Seaweed from Tell No One on Vimeo.
14.11.10
10.10.10
RAAAAAAD
not sure what to make of the video.. green screen for sure but pretty fun stuff. not a single flyaway. lucky guy. i'm torn between hating paul oakenfold for touching the doors, and loving him for giving LA woman such a sick spin. the guy's a hack, but from time to time he can a mix a good tune.
30.9.10
D'EON
This deserves a little attention: D'Eon remixed by HYPE Williams and he hasn't even released his debut album yet. yessssss.
http://www.factmag.com/2010/09/30/get-slow-with-hype-williams-remix-of-hippos-in-tanks-artist-deon/
(direct link to remix: HERE)
http://www.factmag.com/2010/09/30/get-slow-with-hype-williams-remix-of-hippos-in-tanks-artist-deon/
(direct link to remix: HERE)
24.9.10
21.9.10
December To Do.
1. go surfing (learn to surf) in tofino.
2. ski washington on the way back.
3. on the same day.
2. ski washington on the way back.
3. on the same day.
17.9.10
16.9.10
6.9.10
3.9.10
it's
three o'clock in the morning and that thing that's keeping me awake, it's anger. why anger so late? my mind is churning with questions you can't answer. no one can, yet i'm asking them like i need the answers. maybe i'm hung up on the past, consumed by the notion of missing out on something so massive...maybe i regret not knowing you better--not seeing you when you were around: you aren't anymore. i feel unworthy of missing you. you weren't mine to lose.. but in a way you were. i didn't know you at all, but in so many ways i knew you completely. reading these lines you threw together from memories and love, and a conversation we had in your parlour a few autumns ago.. i'm starkly aware of how well you knew me. how little i had to give to be seen: to see. maybe i'm angry that i can't go anywhere to talk to you. no park, or bench or stone or beach... nothing was sacred like that and nothing has been allowed to remain as such. you aren't even near your home anymore--the only place i remember knowing you. you were taken back with such vehement haste we didn't even see you leave. i'm angry because i tried so, so hard to see you, but i know i could have tried harder. i knew this was it.. and yet, i held on to that hope that it wasn't. why didn't i try harder? why didn't i insist and say i must, i must! i knew that i must, and i let myself down. worse. i let you down. am i even allowed to miss you? i wouldn't dare speak it aloud, but maybe here you'll find me. maybe i can talk to you somehow and let you know that the greatest regret i have is not having one more conversation, one more drink, one more laugh with you.
27.8.10
21.8.10
12.8.10
listening to Whitey..
..and half running half hiking up Mount Royal from home, down low on Notre Dame...up, up to the top where tourists film static scenes of city doing nothing but those things that cities do... and all the way down turning back up to different heights, sheltered amongst trees in a grove quiet from the prying screams of children and tourist bunches, and back down along wooded, dirt trails, tripping on roots and coming too close to spider webs wrapped tightly between branches; reaching crumbling stone stairs that used to be the way up before the glistening banisters and raw wood steps became the path to go along... all the way down near the streets, hearing the cars but not seeing them, taking a left turn instead of a right, reaching more crumbling stone stairs but these ones have an ancient maple tree strewn across their way, climbing through the branches and down more steps until, a fence. fighting through spider web lattice to climb up six feet and drop eight down to the last two stone steps, and a road.
...and further down, a sign outside St. Paul's Cathedral read, 'Organ Recital' and that too, I couldn't resist.
...and further down, a sign outside St. Paul's Cathedral read, 'Organ Recital' and that too, I couldn't resist.
6.8.10
26.7.10
24.7.10
22.7.10
some times i say all the wrong things and give all the wrong reasons for saying wrong things, and the world doesn't understand me, or maybe it does but right now i like to think that it doesn't, because that's easier than acknowledging my own lesser points--the abnormalities that show me for who i am, not who i've pretended to be all these years--and then i wake up some days and forget that i've been faking, because it's suddenly become me and now it's impossible to separate fact from fiction and that's just fucking queer.
just today i am realising that it's the imperfection in a person, a song, a line, an image that completes it...i've been striving all these months to be perfect and i've only just discovered that ugliness makes it so...photos mottled by edges of windows, reflections distorted by unplanned movements are the depth of crisp lines and clear cut messages without the bullshit of being calculated.
just today i am realising that it's the imperfection in a person, a song, a line, an image that completes it...i've been striving all these months to be perfect and i've only just discovered that ugliness makes it so...photos mottled by edges of windows, reflections distorted by unplanned movements are the depth of crisp lines and clear cut messages without the bullshit of being calculated.
18.7.10
and then I found
From days in the roller derby on Broad Street spread out on the tarmac like sunscreen on your back at the beach we used to go to. Flowers smell like stale toast and dandelions are still all I ever think of anymore--it's like you erased the good and the bad in the instant you told me, 'it's not for us' but it was us anyway. The days I spend counting flower petals hoping to land on 'he loves me' but always ending on 'not'. You remind me of the smell of salt on the wind as it races back from the sea, wild and bursting with stories we can't read; but I breathe you anyway.
resurfacing
..dumbstruck on the balcony smoking opium half pipes and thinking about last summer I spent digging for clams in the garden--bare now with twig gravestones marking the leaves as they fade to the colour of dust, and then dust to settle amongst the pebbles that now call this place home...
15.7.10
Italian
I want to be like the old Italian men who meander the path along the canal, shirtless on their bikes, slowly and with purpose. Their tans are etched into their bodies; some have white lines where their shorts meet the skin, the contrast looks natural. Their skin stretches smoothly over their wiry frames, white hair cut clean and out of the way, there is only a tiny roll of flesh on the stomach where it bends forward toward the handlebars... their contentment is contagious, but their disdain for average is obvious. They own this place.
12.7.10
intrinsic need.
the feeling that life is without want for living when devoid of it.
my eyes flutter when the breeze is still, it's you i'm thinking of.
a place, a time or a memory--necessity for that which no longer exists.
but did it ever?
today it's a beach, a mountain covered in greenery; movement, a smiling face and waves that never begin, that forget to end.
air flows deep inside of me lighting fires in the darkest caverns of my chest; give way no light, here.
to travel is to behold, and there are kinds of travel that don't require open eyes.
the heaviness of my dream weighs like metal fingertips around my throat, and you disappear down the street.
i recognise this place from home.
the feeling that life is without want for living when devoid of it.
my eyes flutter when the breeze is still, it's you i'm thinking of.
a place, a time or a memory--necessity for that which no longer exists.
but did it ever?
today it's a beach, a mountain covered in greenery; movement, a smiling face and waves that never begin, that forget to end.
air flows deep inside of me lighting fires in the darkest caverns of my chest; give way no light, here.
to travel is to behold, and there are kinds of travel that don't require open eyes.
the heaviness of my dream weighs like metal fingertips around my throat, and you disappear down the street.
i recognise this place from home.
