...and what do you do to remedy that unequivocal feeling that you are dispensable?
when the entire world has forgotten you--and you don't care, because the people that really matter--those that are intrinsic to your sense of self, they haven't--
but then they do..
and you're left in a void of neither here nor there, and completely, utterly and entirely alone..
all those things you'd thought they'd meant,
all those things that seemed so real in so many moments that passed--
they all became arbitrary in that second when everything disintegrated and left you cold..
and though you shiver in the dark and search blindly for a hand to grasp onto--
and though you hope that a warm touch will reach out and pull you back,
it never comes.
...you're left to wander the cliff edges of pitch-noir, scrambling on mountain sides,
hoping not to fall into the abyss that waits so patiently for your return--
you've been here before--
but not for many years, and all those memories you'd thought you'd left in this darkness..they've all been waiting for you--
and now here, on your own, they emerge from the darkest shadows and welcome you back
with shrill cries and archaic rage--
these terrifying nightmares that dominated everything you knew up until you said goodbye--
up until you were welcomed into sun-light with rose petals polka-dotting your 'i's...
and the world had opened its eyes and seen you in an instant--
everything folded up like origami and fit perfectly into a package labelled, 'me'.
...they all made you feel like you'd come home--
like those years of blackened torture had all been some silly nightmare that was now over--
and had never been as bad as you'd imagined.
..and you believed them..you believed everything they said because in those moments it had all seemed so distant--
so now, back where you started all those years ago,
you wonder--
was there ever a time when there was neither sunshine nor pitch-noir?
when life just flowed, because it could--
when neither the world and its lies nor the deepest black and its nightmares dominated your dementia,
when all that you knew made sense--
simply because that's how it was supposed to be.
7.2.09
31.1.09
Moon-nights turn wayward dawns into dusk.
The grass settles as we wind our way down the valley;
foxgloves tilt--
the night is clear as any,
and we find ourselves gazing skyward
hoping to catch a glimpse
of the shadows we left behind--
there aren't any.
Long ago we made a promise--
a promise carried through by particles of dust that cling to us
like silver lining on a cloud.
They belonged to others before us,
from times before any of this existed.
The mountains grow as we follow the path blindly,
ever deeper into the darkness.
Where the moon once lit our way,
we only see its shadows,
cast on the craggy skyline that moves farther and farther out of reach.
We aren't looking back.
When we decided to leave so many years ago, now,
we promised we would never return--
would never turn around, even,
and wave goodbye.
There wasn't anybody left to wave to--
anyways.
Every now and then, you glance in my direction--
I don't look at you.
I sit still, stoned on silence.
There isn't anything to say,
as the night grows blacker than black and the mountains no longer stand out from the sky.
The old home we left behind,
where magic hid under the bedpost and night terrors turned tricks on the heather--
it lost love when the fires raged.
We lost too, but we never stopped to ask if the love that was wasted could grow again on its own.
We left as the smoke reached the horizon--
we left while the bed posts blazed and the hills grew more effervescent in the fire-lit glow.
We left, one day,
and vowed as one does--
never to return.
And vowed as one does--
never to look behind us.
The grass settles as we wind our way down the valley;
foxgloves tilt--
the night is clear as any,
and we find ourselves gazing skyward
hoping to catch a glimpse
of the shadows we left behind--
there aren't any.
Long ago we made a promise--
a promise carried through by particles of dust that cling to us
like silver lining on a cloud.
They belonged to others before us,
from times before any of this existed.
The mountains grow as we follow the path blindly,
ever deeper into the darkness.
Where the moon once lit our way,
we only see its shadows,
cast on the craggy skyline that moves farther and farther out of reach.
We aren't looking back.
When we decided to leave so many years ago, now,
we promised we would never return--
would never turn around, even,
and wave goodbye.
There wasn't anybody left to wave to--
anyways.
Every now and then, you glance in my direction--
I don't look at you.
I sit still, stoned on silence.
There isn't anything to say,
as the night grows blacker than black and the mountains no longer stand out from the sky.
The old home we left behind,
where magic hid under the bedpost and night terrors turned tricks on the heather--
it lost love when the fires raged.
We lost too, but we never stopped to ask if the love that was wasted could grow again on its own.
We left as the smoke reached the horizon--
we left while the bed posts blazed and the hills grew more effervescent in the fire-lit glow.
We left, one day,
and vowed as one does--
never to return.
And vowed as one does--
never to look behind us.
