the city made this stupid highway basically the only way in and out of it...and they blocked it for hours).
(Photos property of Torontoist)
Monday, May 11, 2009
There's no come down, and pictures just wouldn't do any of it any justice at all.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Your life is sneaking up behind it just won't let you go.
No, it just won't let you go.
Here's what I'm trying to say...
Is would you maybe come dance here with me?
Cos to me it doesn't matter if your hopes and dreams are shattered.
When she says something, she'll make me believe
In the girl who wears a dirty shirt
She knows exactly what she's worth to me.
And now I see.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Things I Liked In April
The small 'garden' (and I use that term loosely) of plants I made on my bedroom windowsill that I haven't had to water most days because it has rained all the fucking time. As such, the garden is flourishing in a manner that it most certainly would not if left under solely my care.
Chattering endlessly with friends about spring flings and summer loves and bikinis and beers and rooftops and all of the wonderful things that make our lives so fucking wonderful. It sounds and IS really lame, but they're gorgeous nights of being lame nonetheless.
Waking up to Snap Cup Love on the kitchen wipeboard! If you haven't seen the cinematic masterpiece that is 'Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde' then you won't really get this one. Meaning get thyself to a video store stat, rent it and come back to leave your jealous comments about how I really do have the best roommates in the world.
Chai tea with plain soy milk. I've determined that this concoction of deliciousness will never taste as good in any other month as it does in April. Why? Because it is comfort in an oddly reassuring Venti cup, that's why. And rarely have I required such comfort as much as I have in Awful April (it was initially called Awesome April, but that went out the window about four days into said month, so...)
Oh, and if you think my list is lame, please keep in mind the things that have made my life absolute shit this April, which include but are not limited to:
- finding out that my ex-boyfriend probably has cancer. Or is pretending to to get my sympathy vote. Either way.
- general impoverishment and being unable to afford the things I want
- feeling fat (those of you who know me in real life: SHUT UP. Yes, I know I'm objectively not fat. I just feel it sometimes, okay?)
- flaky hipster boys who only want what they can't have
...Yep, April. Is. Over.
I'm not saying that my guardedness is wise or clever or particularly well thought-out, but everything and everyone is based on such fucking externality anyways that really, what difference does it make? So long as my thighs don't touch and my roots have been touched up and my heavily braceleted wrists are thinner than the girls' sitting next to me, it doesn't. So long as I go out often enough (but not too much) and drink this and know the bar staff there and that club owner here and am always welcome in the booth, it doesn't. So long as there's a vague sense of knowing that I'm smarter than all of this, more than all of this and not trapped by all of this, it doesn't.
Or does it?
The fortress of anonymity that I've built and fiercely protect around Nightgowns & Cigarettes can be somewhat problematic for me; just because they don't know me doesn't stop me from wanting them to at times...but, mind you, not enough for me to confess to anything.
So what will it take for me to stop being so horribly scared? The mention in a recent issue of Eye Weekly certainly didn't do it. As we sat there on our stolen couch, the newspaper print of the thin pages staining our fingers as they flipped through, taking note of the photos of our friends and columns about the bars that we get free drinks in, surveying the events that we'll accept and decline the inevitable invites to and it was there, caught in my throat right there with the smoke, and for a brief, fleeting moment I wanted them to know. "You see the word Lush there, in bold on the fifth page's Letters section? Yeah, well, that's me."
It would have been so easy, and it wouldn't, couldn't come out. It absolutely couldn't come out. For them to see it and know, to attach the faces and names to every post would be the death of all of the honesty I have in me and reserve for here. It's why I carry my notebook with me everywhere I go and hide it if I'm sleeping, showering or if my purse is too small to fit it in. It's why I lock all of my old, finished notebooks in a desk to which only I have the key.
Not to be too morbid on a Friday afternoon or anything, but here it goes: I often wonder what'll happen to them if I die unexpectedly.
...yeah, too morbid. But one more reason to stay alive long enough to see my eventual death coming I guess.
Friday, April 24, 2009
- iPhone. Lost somewhere between Saturday night's fourteen trillion overpriced cab rides and the creepiest after-hours I've ever had the pleasure of curling up on a couch and chain-smoking in at 4 a.m. A few very nice young Irishmen sporting mohawks - who may or may not have been involved in illegal activity - attempted to help me look for it in said after-hours, but it was not found and I woke up at some ungodly hour the next day bemoaning my existence as a result. Never before did I know how utterly lost and helpless I would feel without a fucking gadget. Eww, am I technologically dependent or what?