23.6.10
I'M SO BROKE AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS TAKE PHOTOS--if only my eyes were cameras, the things I see, you'd see, you'd feel, you'd need in the way that we need air, and wind, and rain and all of the elements that pull us with vocation into memories and spin us out into open water, horizons bleeding red, orange sunshine rising and falling into the darkening dusk before morning.
(need)
(need)
19.6.10
the Van
Last night riding shotgun between Alex and Charlton on the way home from the bar, I faced backwards staring straight at the boys crammed onto the back seat-bench. On the floor, it was both the comfiest and least informed car ride I've ever had. The whole time we shared headphones listening to Guns N' Roses: enlightening since I'd sort of written them off. It was the first time all day that I forgot about my sunburn.
17.6.10
paint the
yesterday we painted--puff--puff--paint, and globs of red drifted across the time stiffened paper. flowers and vegetal matter were all that streamed from my brush tip in blue, purple and that red, dark red. black lines took over and a crossword puzzle of hieroglyphs materialised behind colour. and then water. it never looked like anything until i spilled water over it, and then it became art--a wicked beauty pretending, and that was nice.
when i go running i take my keys off the chain and stuff them in my sports bra. i don't have pockets, and this leaves my hands free to wave at the sun. a sun that bakes rivulets of sweat into my forearms and crusts the line between face and hair. music wafts from hard trance to joy division and think about life, and then i do. i stop halfway through to lie on the grass shaded by trees, and pretend to stretch while i stare at the strange man reading a women's health magazine while his legs dangle above the canal. it's hot and i'd rather stay here, but i catch sight of a woman running quickly by on the other side of the canal, and i decide it's better for me if i keep going.
when i go running i take my keys off the chain and stuff them in my sports bra. i don't have pockets, and this leaves my hands free to wave at the sun. a sun that bakes rivulets of sweat into my forearms and crusts the line between face and hair. music wafts from hard trance to joy division and think about life, and then i do. i stop halfway through to lie on the grass shaded by trees, and pretend to stretch while i stare at the strange man reading a women's health magazine while his legs dangle above the canal. it's hot and i'd rather stay here, but i catch sight of a woman running quickly by on the other side of the canal, and i decide it's better for me if i keep going.
19.5.10
cadboro bay
On the beach near the wild stone creatures we played poker with seashells and I went all in. Waves crept up the sand, giant tongues rolling turning pebbles a darker shade of gray. And all the while a driftwood fortress kept us from wind and in the cast of the sun until it disappeared too below the horizon, and sailboats twisted across the top of seaweed speckled waters catching and throwing out the wind―a Utopian game of soft ball none could win...
4.5.10
FYEye
i got sick of trying to upload photos over here so there's a new place for that now:
http://xanshian.wordpress.com/
have fuuuuuuuuuun!
http://xanshian.wordpress.com/
have fuuuuuuuuuun!
30.4.10
photohh snaps*
in my excitement i forget to close brackets and as a consequence side thoughts go on for hours.
29.4.10
lately i'm feeling stagnant. stuck, lilting, fading into the marshes of life that surround me these days. it's hard to know what to do with myself when all the essays and presentations and films have dried up and my camera has taken a three day hiatus from winding properly and i'm not sure what to do other than take it into the shoppe, but that will have to wait because tonight for some reason they're showing my movie and i guess i should go. it's not really my movie in particular, it's everyone in the class's movies, but still i guess it's a big deal.
but other than looking for a job--which i should--what is there to do anymore. as annoying as school can be, at least it's time consuming and that makes me feel good about myself. useful. even if toward no greater purpose. it's an in-the-moment type of usefulness that i gather drives people mad when it eludes them. it's eluding me. maybe i'll go mad too.
when the sky isn't excavating half a foot of snow down on to the city i ride my bike up and down the canal, one side, then the next and listening to a full tank of mp3 mixtures--the strangeness of which never fails to amuse or alarm, depending on my mood.
the other day i rode my bicycle into a gated compound--some sort of reserve, preserving the old grain elevators that mirror the new buildings of the old port on the other side of the canal. For some reason the gate has been open the last two times i've passed by, and of course i've gone inside. the first time, matt and i sat on the edge of a lock and took photos and chatted about very little. it was nice. the second time i rode my bike in alone and sat on the bridge looking out at the emptiness of the world around me--empty of people anyway, full of grass and insects and birds flirting: it is spring after all. i sat for a while and watched the tour boat/bus that is the reason that the gates were open at all pass over the traffic filled bridge above me, not thinking of the consequences. later, when i moved to leave i found the gate padlocked shut--stuck inside the compound alone, surrounded by people on the other side of the fence, the canal, the bridge... eventually i rode out to the end of the lock and followed a bridge there to the boardwalk of the old port. the only thing separating me from the boardwalk was a ten foot fence at end of the bridge two meters below and beside the bridge was the beginnings of another bridge and it was here i deemed it easiest to hoist my steel framed (and heavy) bike over the railing to the lower bridge, myself following shortly after. so many people stared at me, presumably wondering why i'd need or even want to break out. it's true, if i had a house there i'd rarely leave if ever.
but i'm still encased in this stagnant malignancy (more the cranky kind) of post schoolishness and caught between needing money, needing a break before working, and sudden onset boredom.
but as of now, i just don't have much to say. i'm taking it in, reading, accumulating, garnering, gathering, procuring, acquiring... filling up on somebody else for a change.
but other than looking for a job--which i should--what is there to do anymore. as annoying as school can be, at least it's time consuming and that makes me feel good about myself. useful. even if toward no greater purpose. it's an in-the-moment type of usefulness that i gather drives people mad when it eludes them. it's eluding me. maybe i'll go mad too.
when the sky isn't excavating half a foot of snow down on to the city i ride my bike up and down the canal, one side, then the next and listening to a full tank of mp3 mixtures--the strangeness of which never fails to amuse or alarm, depending on my mood.
the other day i rode my bicycle into a gated compound--some sort of reserve, preserving the old grain elevators that mirror the new buildings of the old port on the other side of the canal. For some reason the gate has been open the last two times i've passed by, and of course i've gone inside. the first time, matt and i sat on the edge of a lock and took photos and chatted about very little. it was nice. the second time i rode my bike in alone and sat on the bridge looking out at the emptiness of the world around me--empty of people anyway, full of grass and insects and birds flirting: it is spring after all. i sat for a while and watched the tour boat/bus that is the reason that the gates were open at all pass over the traffic filled bridge above me, not thinking of the consequences. later, when i moved to leave i found the gate padlocked shut--stuck inside the compound alone, surrounded by people on the other side of the fence, the canal, the bridge... eventually i rode out to the end of the lock and followed a bridge there to the boardwalk of the old port. the only thing separating me from the boardwalk was a ten foot fence at end of the bridge two meters below and beside the bridge was the beginnings of another bridge and it was here i deemed it easiest to hoist my steel framed (and heavy) bike over the railing to the lower bridge, myself following shortly after. so many people stared at me, presumably wondering why i'd need or even want to break out. it's true, if i had a house there i'd rarely leave if ever.
but i'm still encased in this stagnant malignancy (more the cranky kind) of post schoolishness and caught between needing money, needing a break before working, and sudden onset boredom.
but as of now, i just don't have much to say. i'm taking it in, reading, accumulating, garnering, gathering, procuring, acquiring... filling up on somebody else for a change.