15.1.09
Today is different. Somehow. What happened. What changed. Did the rain fall differently this morning than it has on any other. Or not. Did the sun find a mirror in the apartment across the way--that never seems to catch the sun. Did a cloud cover the ground, instead of the sky it usually grazes. Did a child wake up with no sound in his throat. Was the moon still in sight for us to see. What pinched my consciousness and rustled a dream. What dredged up things that have lain dormant for so many years. What didn't let them lie, anymore. What silver of light caught my eye this early morning and pulled me back to this.
11.1.09
There's a lovely little thing with a Glaswegian accent and a stare that's lost on the world around her--she's blind. But that doesn't stop her from smiling out the window at the land that whizzes by, and curling in gently to the man beside her who holds her as one might hold a paper lily before placing it on the breeze.
They're going South--not South as in England, South as in Morocco. They told me over dinner last night. Right now we're somewhere in the Basque region--oh yes this train likes to dilly-dally it's way across the continent, there's no sense, you see, in going anywhere in a hurry. You'll undoubtedly be too late for what ever just happened and far too early for what ever is to come.
They made the decision two weeks ago to leave this old country and head for a land where what you see is so little of what you experience...not to say that Northern Africa can't offer spectacular sights, but the sounds and the smells are so rich and inviting...the things you see are less relevant. And when one is blind it becomes ever so important to entertain the other senses.
She hasn't always been blind, you know...
Oh the conversations we have are marvelous, we speak of rich dreams and evocative nightmares. The little girl tells me what she sees, because it isn't black, you know, when you close your eyes. She makes her own worlds now and gives a new name to each shape she remembers. The man listens quietly and keeps her close to him. He says a word from time to time, but he lets her do most of the talking, and to be honest it's her that I most want to listen to. Somewhere between Basque and Barcelona we stop to stretch our legs and she smells the desert of the Spanish plateau. She doesn't know whether to laugh or weep; the vastness of the desert is terrifying, it smells like death, but it is so open it pulls you in and you almost forget you can't survive on your own.
We avoid big cities because they are only a conundrum of noise and confusing screeches that would upset a little blind girl. We detour in small towns and dine with the locals while they tell us tales of visitors and creatures we thought only existed in somebody else's imagination.
The little girl never tells me her secret, but I know she's got something to say. The man knows too, but he isn't ever going to let on. I want to keep travelling with them but my stop is coming soon and I have to get off.
This train is only for people who don't know where they are going, it only stops once to let you off and you don't ever get to choose where. There aren't any rules, and I doubt very much that there is a driver, but nonetheless it can only be found by those who most need it and isn't ever there if you look.
This train doesn't need tracks, this train finds its way all on its own.
They're going South--not South as in England, South as in Morocco. They told me over dinner last night. Right now we're somewhere in the Basque region--oh yes this train likes to dilly-dally it's way across the continent, there's no sense, you see, in going anywhere in a hurry. You'll undoubtedly be too late for what ever just happened and far too early for what ever is to come.
They made the decision two weeks ago to leave this old country and head for a land where what you see is so little of what you experience...not to say that Northern Africa can't offer spectacular sights, but the sounds and the smells are so rich and inviting...the things you see are less relevant. And when one is blind it becomes ever so important to entertain the other senses.
She hasn't always been blind, you know...
Oh the conversations we have are marvelous, we speak of rich dreams and evocative nightmares. The little girl tells me what she sees, because it isn't black, you know, when you close your eyes. She makes her own worlds now and gives a new name to each shape she remembers. The man listens quietly and keeps her close to him. He says a word from time to time, but he lets her do most of the talking, and to be honest it's her that I most want to listen to. Somewhere between Basque and Barcelona we stop to stretch our legs and she smells the desert of the Spanish plateau. She doesn't know whether to laugh or weep; the vastness of the desert is terrifying, it smells like death, but it is so open it pulls you in and you almost forget you can't survive on your own.
We avoid big cities because they are only a conundrum of noise and confusing screeches that would upset a little blind girl. We detour in small towns and dine with the locals while they tell us tales of visitors and creatures we thought only existed in somebody else's imagination.
The little girl never tells me her secret, but I know she's got something to say. The man knows too, but he isn't ever going to let on. I want to keep travelling with them but my stop is coming soon and I have to get off.
This train is only for people who don't know where they are going, it only stops once to let you off and you don't ever get to choose where. There aren't any rules, and I doubt very much that there is a driver, but nonetheless it can only be found by those who most need it and isn't ever there if you look.
