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.
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