14.4.10
..but go jump into the clouds that dot the sky like stained yellow mushroom tops, yellow because we never stop throwing bouquets of smog skyward expecting it all to disappear, dissipate. but it doesn't and then we wonder why, why there are so many floods and rains and storms and winds and quakes and giant waves that try to reach the sky and wash it clean but they never get quite high enough before they start to fall the sky stays yellow with its dandelion weeds and daffodil sculptures stretching for miles into open air that isn't air anymore but a swirling mass of dense blanket moving to cover the earth and smother the little breath we have left.
sometimes i cough myself to sleep and my chest feels full of rocks. like plato's cave, crumbling into what i once believed to be true but then i went outside and saw shadows and it was all so confusing because that wasn't how it was supposed to be.
sometimes i cough myself to sleep and my chest feels full of rocks. like plato's cave, crumbling into what i once believed to be true but then i went outside and saw shadows and it was all so confusing because that wasn't how it was supposed to be.
26.3.10
panic attack
i often think about the future rendering potential bleak as sunlight underground nothing on the horizon nothing waiting to explode. implode. some corner of self destruct written on the button i press down that screams life so loud i plug my ears and beg for snow the silence that unfolds like blankets smothering the hills and elephants white like noise that never happens. sudden realisations of little to do but wait for night to take over and hope hoping for something something to change already and let me fly like i wanted to in my dream that night before they pinned me down and made me scream silent whispers between my ears and nothing nothing on the surface but tiny ripples under that sun. like on acid sometimes and then i see stars.
22.3.10
on you crazy
He stood up slowly and crossed the room to the door, trying the handle to make sure it was locked. Next, he licked his lips three times then pressed his ear to the door and listened. Silence. Still, he didn't move.
A pin drop of light found it's way through a hole in the curtain on the far side of the room. The material around it glowed blue where the light bled into colour. On the floor it illuminated a rusted nail, half way out of the floorboard it was trying to hold down. One ragged leather chair stood in the middle of the room, and an old record player creaked its way through The Beatles' Revolution 9. Back at the door the man loosed his grip on the door handle and slumped to the floor―the record still claiming number 9 to no ears. A dull thud marked his landing and then silence took over as the record finished playing and settled into scratching the left over vinyl.
**
Daggers of light rushed toward him out of the dark. Some, like prisms, caught pieces of light and twisted them into his eye sockets. He tried to call out but his mouth had been fastened shut by something wet, like sap, and dripping upwards covering his mouth and moving into his nostrils. He struggled to breath, but bubbles grew up where air should have entered and his face began to transform. With one free hand he clawed at his face trying to free himself, but he only ripped his own flesh. Far away down the blackened tunnel, he could just make out a figure standing in a doorway. Unmoving it waited, he hunched forward on his hands and knees and tried to crawl toward it. The figure leaned and stretched out a hand in his direction, but instead of stopping the hand moved closer and closer as the arm grew and thrashed its way toward him―he turned to run and fell into wetness; a grey swamp. Drowning.
**
Before putting her key in the lock she stopped and pressed her skirt against her knees, smoothing it. Her breath rattled in and out of her chest neither coming in, or going out fully before she stumbled on the rhythm and sucked in more air. Her hair hung dripping down her back making a dark pattern on her shirt; a drop of blood wound its way down her shin from her knee. She patted her hair and wiped her fingers under her eyes to catch mascara, then stuffed her key in the lock and threw open the door.
It stopped halfway with a dull thud, 'Shit.' She squeezed her way in between the wall and the door and stepped over the body that was blocking the doorway, leaning down to check for shallow breaths before closing the door and returning to dark. She could hear the sound of the record player scratching what was left of the vinyl; she walked over and picked up the arm, placing it back in its holder. The room was bare with only a sliver of light creeping in through the curtain. She thought of opening the curtains but she didn't want to set him off ―no matter how far away he seemed. Instead, she crossed to a small cupboard in the corner and took out a bottle of whiskey; the glasses were long gone, and she sat with her back against the chair drinking from the bottle.
**
He managed to grasp a vine from under the surface and pull himself up to a miraculous display of northern lights. Blue, green, purple, yellow and shades of orange filled the sky while stars came racing toward him, only to blow up in his face; he giggled and curled tighter into a ball, clutching his ankles and digging his fingernails further into the skin. Someone far away began to laugh and it grew louder and louder until it echoed through his skull, grinding out caves and sending ricochets of sound down into his neck. The pain seared through his body and the laughter grew louder and more cacophonous until white light blinded him completely and all he could feel was bitterness drilling anger into his head. He wept without knowing, and still the laughter grew louder until he felt himself collapse inwards, crumbling into a fine powder that caught on the breeze.
**
The room was completely dark now, the tiny beam of light extinguished with the night. She rose quietly from the floor, careful not to make a sound. Holding on to the chair, she tried to make out the bathroom door on the other side of the room. Squinting her eyes, she caught the glimmer of the silver handle and started toward it. At the door she fumbled for the light inside and when it turned on, she closed the door so that no light leaked into the room where he lay passive on the floor. She opened it again and slipped through the crack into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind her. He'd smashed the mirror a month ago when he'd seen it bleeding onto the floor, but she'd hidden another smaller one in the top of the toilet. She pulled this out now, dried it and brought it to her face. Her lip swelled red in the corner where his head had met hers as she held him during night terrors days before. She touched it lightly then brought her fingers to her eyes―red and swollen from long nights. Her mascara had dried in rivulets down her face, and she grabbed a square of toilet paper to wipe it off. She put the mirror back in the toilet, securing the top of the tank so he couldn't tear it off, and sat on the seat. She closed her eyes and saw red; the light staining her eyelids. Tiny grunts rose from the dark room as he fought tidal waves and giant teacups made of black diamond. She closed her eyes tighter and saw black. The grunts stopped and everything was quiet again.