This train doesn't need tracks, this train finds its way all on its own.
2.1.09
I'm building walls.
Every day we'll put them up--
tighter and tighter, and closer
until I can't--fucking--breathe.
You can never know me--
no one can.
And every time I make you recoil--every time I push you away,
a little more--
is every time I prove again
that we were all right about you--
people.
And it's the perverse nature of a losing battle--
that every time I see a small victory--
I stand to lose everything.
<<It's like watching myself from outside a bubble--watching every word lash out and scour you, just a little. I know it hurts. And at the same time, I can't do anything to stop it. I want you to fuck off. I want you to prove me right. I know it's never, if, anymore. It's only ever, when.>>
Every day we'll put them up--
tighter and tighter, and closer
until I can't--fucking--breathe.
You can never know me--
no one can.
And every time I make you recoil--every time I push you away,
a little more--
is every time I prove again
that we were all right about you--
people.
And it's the perverse nature of a losing battle--
that every time I see a small victory--
I stand to lose everything.
<<It's like watching myself from outside a bubble--watching every word lash out and scour you, just a little. I know it hurts. And at the same time, I can't do anything to stop it. I want you to fuck off. I want you to prove me right. I know it's never, if, anymore. It's only ever, when.>>
28.12.08
There's no use in alluding anymore. This world wants names, wants facts wants intricate details--its not enough to blanket experiences under the guise of the storyteller and the stories he told. No longer can I moonlight simultaneously as the teller, the doer and the ones it was done too. Perhaps the point has been reached where I either develop an alter-ego or pour out this heart into cookie shaped pieces of life; each one fashioned into a poem. Each one baring just a little too much.
Or so that's what she told me.
I play safe. I will admit. Because its a little too scary to tell you exactly what I mean. Isn't it easier to give you an opportunity to think...of what I'm trying to say without blitzkrieg-ing you with answers.
What ever happened to mystery? I wonder..apparently it doesn't fare so well in words.
The world wants names. Wants facts--and what if I don't know how to give those? What if those names and facts--changed as they might be--don't want to be given?
What if the world isn't ready for the things I have to say; the things that will undoubtedly, eventually come to the surface--
despite all the fight that's left
in me.
Raw words don't want to be read. We want to be buried under molehills of imagery--of nothing.
We want to suffocate just so you can pretend that nothing. Really. Happened.
Raw words want to dilute themselves with baking soda and trips to the pharmacy; to wash off the filth that shows them for what they really are.
Raw words...like carrots in a vegetable patch. They are what they are, nobody would dare to question that. Nobody, though, would eat them either.
There is a battle coming on. It looms closer every time I pick up a pen, and fades a little when I refuse to write the words that wander through my mind.
The battle will rage and in the end one side will die;
my pen will be silent, or I will.
Or so that's what she told me.
I play safe. I will admit. Because its a little too scary to tell you exactly what I mean. Isn't it easier to give you an opportunity to think...of what I'm trying to say without blitzkrieg-ing you with answers.
What ever happened to mystery? I wonder..apparently it doesn't fare so well in words.
The world wants names. Wants facts--and what if I don't know how to give those? What if those names and facts--changed as they might be--don't want to be given?
What if the world isn't ready for the things I have to say; the things that will undoubtedly, eventually come to the surface--
despite all the fight that's left
in me.
Raw words don't want to be read. We want to be buried under molehills of imagery--of nothing.
We want to suffocate just so you can pretend that nothing. Really. Happened.
Raw words want to dilute themselves with baking soda and trips to the pharmacy; to wash off the filth that shows them for what they really are.
Raw words...like carrots in a vegetable patch. They are what they are, nobody would dare to question that. Nobody, though, would eat them either.
There is a battle coming on. It looms closer every time I pick up a pen, and fades a little when I refuse to write the words that wander through my mind.
The battle will rage and in the end one side will die;
my pen will be silent, or I will.
14.12.08
I've done you. I could say--I've seen what you have to offer.
And that would be all. Because to her it would sound so final--there's nothing like words to slash you so violently and leave so little behind. Words whip--
not cream. But flesh. Flesh you can't see until you close your eyes at night and try too hard to fall asleep. Flesh that reverberates in your dreams and claws its way into your nightmares.
But save that for another day. Because it wasn't what--
he meant to say.
He meant to choose a little more carefully. He meant to tell her he wanted to care..
but she forgot to tell him she didn't.