- Contact lenses. Somehow I managed to rip one in half while it was still in my eye, which I discovered around the same time that I began bemoaning my iPhone-less life on Sunday. This really smart move of mine left me with no choice but to place an order for a new pair, impatiently wait for them to arrive (a.k.a. bombard the bitchy optometrist's secretary with demanding phone calls every six hours), and wear my broken, horrendously ugly glasses in the interim, lest my blindness wind me up in the middle of an intersection or something equally life-threatening/dumb.
- My dignity. This one I'm not going to get into for obvious reasons. But yeah, it might have gone missing there for a couple of days, I won't deny it.
Alas. To paraphrase the hottest Beatle (Mr. George Harrison), all things must pass indeed, and that they have...
I got my eyes back, I bought a new iPhone, and I have been having a seriously excellent run of good hair days. Tonight brings about a massive and expertly planned (by me, obvi) birthday throwdown for my amazing roommate, and tomorrow the weather is apparently going to be conducive to going outdoors with, like, bare legs and stuff. And did I mention that I also acquired the sickest pair of red, polka-dotted, heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses courtesy of my other wonderful roommate? And that the really nice Australian girl who works at the hostel I live across the street from has offered my roommates and I an open invitation to the delicious free pancake breakfast they make every morning? I'm fairly certain she's a lesbian and I'm also fairly certain that she's attempting to convert my hetero ass, but regardless. Yes, yes and yes.
One more thing to be happy about on this beautiful day: Kasabian are back on form after that trainwreck that was 'Empire'. Having heard 'Underdog' and this one that follows (which is accompanied by the coolest music video I've seen in years...take note, Primal Scream), I expect 'West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum' will be my glorious soundtrack to my glorious Summer Oh-Nine.
Kasabian - Vlad the Impaler from Kasabian on Vimeo.
P.S. Expect the Shame Sprial that is my life to continue upon its usual course as of early next week, but let happy be happy for now, aiight?
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
But then, I think another thought and it's down the rabbit hole again, spilling onto the pages as another drink spills soundlessly in the kitchen.
What kind of a prince is the one who wants you when you're dead? You're nothing but doll parts to him, to his kiss, when there's nothing left of you to begin with. And that's exactly why he loved you, didn't you know it all along? When you had no needs, all he needed was you.
So April showers will surely bring something in May, but what? We're not yet sure. For the time being we've got gloomy days of wearing glasses with blurry gazes at smoke stacks, photographs, pockets jingling with change and the change in the weather which has come so soon. We've got empty e-mails that mean more than millions of words. We've got last night's words about beautiful bed frames and driving out of this city in cars that we don't own, with licenses that we don't have. Visa debts, work visas to get, and scuzzy Los Angeleno sunsets playing out of our stereo with daydreams of surfboards and drugs we haven't done yet.
And we've got the sense that maybe neither prince is very good at all.
Friday, April 17, 2009
"I always tell the girls: never take it seriously. If you never take it
seriously, you never get hurt. You never get hurt, you always have fun.
...And if you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit
Words from Almost Famous' Miss Penny Lane and the sky of unrelenting sunshine make all of this past week's nonsense feel pretty alright on this gorgeous Friday afternoon. And a photo of my favourite record store friend, of course, thrown in for good measure.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
So I sit, watching, stringing chains around my neck, not unlike when I disrobed and re-robed in his room six nights ago. I won't admit it (who would?), but I'm also surveying in the moments in between all of this watching...now there are others, with their cellulite-free, tanned asses hanging out on his wall. One with an Eastern European last name that reminds me of a person I'm trying quite hard to forget as of late.
And so it is. Moisturizing my face tonight, watching those women who I thought I understood when I was too young to really know anything, I realized that I've never been 'rejected' because I've never let myself be. Careful, careful, because all of the good advice in the world won't do me any good when I'm up to no good, and it's just far too easy to tiptoe about and play this game with oneself.