**
He 'd been obsessed with Revolution 9 the first time he'd heard it; convinced like the rest of the world of a hidden message. She thought maybe it was the song that had driven him crazy, not the LSD but still she didn’t take away the record. She let him continue searching―it was all that he had.
He rustled from deep inside his cave where the powder had settled and allowed him to slowly return. He heard the silence that meant the song was over; the acid trip fading with tendrils of demon. Opening his eyes he saw little. The room black now with the night. He could make out a fuzzy glow coming from beneath the bathroom door. He thought she might be home and wondered if she'd finished the whiskey.
He raised himself from the floor, torn fingers splintered with slivers from the wooden boards. He’d almost been there. Ten hours into it, and he knew he'd almost reached the end. If only. He scoured the room for the record and found it sticking out from under the chair in a shallow attempt to hide itself from his obsession. He knew better though and grasped it with both hands raising it high above his head before bringing it down with a sickly thud onto the record player. He picked up the arm and guided it toward the record, scratching it as he lay the needle to rest. Revolution 9.
He sat on the chair, pausing to catch his breath and searching in the cracks for a cigarette. He found his packet and lit one, taking a deep drag, then tore the tinfoil out of the packet and began undoing the cardboard sides. Searching.
**
From inside the bathroom she could here him moving around the room. First he scuffled to the chair where he found the record she'd feebly tried to hide. He put it on again. She sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them she could hear him digging around in the couch. She glanced at the door to make sure it was locked―it wasn't―and she locked it now, sliding the deadbolt that she'd installed a month before. She stood up and walked to the bathroom cupboard. Inside was a plethora of junk: Adavan, Demerol, Oxycontin, Lithium, Morphine, Ketamine, LSD, 'Shit.' She could hear him growing agitated; something crashed and the record skipped back to repeating 'number nine'. The full force of his body hit the bathroom door.
She dove across the bathroom, landing beside the tub. His body crashed against the door again, splintering the wood near the hinges. She pulled herself up and crawled over the edge of the bathtub, curling inside; drawing the curtain to hide herself from view. The door creaked, reeling from another blow by his weight. He needed what was inside.
He hit the door again and this time it crumbled inward. She sank lower in the tub and he barrelled into the room, searching frantically. He grabbed the shower curtain and tore it down, covering her―through a hole she saw his eyes rolling, unchained as he tried to grasp the room. He turned and smashed his head into the cupboard pulling down three of the shelves―the Demerol, Oxycontin and Lithium with them. Six tabs of LSD on blotter paper fell to the sink and he stopped, watching them as they floated downward; snowflakes exploding into realms of colour―dripping with diamonds and settling with ease in the porcelain basin. He snatched up four of them, shoving them into his mouth, swilling saliva around and around to melt them into his flesh, and he sank to the floor.
***
She rose from the tub and tiptoed over his still figure, walking through the gaping hole where the door had been. Light streamed again through the hole in the curtain, bleeding blue into the room. She walked to the window now and opened the curtains, allowing light to touch the room that hadn't seen brightness in months. He made no noise, and she gathered her things―a bag and some scarves. She didn't check for shallow breaths as she passed his still figure on the way to the door and slipped out quietly. She left the door unlocked so that they might find him some time later.
A pin drop of light found it's way through a hole in the curtain on the far side of the room. The material around it glowed blue where the light bled into colour. On the floor it illuminated a rusted nail, half way out of the floorboard it was trying to hold down. One ragged leather chair stood in the middle of the room, and an old record player creaked its way through The Beatles' Revolution 9. Back at the door the man loosed his grip on the door handle and slumped to the floor―the record still claiming number 9 to no ears. A dull thud marked his landing and then silence took over as the record finished playing and settled into scratching the left over vinyl.
**
Daggers of light rushed toward him out of the dark. Some, like prisms, caught pieces of light and twisted them into his eye sockets. He tried to call out but his mouth had been fastened shut by something wet, like sap, and dripping upwards covering his mouth and moving into his nostrils. He struggled to breath, but bubbles grew up where air should have entered and his face began to transform. With one free hand he clawed at his face trying to free himself, but he only ripped his own flesh. Far away down the blackened tunnel, he could just make out a figure standing in a doorway. Unmoving it waited, he hunched forward on his hands and knees and tried to crawl toward it. The figure leaned and stretched out a hand in his direction, but instead of stopping the hand moved closer and closer as the arm grew and thrashed its way toward him―he turned to run and fell into wetness; a grey swamp. Drowning.
**
Before putting her key in the lock she stopped and pressed her skirt against her knees, smoothing it. Her breath rattled in and out of her chest neither coming in, or going out fully before she stumbled on the rhythm and sucked in more air. Her hair hung dripping down her back making a dark pattern on her shirt; a drop of blood wound its way down her shin from her knee. She patted her hair and wiped her fingers under her eyes to catch mascara, then stuffed her key in the lock and threw open the door.
It stopped halfway with a dull thud, 'Shit.' She squeezed her way in between the wall and the door and stepped over the body that was blocking the doorway, leaning down to check for shallow breaths before closing the door and returning to dark. She could hear the sound of the record player scratching what was left of the vinyl; she walked over and picked up the arm, placing it back in its holder. The room was bare with only a sliver of light creeping in through the curtain. She thought of opening the curtains but she didn't want to set him off ―no matter how far away he seemed. Instead, she crossed to a small cupboard in the corner and took out a bottle of whiskey; the glasses were long gone, and she sat with her back against the chair drinking from the bottle.
**
He managed to grasp a vine from under the surface and pull himself up to a miraculous display of northern lights. Blue, green, purple, yellow and shades of orange filled the sky while stars came racing toward him, only to blow up in his face; he giggled and curled tighter into a ball, clutching his ankles and digging his fingernails further into the skin. Someone far away began to laugh and it grew louder and louder until it echoed through his skull, grinding out caves and sending ricochets of sound down into his neck. The pain seared through his body and the laughter grew louder and more cacophonous until white light blinded him completely and all he could feel was bitterness drilling anger into his head. He wept without knowing, and still the laughter grew louder until he felt himself collapse inwards, crumbling into a fine powder that caught on the breeze.
**
The room was completely dark now, the tiny beam of light extinguished with the night. She rose quietly from the floor, careful not to make a sound. Holding on to the chair, she tried to make out the bathroom door on the other side of the room. Squinting her eyes, she caught the glimmer of the silver handle and started toward it. At the door she fumbled for the light inside and when it turned on, she closed the door so that no light leaked into the room where he lay passive on the floor. She opened it again and slipped through the crack into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind her. He'd smashed the mirror a month ago when he'd seen it bleeding onto the floor, but she'd hidden another smaller one in the top of the toilet. She pulled this out now, dried it and brought it to her face. Her lip swelled red in the corner where his head had met hers as she held him during night terrors days before. She touched it lightly then brought her fingers to her eyes―red and swollen from long nights. Her mascara had dried in rivulets down her face, and she grabbed a square of toilet paper to wipe it off. She put the mirror back in the toilet, securing the top of the tank so he couldn't tear it off, and sat on the seat. She closed her eyes and saw red; the light staining her eyelids. Tiny grunts rose from the dark room as he fought tidal waves and giant teacups made of black diamond. She closed her eyes tighter and saw black. The grunts stopped and everything was quiet again.