There wasn't any use in denying it. Like the storyteller who forgot to warn the man who lost his soul, she'd sat there with a smile and pretended there wasn't anything to forewarn--
about.
Ten days and two tickets to Paris--she'd watched as it all fell so smoothly around her...everything was smooth indeed. Save. For. Her.
I've done you, I could say. I've seen what you have to offer.
He repeated himself, then he crawled out of bed with a smile and went to fetch--
a glass of water.
11.12.08
Would you believe me if I told you these wings won't make you fly?
Where am I? I have to know. Is it far away in some other lifetime? Am I existing somewhere else too? It would make sense, I believe. I feel these things are happening to me but nobody here is responsible. Experiences and lessons--new ideas form behind my facade but I can't discover where they have come from. They appear from nothing and give me no answers--seemingly sporadic yet tied to some archaic source. Existentialism doesn't even know where to start, and neither do I.
I feel her blink and my eyes shut for a second.
I feel her breath enter my chest and leave--I swear I didn't open my mouth.
I feel her claws grasp on a memory as she struggles
not to let it go--
but I don't know what she's thinking.
Her thoughts flicker and I can feel her emotion--
her reactions to what ever they told her that she'd forgotten.
I know she exists,
but I've never seen her before.
She walks down gravel paths,
kicking pebbles before they fall under her toes.
She likes the sun--
a little too much.
She reads from time to time..
I think she's smarter than me.
But I wouldn't know,
we've never met.
I know she knows I'm here.
I know she feels my pain
when the world fades back to black.
She whispers to me sometimes but her words get lost on the journey--
from thousands of worlds away.
We are one in the same--
her name is mine as well.
The name of millions of miles of separation,
but not a particle of difference.
Two souls born from the same star--
we split just once
and landed infinite planets apart.
Her world is not my own,
and yet I know her inside and out.
In the mirror every morning
her face looks me in the eye.
She sees my breasts when she undresses at night.
It is only our own memories--
the ones we've made since we fell from from the sky--
that wrench us apart and define us.
Memories of places the other would never recognise--
memories of people the other wouldn't know.
Memories of ourselves that don't match,
like we do.
We carve our own and in this we are inherently separate.
Two beings cut from the same stitch in time--
dispersed like sand scatters in a storm.
We exist in our entirety
exempt from the pain of knowing another
so similar.
We exist in different spaces--
allow time to pull apart two pieces
that once were intertwined.
....Spell-binding....
Creativity return--
Seep back into my fingers,
Run hot whispers up my veins;
Pull tendons into shapes--
Make them write your different names.
--My anchor in the deep keeps me still amongst the swells,
If the chain were to break--
I'd drift and sink below to hell...
There isn't a second in time that passes without thought. The mind is never still--if it were a person, we might call it a fidget. It's not, though. It's a wheel that rolls over continents in a day, circles the globe many times in a lifetime.
The mind is your weapon. Bare it with grace, nurture with care. Acknowledge that some will misuse it, make sure you aren't one of them. Don't be fooled by tricks of the imagination--your mind gets bored too, every once in a while.
Every once, in a while.
Where am I? I have to know. Is it far away in some other lifetime? Am I existing somewhere else too? It would make sense, I believe. I feel these things are happening to me but nobody here is responsible. Experiences and lessons--new ideas form behind my facade but I can't discover where they have come from. They appear from nothing and give me no answers--seemingly sporadic yet tied to some archaic source. Existentialism doesn't even know where to start, and neither do I.
I feel her blink and my eyes shut for a second.
I feel her breath enter my chest and leave--I swear I didn't open my mouth.
I feel her claws grasp on a memory as she struggles
not to let it go--
but I don't know what she's thinking.
Her thoughts flicker and I can feel her emotion--
her reactions to what ever they told her that she'd forgotten.
I know she exists,
but I've never seen her before.
She walks down gravel paths,
kicking pebbles before they fall under her toes.
She likes the sun--
a little too much.
She reads from time to time..
I think she's smarter than me.
But I wouldn't know,
we've never met.
I know she knows I'm here.
I know she feels my pain
when the world fades back to black.
She whispers to me sometimes but her words get lost on the journey--
from thousands of worlds away.
We are one in the same--
her name is mine as well.
The name of millions of miles of separation,
but not a particle of difference.
Two souls born from the same star--
we split just once
and landed infinite planets apart.
Her world is not my own,
and yet I know her inside and out.
In the mirror every morning
her face looks me in the eye.