So it is, so it is, so I keep watching. If I didn't quite comprehend these questions back then, then there's a chance that I may have missed the part with all of the answers too?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I first learned this lesson from a wise, brilliant friend who always sauntered in to our most formidable 8 a.m. university exams looking absolutely and entirely impeccable. When I eventually worked up the nerve to ask her why this was the case, I was met with a bit of wisdom which has not been quickly forgotten: "If this all turns out shit, which it probably will, at least I know I can catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror later and feel better about life."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
1. O Canada: I HATE YOU. People are not intended to live in dark, damp and freezing cold misery nine months out of the year. They're just not. I've yet to let you, winter, stop me from going out and living my life and so and so forth these past few horrible months...but really, don't you think enough is enough already?
So I've given up, you win.
I've come to terms with the fact that I will continue to be bored with the same unflattering baggy sweaters, the same black tights and the same three coats that I wear over and over and OVER again until you finally decide to let the fuck up and go away. I've also entertained the possibility that you will quite simply never go away, and have in fact decided to persist until the end of time. I hate you so much that I'm considering skipping the country altogether and going to live in the desert. Which brings me to my next point...
2. Joshua Tree, California, 24th birthday, road trip. At some point last week it occured to me that I absolutely, positively cannot be in this city on my birthday. I'm not sure why I came to this conclusion - I haven't had a 'Big Deal Birthday' since I turned double digits (pathetic, I know), but for some reason the prospect of being 24 is hitting me like a veritable tonne of bricks. Nor do I have any clue as to why I've chosen Joshua Tree, California as the place I'd like to spend it.
But I do.
And I will.
And I'm totally going and it's going to be ridiculously brilliant.
...and if it's not, there's always the slight chance that it'll actually be warm in June in Toronto and at the very least I'll be able to go about my usual activities of waster-dom in bare legs and sandals again. Not counting on it given the pure, unadulterated evil that is the aforementioned Canadian weather though.
3. Dating or something like it? This one's a bit more difficult to summarize, but I'll give it my best shot: what the fuck is dating? If I'm hanging out with and sleeping with someone on the regular are we 'dating', or just having casual sex *shudder*? Do I even want to be dating? Do I even care? And why am I wasting mental energy thinking about it?
...So yeah. Other than that stuff life is as boring throughout the work day/busy in the evenings as ever. Same old, same old, same old, same old. Whatever.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Some nights there really isn't anything more satisfying than passing the time with a glass of red, Neil Young on the stereo, my notebook and a box of Crayola 64 markers.
Yes, I know I'm lame. But, with that being said, it is turning into a very, very pretty notebook.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
But if only you knew why I'm walking around like this at three o'clock p.m. on the nicest day of the year yet.
If only you knew about the morning of rain in bed, plain toast, phony constellation t-shirts from 1992.
If only you knew that it's not you.
I can't bring myself to send any of it back. I don't want to have to be the one to tell you. It's been over since the day I left, and I can't go back, can't go back, to the place I was before [insert guitar solo]. Your 14-point Arial words just shake in and out of focus, and from time to time I'll go back to them because I can't even remember what it is I've read. Not making me feel better. But not making me feel worse, either. You're right. It is a shame.
So I've made my bed. I'll lie in it.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
I discovered it this morning while checking my horoscope (which, by the way, has been uncannily dead on the mark as of the late) via this article in the Toronto Star, and am somewhat conflicted where it's concerned.
I totally, totally get the appeal, and am in fact even considering purchasing one for my mums and step dad; it's quite safe to say that I love them and would rather not have to see them with a trachea tube or whatever that thing's called that I remember turned me off television in a massive way when I was nine after seeing it in those terrifying Health Canada commercials.
Conversely, must the 21st century take the fun out absolutely everything? According to SmokeStik's distributors "it's like smoking with a condom on." Sounds really fucking attractive, no? A dude with a SmokeStik in a bar is certainly no James Dean, and I still want to find my James Dean goddammit. My point against the robot cigarette is pretty convoluted and most likely really, truly, severely misguided, but since all of two people read this blog and I know that they'll at least partially understand where I'm coming from, it is as follows:
I don't know whether or not ya'll have given our inevitable mortality any thought recently, but if I may, let me jog your memory using the grade-school 'hamburger essay' scheme...
Then again, I'm probably going to die all wrinkled and trachea-tubed when I'm, like, 30, so it's likely best to not take my advice.
n.b. I just read this back and realized I make virtually no sense whatsoever. Yeah, I'm an asshole, and one that will probably jump on the stupid robot cigarette bandwagon along with everyone else once this country's government allows it. Not for the death thing so much as the wrinkles...I admit it, I live in constant fear of the day I wake up to my first wrinkle.