**
He 'd been obsessed with Revolution 9 the first time he'd heard it; convinced like the rest of the world of a hidden message. She thought maybe it was the song that had driven him crazy, not the LSD but still she didn’t take away the record. She let him continue searching―it was all that he had.
He rustled from deep inside his cave where the powder had settled and allowed him to slowly return. He heard the silence that meant the song was over; the acid trip fading with tendrils of demon. Opening his eyes he saw little. The room black now with the night. He could make out a fuzzy glow coming from beneath the bathroom door. He thought she might be home and wondered if she'd finished the whiskey.
He raised himself from the floor, torn fingers splintered with slivers from the wooden boards. He’d almost been there. Ten hours into it, and he knew he'd almost reached the end. If only. He scoured the room for the record and found it sticking out from under the chair in a shallow attempt to hide itself from his obsession. He knew better though and grasped it with both hands raising it high above his head before bringing it down with a sickly thud onto the record player. He picked up the arm and guided it toward the record, scratching it as he lay the needle to rest. Revolution 9.
He sat on the chair, pausing to catch his breath and searching in the cracks for a cigarette. He found his packet and lit one, taking a deep drag, then tore the tinfoil out of the packet and began undoing the cardboard sides. Searching.
**
From inside the bathroom she could here him moving around the room. First he scuffled to the chair where he found the record she'd feebly tried to hide. He put it on again. She sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them she could hear him digging around in the couch. She glanced at the door to make sure it was locked―it wasn't―and she locked it now, sliding the deadbolt that she'd installed a month before. She stood up and walked to the bathroom cupboard. Inside was a plethora of junk: Adavan, Demerol, Oxycontin, Lithium, Morphine, Ketamine, LSD, 'Shit.' She could hear him growing agitated; something crashed and the record skipped back to repeating 'number nine'. The full force of his body hit the bathroom door.
She dove across the bathroom, landing beside the tub. His body crashed against the door again, splintering the wood near the hinges. She pulled herself up and crawled over the edge of the bathtub, curling inside; drawing the curtain to hide herself from view. The door creaked, reeling from another blow by his weight. He needed what was inside.
He hit the door again and this time it crumbled inward. She sank lower in the tub and he barrelled into the room, searching frantically. He grabbed the shower curtain and tore it down, covering her―through a hole she saw his eyes rolling, unchained as he tried to grasp the room. He turned and smashed his head into the cupboard pulling down three of the shelves―the Demerol, Oxycontin and Lithium with them. Six tabs of LSD on blotter paper fell to the sink and he stopped, watching them as they floated downward; snowflakes exploding into realms of colour―dripping with diamonds and settling with ease in the porcelain basin. He snatched up four of them, shoving them into his mouth, swilling saliva around and around to melt them into his flesh, and he sank to the floor.
***
She rose from the tub and tiptoed over his still figure, walking through the gaping hole where the door had been. Light streamed again through the hole in the curtain, bleeding blue into the room. She walked to the window now and opened the curtains, allowing light to touch the room that hadn't seen brightness in months. He made no noise, and she gathered her things―a bag and some scarves. She didn't check for shallow breaths as she passed his still figure on the way to the door and slipped out quietly. She left the door unlocked so that they might find him some time later.
13.3.10
st. patties day parade tomorrow...
i believe they call this raining on the parade:
(montreal weather--parade on sunday...)
(montreal weather--parade on sunday...)
11.3.10
a wrinkle in time..
...after the night ends and before the day starts. when the streets are finally quiet. when all the shoppes and bars have closed, and the bakeries haven't opened. when the morning light first bleeds into the black of night and distorts the streetlights, who know not whether to be on or off. when the birds open their eyes, but not their mouths--still trusting silence to be safer--is this why they sing so with the sun? when the snow sighs its warning, watching the sun drift into being; staking its claim on the cold, and the dead, of the night. it's when beauty remembers that after the darkness there is light, and turns the world in anticipation. it's when i like best to wake... when the day holds its breath and waits for the wrinkle in time to fold again and usher in the sun.
6.3.10
snapshot
i don't enhance my photos. and it really bothers me when other people do. photography is an art form--a perspective representation of the world and how an artist views it. to distort and maim the photograph is to lie to the viewer. i hate looking at a photo and not trusting the photographer because the beauty of the photo may lie in the the skill of the photographer, but more likely lies in their particular adeptness in photoshop. get real. i mean really. get real. there is nothing like taking a beautiful photograph and knowing that it came to be through the magnificence of nature/people/events and your photographic eye--your artistic perception. THAT is art. those are the photos that deserve appreciation. not the photos that were concocted in a second and doctored in photoshop for ten minutes. sometimes they turn out better--there's no denying. but they lose the essence of a photograph--the snapshot of a moment in time that will never return. by changing the moment, we lose it altogether. photoshop creates a moment that never existed--therefore making it surreal and untrue. no moment is captured, rather it is distorted, along with the personal and photographic memory of that moment.
think back to the world war photographers. they captured moments in time--horrific ones--that were immortalized. they showed the world what it was unable to see and shared the terrors of war. in a sense, they made it real--something that seemed like a far away, bad dream. if they could do so much with cumbersome cameras, equipment and relatively little knowledge of the art of photography, then why can't we? why MUST we adjust and shift and change and ruin what already works so nicely?
i love my camera. i love the archaic quality that the film brings to a photograph, the scratches on the lens and on the film that make characteristic squiggles on everything i see. i love taking my time with each shot, careful not to waste film, and seeing the results afterward. i love composing shots and seeing the possibilities of what i can put in the frame to make something new. capturing light as it slips below the horizon, or someone in motion when they think you aren't watching--and seeing all these as they were in the moment; being reminded of the times they represent--good and bad.
photoshop is like plastic. it looks good at first, but it ruins the essence of what is real. i just wish everyone would stop forgetting the magic of film and the beauty of a real photograph. let it remain an art--go poison something else.
think back to the world war photographers. they captured moments in time--horrific ones--that were immortalized. they showed the world what it was unable to see and shared the terrors of war. in a sense, they made it real--something that seemed like a far away, bad dream. if they could do so much with cumbersome cameras, equipment and relatively little knowledge of the art of photography, then why can't we? why MUST we adjust and shift and change and ruin what already works so nicely?
i love my camera. i love the archaic quality that the film brings to a photograph, the scratches on the lens and on the film that make characteristic squiggles on everything i see. i love taking my time with each shot, careful not to waste film, and seeing the results afterward. i love composing shots and seeing the possibilities of what i can put in the frame to make something new. capturing light as it slips below the horizon, or someone in motion when they think you aren't watching--and seeing all these as they were in the moment; being reminded of the times they represent--good and bad.
photoshop is like plastic. it looks good at first, but it ruins the essence of what is real. i just wish everyone would stop forgetting the magic of film and the beauty of a real photograph. let it remain an art--go poison something else.