She sees my breasts when she undresses at night.
It is only our own memories--
the ones we've made since we fell from from the sky--
that wrench us apart and define us.
Memories of places the other would never recognise--
memories of people the other wouldn't know.
Memories of ourselves that don't match,
like we do.
We carve our own and in this we are inherently separate.
Two beings cut from the same stitch in time--
dispersed like sand scatters in a storm.
We exist in our entirety
exempt from the pain of knowing another
so similar.
We exist in different spaces--
allow time to pull apart two pieces
that once were intertwined.
....Spell-binding....
Creativity return--
Seep back into my fingers,
Run hot whispers up my veins;
Pull tendons into shapes--
Make them write your different names.
--My anchor in the deep keeps me still amongst the swells,
If the chain were to break--
I'd drift and sink below to hell...
There isn't a second in time that passes without thought. The mind is never still--if it were a person, we might call it a fidget. It's not, though. It's a wheel that rolls over continents in a day, circles the globe many times in a lifetime.
The mind is your weapon. Bare it with grace, nurture with care. Acknowledge that some will misuse it, make sure you aren't one of them. Don't be fooled by tricks of the imagination--your mind gets bored too, every once in a while.
Every once, in a while.
24.11.08
ephemeral thought. If all I want is to go back, then why am I still moving forward?
Why keep going in the direction in which the memories stop making you smile. Go back. Take me there.
Take me to skies laced with clouds, soaring high on a mountain's breeze. Or further back to a lonely day on Hallows Eve where we climbed towers in Berching and drank wine by candle light as it snowed so we might make new footprints.
Or back even more, to a time when so much was uncertain that it seemed set in stone. To days when the only thing that we knew was that everything would eventually change. And it did.
I miss that feeling I had when we slammed the doors on the jeep and drove south with a car full of life, and I cried because right there was the end of something. Because it was real.
And what is real anymore. Because some days are so numb.
I miss sitting on the bench looking out over the river valley. Ell's bench with a pocket full of sad-song-cds, a pen and a piece of paper. Writing of one, but thinking of the other.
So many. ephemeral. moments I can never take back, never get back. I used to hold my breath for a new day to come, and when I realised time passes slower when you hold your breath I tried my hardest to never let it out.
I don't always see future, past doesn't always remember me.
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." [the beatles]
We'll see about that.
Why keep going in the direction in which the memories stop making you smile. Go back. Take me there.
Take me to skies laced with clouds, soaring high on a mountain's breeze. Or further back to a lonely day on Hallows Eve where we climbed towers in Berching and drank wine by candle light as it snowed so we might make new footprints.
Or back even more, to a time when so much was uncertain that it seemed set in stone. To days when the only thing that we knew was that everything would eventually change. And it did.
I miss that feeling I had when we slammed the doors on the jeep and drove south with a car full of life, and I cried because right there was the end of something. Because it was real.
And what is real anymore. Because some days are so numb.
I miss sitting on the bench looking out over the river valley. Ell's bench with a pocket full of sad-song-cds, a pen and a piece of paper. Writing of one, but thinking of the other.
So many. ephemeral. moments I can never take back, never get back. I used to hold my breath for a new day to come, and when I realised time passes slower when you hold your breath I tried my hardest to never let it out.
I don't always see future, past doesn't always remember me.
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." [the beatles]
We'll see about that.
17.11.08
The unabashed idiocy that surrounds the Western world, and Eastern and Middle for that matter, never ceases to astound me. For god's sakes [and I use this term rather arbitrarily because I don't believe in "God" at least not as [he] translates onto paper] isn't it about time we stop thinking with our pathetically undeveloped noggins and start understanding what's really going on?
In this two thousand and eighth year of history [according to the bible, Jesus, and of course God] we still stutter and trip over ourselves trying to defend things we don't understand. Want specifics? How about the ridiculous divide that exists between pro Palestine and pro Israel. How about the people that come out with absurdities supporting or trashing one side or the other.. people that read two cents on a wall post and decided it's time to give theirs without bothering to find out what they are arguing about?
The older I get [again, using term lightly because I'm not quite archaic] the more I realise that people really are stupid. Ignorant. Combative yet uneducated. And even worse than all of that, unwilling to become educated.