27.2.10
25.2.10
24.2.10
surfacing
the past week has been an absolute blur of bright lights, ideas, moments and eternities. smoke machines, sound checks, minute fights and fake, real guns. the weather was my creator and destroyer all in a second--living by light quality, sound obstructions, space restrictions, snow possibilities and prop disasters... and i have no idea how it's going to turn out.
on monday i dropped off nine rolls of 16mm super film to be developed at vision globale. in their hands are three months of my life, hundreds of my dollars, my final mark for a year long foray into film, and the hard work of a lot more people than i expected.
have you ever worked on something really hard, and put a lot into it, but not realised the magnitude of what you were doing until it happened? this film shoot blew me away. the people--everyone working for free--the costumes, the makeup, the hair, the set... last year i made a two minute film about a prostitute (not by choice). the film was awful. the set was awful; the acting was embarassing at best. the makeup was clownish and the costumes were boring and undefined. to say the least, it was a disaster.
this year we had a cast of entirely professional actors, minus my boyfriend who filled in for an actor who opted out because of surgery; we had a makeup artist, hair stylist and costume designer (who had to find clothes for a 1920s speakeasy scene) who went miles beyond anything i could have fathomed. everyone involved put 500 percent of themselves into the project with the most astonishing enthusiasm. i still can't understand why everyone was so wonderfully passionate about this project that i dreamed up over a year ago... but they were.
andreia and i began back in december when i asked her to join me in making the film i'd had lingering in my mind for some time. she came on as production manager and turned what should have been a modest student production into something of a much larger scale. it's not that i didn't think we were capable of such fantastic ambition, i just hadn't considered it. andreia brought possibilities to the project and made them happen. our one weakness was cinematography. both of us had done small amounts of photography and felt secure in our composition, but neither one of us had a lot of experience working with the bolex camera--namely camera movement. when brian separated from his group and previously ambitious project, i grasped the opportunity to bring him on to our team. as someone who has a lot of experience with cinematography, he was a huge asset. he joined. from that point on, things escalated. andreia and i held auditions for two main actors and eight speakeasy patrons, and were frankly blown away by the enthusiasm of every person who showed up.
alison, our last audition of the day was the most surprising. as a member of actra (the actors union) we had been hesitant to cast her--or any of the others--because of the amount of paperwork they demanded if their actors were participating in a student film. when she showed up she was a bundle of energy and we clicked immediately. she launched into the story of mary gallagher a prostitute from the 1800s in griffintown--the area the film is based in--who was decapitated by her best friend, another prostitute. alison had taken particular interest in the story, and by larger extent the area of griffintown. it is said that mary gallagher's ghost appears every eight years about a block and a half from where i call home. fantastic.
after talking for about twenty minutes, we had alison audition for one of the 1920s characters, having already decided on our lead female. she did a great job, and then asked us if she could audition for the main role because of her particular interest in griffintown, and in our project. she was so enthusiastic we couldn't say no. her audition was exceptionally well done, and combined with her love of the area and incredible interest in the project we decided to cast her as the lead female. it's amazing how a stranger's confidence in what you are doing can change your mind and influence what you are doing. there's no doubt in my mind that the production fared better for having alison as our lead character.
ironically, the man we cast as the lead male--a bad guy who commits a murder in the 1920s that alison, the main girl, witnesses through a hole in a wall that allows a bizarre time loop--was one of the nicest people i have ever met. alejandro was wonderfully patient, but still able to exhibit the characteristics of an evil mobster type. he brought a magnanimous quality to the film. he was understanding and kind, and put up with our student filmmaking naivety and even gently offered suggestions that improved upon our own ideas. on the last day of filming, he made breakfast for the crew and cast while brian and i were out measuring windows, cutting drywall and securing a location. and when we got back, alejandro chopped up an avocado, some spinach, onion, goat cheese and apple to make me some food as well. he also made lunch--a meat stew for all the meat eaters. it was quite the feast; alison made plantain fries (i saw mini plantains on sale at the supermarket and got excited because they were 'cute').
what struck me the most about the entire production, was the camaraderie that formed between everyone working on the film. from the first day of shooting--friday--we were all laughing and having a wonderful time, but working as hard as we could and putting all of ourselves into the project. there wasn't one person who slacked, or took the mickey out of what we were doing. we all put in our absolute effort, and i think, i hope, it shows in the film. by the last day our wits were withered and our tempers short, but we still laughed and had a wonderful time.
bare with me if this is a little bit sappy. i am just so impressed by the people i encountered this weekend. i never imagined that people could come together for no money, and to work so hard to achieve something--and at that something that i conceptualised. though i am in no way taking any credit for this, other than the original idea. i suppose i am just amazed that people actually listened to me. not that they shouldn't... but just that they haven't on a scale like this before.
anyway, the long of the short of the short of the long, short.... is that i'm super chuffed.
wrap party on thursday!
here's a few photos of the 1920s scene:
on monday i dropped off nine rolls of 16mm super film to be developed at vision globale. in their hands are three months of my life, hundreds of my dollars, my final mark for a year long foray into film, and the hard work of a lot more people than i expected.
have you ever worked on something really hard, and put a lot into it, but not realised the magnitude of what you were doing until it happened? this film shoot blew me away. the people--everyone working for free--the costumes, the makeup, the hair, the set... last year i made a two minute film about a prostitute (not by choice). the film was awful. the set was awful; the acting was embarassing at best. the makeup was clownish and the costumes were boring and undefined. to say the least, it was a disaster.
this year we had a cast of entirely professional actors, minus my boyfriend who filled in for an actor who opted out because of surgery; we had a makeup artist, hair stylist and costume designer (who had to find clothes for a 1920s speakeasy scene) who went miles beyond anything i could have fathomed. everyone involved put 500 percent of themselves into the project with the most astonishing enthusiasm. i still can't understand why everyone was so wonderfully passionate about this project that i dreamed up over a year ago... but they were.
andreia and i began back in december when i asked her to join me in making the film i'd had lingering in my mind for some time. she came on as production manager and turned what should have been a modest student production into something of a much larger scale. it's not that i didn't think we were capable of such fantastic ambition, i just hadn't considered it. andreia brought possibilities to the project and made them happen. our one weakness was cinematography. both of us had done small amounts of photography and felt secure in our composition, but neither one of us had a lot of experience working with the bolex camera--namely camera movement. when brian separated from his group and previously ambitious project, i grasped the opportunity to bring him on to our team. as someone who has a lot of experience with cinematography, he was a huge asset. he joined. from that point on, things escalated. andreia and i held auditions for two main actors and eight speakeasy patrons, and were frankly blown away by the enthusiasm of every person who showed up.
alison, our last audition of the day was the most surprising. as a member of actra (the actors union) we had been hesitant to cast her--or any of the others--because of the amount of paperwork they demanded if their actors were participating in a student film. when she showed up she was a bundle of energy and we clicked immediately. she launched into the story of mary gallagher a prostitute from the 1800s in griffintown--the area the film is based in--who was decapitated by her best friend, another prostitute. alison had taken particular interest in the story, and by larger extent the area of griffintown. it is said that mary gallagher's ghost appears every eight years about a block and a half from where i call home. fantastic.
after talking for about twenty minutes, we had alison audition for one of the 1920s characters, having already decided on our lead female. she did a great job, and then asked us if she could audition for the main role because of her particular interest in griffintown, and in our project. she was so enthusiastic we couldn't say no. her audition was exceptionally well done, and combined with her love of the area and incredible interest in the project we decided to cast her as the lead female. it's amazing how a stranger's confidence in what you are doing can change your mind and influence what you are doing. there's no doubt in my mind that the production fared better for having alison as our lead character.
ironically, the man we cast as the lead male--a bad guy who commits a murder in the 1920s that alison, the main girl, witnesses through a hole in a wall that allows a bizarre time loop--was one of the nicest people i have ever met. alejandro was wonderfully patient, but still able to exhibit the characteristics of an evil mobster type. he brought a magnanimous quality to the film. he was understanding and kind, and put up with our student filmmaking naivety and even gently offered suggestions that improved upon our own ideas. on the last day of filming, he made breakfast for the crew and cast while brian and i were out measuring windows, cutting drywall and securing a location. and when we got back, alejandro chopped up an avocado, some spinach, onion, goat cheese and apple to make me some food as well. he also made lunch--a meat stew for all the meat eaters. it was quite the feast; alison made plantain fries (i saw mini plantains on sale at the supermarket and got excited because they were 'cute').
what struck me the most about the entire production, was the camaraderie that formed between everyone working on the film. from the first day of shooting--friday--we were all laughing and having a wonderful time, but working as hard as we could and putting all of ourselves into the project. there wasn't one person who slacked, or took the mickey out of what we were doing. we all put in our absolute effort, and i think, i hope, it shows in the film. by the last day our wits were withered and our tempers short, but we still laughed and had a wonderful time.
bare with me if this is a little bit sappy. i am just so impressed by the people i encountered this weekend. i never imagined that people could come together for no money, and to work so hard to achieve something--and at that something that i conceptualised. though i am in no way taking any credit for this, other than the original idea. i suppose i am just amazed that people actually listened to me. not that they shouldn't... but just that they haven't on a scale like this before.
anyway, the long of the short of the short of the long, short.... is that i'm super chuffed.
wrap party on thursday!
here's a few photos of the 1920s scene:
14.2.10
i love new words.
Brobdingnagian: gigantic!!
how do you even say that?!
in lieu of my vastly approaching film date, i keep refreshing the weather network in hopes that next weekend's snow-laden forecast will change.
i'm also wracking my brains to try and remember what i might have done to deserve the methods of torture inflicted upon my self under the guise of fiction 226. what ever it was, i'm sorry. i wouldn't have done it if i'd known that this was the consequence.
Brobdingnagian: gigantic!!
how do you even say that?!
in lieu of my vastly approaching film date, i keep refreshing the weather network in hopes that next weekend's snow-laden forecast will change.
i'm also wracking my brains to try and remember what i might have done to deserve the methods of torture inflicted upon my self under the guise of fiction 226. what ever it was, i'm sorry. i wouldn't have done it if i'd known that this was the consequence.
13.2.10
9.2.10
8.2.10
august two thousand and eight
i distinctly remember how long it took us to pose this picture. we laughed along the way.
jacob and i begin to text one another on monday mornings. the first is always a general, 'god this will suck,' but by the end of the second hour we've escalated to real insults. every week it's the same routine. i ignore the problem until sometime on monday afternoon, a few hours before class, when i realize my homework isn't going to do itself. i spend a few hours procrastinating then text jacob to ask how he is doing. we spend the rest of the time before class exchanging vicious gripes about the ineptitude of our classmates--i often wonder if i am too hard on them, until i get to class and remember what they've written. i've met high school students who write better.
it's not that i'm particularly adept myself, but these guys.... they just kill me. jacob too. it's the basis of our entire friendship so far. that's changing, but for now we've bonded over common disgust at the creative untalent. marta too, though she's a bit nicer and only weighs in half the time.
it's like being stuck in a washing machine full of bleach--the bleach is the dulling agent/ the mind wiper. the machine just keeps spinning and spinning and the bleach keeps wiping that space behind your eyes where all the ideas used to sit... you can feel yourself getting dumber, and it hurts too. the worst part is that you go somewhat voluntarily every monday and wednesday night--electric shock treatments for university credits. what a trade off.
this week we critique marie's story. alexa's too, but this is my procrastination tool so i haven't read hers yet. marie's story is about a girl--a lesbian, sort of--who was in a relationship with caitlin. caitlin broke it off some time ago and the main character spends the entire four pages recounting the hurt and the love they had between them. even i know lesbians that would be offended by the insinuations of gentle womanly tenderness combined with free loving lesbian. not even the L word would have dared to be so cliche. nothing actually happens in the story as it is the main character's reminiscence that we read... there is no curve, no hook, no event even to read of... just four pages of superfluously flowery prose.
with a teacher who hardly tolerates critique, where can we possibly go from here?
jacob's favourite line, sent via text (that takes time): 'it was the end of another relationship, in which i had forgotten about the core of my beliefs.'
it's not that i'm particularly adept myself, but these guys.... they just kill me. jacob too. it's the basis of our entire friendship so far. that's changing, but for now we've bonded over common disgust at the creative untalent. marta too, though she's a bit nicer and only weighs in half the time.
it's like being stuck in a washing machine full of bleach--the bleach is the dulling agent/ the mind wiper. the machine just keeps spinning and spinning and the bleach keeps wiping that space behind your eyes where all the ideas used to sit... you can feel yourself getting dumber, and it hurts too. the worst part is that you go somewhat voluntarily every monday and wednesday night--electric shock treatments for university credits. what a trade off.
this week we critique marie's story. alexa's too, but this is my procrastination tool so i haven't read hers yet. marie's story is about a girl--a lesbian, sort of--who was in a relationship with caitlin. caitlin broke it off some time ago and the main character spends the entire four pages recounting the hurt and the love they had between them. even i know lesbians that would be offended by the insinuations of gentle womanly tenderness combined with free loving lesbian. not even the L word would have dared to be so cliche. nothing actually happens in the story as it is the main character's reminiscence that we read... there is no curve, no hook, no event even to read of... just four pages of superfluously flowery prose.
with a teacher who hardly tolerates critique, where can we possibly go from here?
jacob's favourite line, sent via text (that takes time): 'it was the end of another relationship, in which i had forgotten about the core of my beliefs.'