So here is where I blame somebody. Here is where I tell you that the government has fucked us all and we'd better get ready for Armageddon, though not the kind you hear about in Aerosmith songs, except I'm not going to. Because the truth of it all is that we are all each and individually responsible for our ignorance. There isn't another you can blame than yourself for refusing, avoiding and wandering past information. It's out there surrounding us, begging to be caught, yet nobody seems to be able to get a story straight. Obviously some people are a little bit more implicatable than others.. but at the end of it all, we are indefinitely responsible for ourselves, no matter the cards we are dealt in the beginning.
I don't really know what to say, because I am exhausted by trying. I am done trying to educate and inform and have intelligible arguments with people who refuse to learn. I'm not claiming to be perfect. Far from it. But in my favour I don't fight fights that I don't understand. I don't scream that you're wrong, without making damn sure that I know who is right. And I don't even forget to understand the other side, because there always is one, and there always will be.
In this two thousand and eighth year of history [according to the bible, Jesus, and of course God] we still stutter and trip over ourselves trying to defend things we don't understand. Want specifics? How about the ridiculous divide that exists between pro Palestine and pro Israel. How about the people that come out with absurdities supporting or trashing one side or the other.. people that read two cents on a wall post and decided it's time to give theirs without bothering to find out what they are arguing about?
The older I get [again, using term lightly because I'm not quite archaic] the more I realise that people really are stupid. Ignorant. Combative yet uneducated. And even worse than all of that, unwilling to become educated.
So here is where I blame somebody. Here is where I tell you that the government has fucked us all and we'd better get ready for Armageddon, though not the kind you hear about in Aerosmith songs, except I'm not going to. Because the truth of it all is that we are all each and individually responsible for our ignorance. There isn't another you can blame than yourself for refusing, avoiding and wandering past information. It's out there surrounding us, begging to be caught, yet nobody seems to be able to get a story straight. Obviously some people are a little bit more implicatable than others.. but at the end of it all, we are indefinitely responsible for ourselves, no matter the cards we are dealt in the beginning.
I don't really know what to say, because I am exhausted by trying. I am done trying to educate and inform and have intelligible arguments with people who refuse to learn. I'm not claiming to be perfect. Far from it. But in my favour I don't fight fights that I don't understand. I don't scream that you're wrong, without making damn sure that I know who is right. And I don't even forget to understand the other side, because there always is one, and there always will be.
26.10.08
What does it all mean? It made her wonder. And she sat down with a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of water.
Not whiskey anymore.
The thoughts she pondered while she was awake were the same thoughts that haunted her while she slept. Lucid nightmares crafted to look nothing like the things they might represent.
Interpretations.
She paused to light another cigarette and stared at the empty world below her. The vacuous space she'd so easily filled with late night trips to lala land. A place she wouldn't describe now, even to her deepest fears.
Where had she been all those years? Between the days sat reading in a dimly lit hallway while twelve year old toes two-stepped their way around her cocoon, and the nights she'd spent howling at the moon. Caught in a world that meant nothing to her and the people she'd surrounded herself with--until now.
Where was she now? Suspended in a limbo, between a place that had seemed so full while she was filling it yet so empty in retrospect, and a place that held all the possibilities in the world. Literally. If she know what they all were.
Which direction could this world take her if only she would let it?
Ash fell from the cigarette she'd hardly smoked. It burned a hole in the corner of her notebook. 200 pages, half of them written on, but how many held real meaning?
Answers. The solution to every problem, to every inkling of a question is an answer. Or is it?
Is an answer all we really need, she wondered, to be satisfied? Does an answer quell our drive, our thirst for the recognition of a problem? Or is an answer empty as well? Because with every answer comes an end. If answers to everything came about, then wouldn't we--everything--be at an end?
The existentialist tripper, they called her, when she wasn't fighting for air. In the days she let herself drift, covering landscapes in a footprint and welding the trees to let herself pass. The earth was her canvas but she didn't paint pretty pictures. She stamped seals on lakes and turned mountains upside down. Somebody else had made this, she didn't need to do that now.
The places her dreams could take her...she often wondered if they were real.
How powerful is the mind, she needed to know, does it make or is it sown?
The cigarette went out as it burnt her fingertips. The last light of day turned to ash. The night could take over, leave day for the memory like so many other things that have come to pass. A distant taste of a breeze that brought life and vitality to the things that it nourished, and yet was so overlooked that until it disappeared nobody knew it was there.
She wasn't any closer. Hours stretched before her like waterless weeks on the Saharan plateau. No clues crept toward her, nothing yelled out its aid. She was truly alone in a world that held no mercy.
Not even for the dead.