2.2.10
28.1.10
22.1.10
homeless at your wake
Leave your shell for the men who roam.
Pick up sticks, the coffins of the playground.
Like mankind through the ages
you've moved,
leaving behind frail porcelain figures
that wane at your wake.
Poems follow you like rivers,
writing your path in the sand.
Hands draw your reflection as they whittle away the clouds.
Camels sip at puddles as they form behind you--
drinking your thirst for their lives.
After this they'll go without water forever;
their tears forming tunnels in the molten leftovers of your design.
Some would fight time to pull you back.
We follow your coffin like lost soldiers on the Saharan plateau.
Pick up sticks, the coffins of the playground.
Like mankind through the ages
you've moved,
leaving behind frail porcelain figures
that wane at your wake.
Poems follow you like rivers,
writing your path in the sand.
Hands draw your reflection as they whittle away the clouds.
Camels sip at puddles as they form behind you--
drinking your thirst for their lives.
After this they'll go without water forever;
their tears forming tunnels in the molten leftovers of your design.
Some would fight time to pull you back.
We follow your coffin like lost soldiers on the Saharan plateau.
19.1.10
Photo Contest
View - Travel tips and inspiration - British Airways High Life
I entered a photo contest! head to the link and vote for me.... first contest ever. thaaaaanks
I entered a photo contest! head to the link and vote for me.... first contest ever. thaaaaanks
15.1.10
14.1.10
P.K
Today my world is crumbling a little...maybe just breaking off around the edges—falling into obscurity. The granite that held it so solid has shifted, and underneath i only see black nothingness.
The world is so grotesquely unfair.
I wanted to see you—i needed to see you, to tell you i love you, to tell you i see you. But i couldn't or i didn't try hard enough and now i never will. You aren't hiding around the corner on the wet cobblestone streets. You aren't waiting for me to find you like a big game of hide and seek. You just aren't anymore.
When i think of you, i think of light. I think of the universe and all the little pieces that become so inconsequential when you look at the larger picture—how they seem so irrelevant from far away, but up close they're integral to all that we know. This isn't a comparison. You always were relevant you always made something, said something, did something to love. With a gin in your left hand, you conquered the world with metaphors and assonance—you drew parallels to vertical eternities and sipped with a lemon.
You have changed the world and I'm so frightened to see it wither away without you. You are a beauty beyond ages, stronger in spirit than most are in ephemera. I'll miss you, along with so many—and those who didn't meet you will never understand the magnitude of what they missed.
Bonne chance, à bientôt.
12.1.10
8.1.10
friday night
it's 9pm. i'm drinking a beer and doing my fiction homework. i'm completely naked under a bathrobe after taking a shower that's been due a couple of days. the giant owl on my desk stares back at me over his right shoulder, unflinching, while the sun never manages to set behind him.
i occasionally open my mouth to curse tess, the new teacher who assigns too much homework. i haven't yet had the chance to tell her that she shares her name with my dog.
i occasionally open my mouth to curse tess, the new teacher who assigns too much homework. i haven't yet had the chance to tell her that she shares her name with my dog.
6.1.10
underwhelmme
i am underwhelming, at best. a classic underachiever. coasting on passable talents, cultivating--nothing. i follow whims for a couple of footfalls and get distracted by paw prints in the sand. they lead me to dead ends dammed to all heights, waterfalls on every side. even when i turn around, something is stopping me--"a person who can't even regress?" it's absurd, but i'm her.
to everyone else in the world, i'm full of potential. untarnished, unbridled, bursting potential...that never seems to dissipate, but never goes anywhere either...that one who is plugging away at things as they come.. working her way toward something, never sure what. still, after all this time, not sure what. i could... so many things. i do.... nothing. not yet, not ever it would seem. those fucking beavers in my head building walls so high birds dare not cross, nor snowflakes, or clouds or any manifestation of great height that might overcome these walls. nothing may pass.
i lull in my cradle full of porcupine spines and thorns with no roses, i rock so hard i cling for my life, though never manage to fall out. i twist in nightmares of dreams gone astray--plundering angels searching for prey--never me, but always almost... like a curse that hasn't quite worked out the kinks, trying to wreak havoc but only managing a mild form of blindsided torture. i exist.
underwhelming, at best.. and for what? who wants to procreate with an intellectual circus--undecided and untamed, unruly, unkempt and potentially disastrous. these things are fun to watch, from afar. but from inside, a whirling dirvish of dissolution. of unknowing, of fruitlessness and laziness. going nowhere but round and round caught in dust, disgust and indecision for ever and ever. and ever.
to everyone else in the world, i'm full of potential. untarnished, unbridled, bursting potential...that never seems to dissipate, but never goes anywhere either...that one who is plugging away at things as they come.. working her way toward something, never sure what. still, after all this time, not sure what. i could... so many things. i do.... nothing. not yet, not ever it would seem. those fucking beavers in my head building walls so high birds dare not cross, nor snowflakes, or clouds or any manifestation of great height that might overcome these walls. nothing may pass.
i lull in my cradle full of porcupine spines and thorns with no roses, i rock so hard i cling for my life, though never manage to fall out. i twist in nightmares of dreams gone astray--plundering angels searching for prey--never me, but always almost... like a curse that hasn't quite worked out the kinks, trying to wreak havoc but only managing a mild form of blindsided torture. i exist.
underwhelming, at best.. and for what? who wants to procreate with an intellectual circus--undecided and untamed, unruly, unkempt and potentially disastrous. these things are fun to watch, from afar. but from inside, a whirling dirvish of dissolution. of unknowing, of fruitlessness and laziness. going nowhere but round and round caught in dust, disgust and indecision for ever and ever. and ever.
2.1.10
what happens...
here's zipper looking regal:
here's me taking a picture of myself in a mirror:
here's april watching me take a picture of her in the mirror:
here's a lame sign:
here's me taking a picture of myself in a mirror:
here's april watching me take a picture of her in the mirror:
here's a lame sign:
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