And yet she kept searching, digging, delving for clues to the age old question that had plagued so many before. She didn't think to ask why none of them had ever figured it out. This was her battle. The journey she'd been given.
All those nights suspended between delirium and poetry, aided by whiskey and cocaine in a vile. Sometimes she'd thought she'd found the answer four days into an existentialist's nightmare. Only to wake up and see daylight, hear birds chirping, saluting a new day; only to wonder anew--
What does it all mean?
Not whiskey anymore.
The thoughts she pondered while she was awake were the same thoughts that haunted her while she slept. Lucid nightmares crafted to look nothing like the things they might represent.
Interpretations.
She paused to light another cigarette and stared at the empty world below her. The vacuous space she'd so easily filled with late night trips to lala land. A place she wouldn't describe now, even to her deepest fears.
Where had she been all those years? Between the days sat reading in a dimly lit hallway while twelve year old toes two-stepped their way around her cocoon, and the nights she'd spent howling at the moon. Caught in a world that meant nothing to her and the people she'd surrounded herself with--until now.
Where was she now? Suspended in a limbo, between a place that had seemed so full while she was filling it yet so empty in retrospect, and a place that held all the possibilities in the world. Literally. If she know what they all were.
Which direction could this world take her if only she would let it?
Ash fell from the cigarette she'd hardly smoked. It burned a hole in the corner of her notebook. 200 pages, half of them written on, but how many held real meaning?
Answers. The solution to every problem, to every inkling of a question is an answer. Or is it?
Is an answer all we really need, she wondered, to be satisfied? Does an answer quell our drive, our thirst for the recognition of a problem? Or is an answer empty as well? Because with every answer comes an end. If answers to everything came about, then wouldn't we--everything--be at an end?
The existentialist tripper, they called her, when she wasn't fighting for air. In the days she let herself drift, covering landscapes in a footprint and welding the trees to let herself pass. The earth was her canvas but she didn't paint pretty pictures. She stamped seals on lakes and turned mountains upside down. Somebody else had made this, she didn't need to do that now.
The places her dreams could take her...she often wondered if they were real.
How powerful is the mind, she needed to know, does it make or is it sown?
The cigarette went out as it burnt her fingertips. The last light of day turned to ash. The night could take over, leave day for the memory like so many other things that have come to pass. A distant taste of a breeze that brought life and vitality to the things that it nourished, and yet was so overlooked that until it disappeared nobody knew it was there.
She wasn't any closer. Hours stretched before her like waterless weeks on the Saharan plateau. No clues crept toward her, nothing yelled out its aid. She was truly alone in a world that held no mercy.
Not even for the dead.
And yet she kept searching, digging, delving for clues to the age old question that had plagued so many before. She didn't think to ask why none of them had ever figured it out. This was her battle. The journey she'd been given.
All those nights suspended between delirium and poetry, aided by whiskey and cocaine in a vile. Sometimes she'd thought she'd found the answer four days into an existentialist's nightmare. Only to wake up and see daylight, hear birds chirping, saluting a new day; only to wonder anew--
What does it all mean?
14.10.08
This twist of your mind leaves me.. far behind beneath the... light of some day that isn't to-day, or even yester-day, but some time long gone by when we had. Peace of mind.
Peace of mind.
That feeling behind your eyes that sits with-out compromise. And waits. For you to decide the rest, of your lives... without a sigh or a trace of goodbye. You stand and say your lines and leave the rest of us..
Behind.
Leave the, rest of us. Behind.
Now go do something productive. X.
Peace of mind.
That feeling behind your eyes that sits with-out compromise. And waits. For you to decide the rest, of your lives... without a sigh or a trace of goodbye. You stand and say your lines and leave the rest of us..
Behind.
Leave the, rest of us. Behind.
Now go do something productive. X.
30.9.08
I cross one knee above the other, perching on a cloud. I glance down to see your feet break waves that have no colour. You stare up at me. Watching. Until the last ripple takes your mouth. Nose. Eyes. Until you disappear beneath the windswept seascape. I don't laugh anymore.
Did you ever ?
My eyes peel layers from the surface, and I watch you dwindle slowly downwards. Still staring up at me. No questions in your eyes anymore. you know why you are here.
you remember why the mountains weren't yours to climb.
You pushed another off of them.
Why the storm wasn't yours to weather.
You drowned another to save yourself.
You left your soul tied to the anchor shaft when you pulled yourself back--
to life.
It's your soul now, that pleads for your return. Calling you ever downwards. Pulling your toes back to where it strangles in the blue-black dark. You kick.
Suddenly.
You realise, just where you might be going. This darkness has a face now. Many faces. You know the others that are to come.
Each one glows pale. Effervescent in the blackness. Each face, has a story to tell. To which only you know the ending.
Each face wants a piece of your soul. A piece of your life, to take back what should have been theirs. What would have been theirs, had you never come along.
Regret seeps into your eyes as you realise the consequences of the little things, so many years ago. But never remorse. Sadness enters my heart as I understand that you will never be free. Not every story has a happy ending. Not even mine.
But I, the storyteller, know only the story that I see in front of me.
I tell the tales as they happen before my own eyes. And in that I have no power, but the power to weave the fable as a quilt that is meant to be undone.
I leave my knots a little looser. I hold my breath too long. And I hope that one day you will exist to untie the knots you have tightened all these years. To unravel the thick threads of a destiny that no one would ever wish upon another.
Did you ever ?
My eyes peel layers from the surface, and I watch you dwindle slowly downwards. Still staring up at me. No questions in your eyes anymore. you know why you are here.
you remember why the mountains weren't yours to climb.
You pushed another off of them.
Why the storm wasn't yours to weather.
You drowned another to save yourself.
You left your soul tied to the anchor shaft when you pulled yourself back--
to life.
It's your soul now, that pleads for your return. Calling you ever downwards. Pulling your toes back to where it strangles in the blue-black dark. You kick.
Suddenly.
You realise, just where you might be going. This darkness has a face now. Many faces. You know the others that are to come.
Each one glows pale. Effervescent in the blackness. Each face, has a story to tell. To which only you know the ending.
Each face wants a piece of your soul. A piece of your life, to take back what should have been theirs. What would have been theirs, had you never come along.
Regret seeps into your eyes as you realise the consequences of the little things, so many years ago. But never remorse. Sadness enters my heart as I understand that you will never be free. Not every story has a happy ending. Not even mine.
But I, the storyteller, know only the story that I see in front of me.
I tell the tales as they happen before my own eyes. And in that I have no power, but the power to weave the fable as a quilt that is meant to be undone.
I leave my knots a little looser. I hold my breath too long. And I hope that one day you will exist to untie the knots you have tightened all these years. To unravel the thick threads of a destiny that no one would ever wish upon another.
23.9.08
Storyteller: I fade into the shadows as they consume your ship skyward. This world isn't yours anymore. My world waits for me now.
The faults you played so hard, fell flat below the ears of the ones you never let listen. Their cries might echo in your dreams, but you'll never hear the words they say. It's your hell to suffer, the fate you chose. To leave behind the things you never loved. Because it's easier now, for them, to love at last. Without you. Isn't hell, to be forgotten ? To be lost beyond all that existed before you. That will exist after.
It isn't me who decides. These things that will happen. You sowed your life many years before today. You thought for so long, these things you did would never take their place. But here they are and now I leave you half way between sky and sea. Where I go up to watch this story, you sink to the depths of a world you never really knew.
The faults you played so hard, fell flat below the ears of the ones you never let listen. Their cries might echo in your dreams, but you'll never hear the words they say. It's your hell to suffer, the fate you chose. To leave behind the things you never loved. Because it's easier now, for them, to love at last. Without you. Isn't hell, to be forgotten ? To be lost beyond all that existed before you. That will exist after.
It isn't me who decides. These things that will happen. You sowed your life many years before today. You thought for so long, these things you did would never take their place. But here they are and now I leave you half way between sky and sea. Where I go up to watch this story, you sink to the depths of a world you never really knew.
19.9.08
So now which way does the puzzle play. Which way does the dial turn and send me sailing off...in new directions. No twist of your imagination. No twist of mine. Sail straight in guidelines.. don't leave the parameters. You can never get back in.
Go back ? You might ask. And why would I want to do that ? You may not. But those are doors you can't afford to close. And I. Am the story teller. So sit back because you still can and listen to my words. they'll dog you down the valley floor as you sail your ship past swaying seas, but never on them. Non. Watch those mountains float past your window and be thankful they aren't yours to climb. Anymore.
Were they once ? You want to ask, but that is not mine to tell you. It is not yours to know, if you don't already.
New clouds sprinkle the sky with their thoughts. One at a time, popping, they flicker like candles in the wind. But they never go out. Instead they build, with each gust of a breeze they grow stronger and more omniscient until you think they might pop on your ship. But they wait. Because this is not your weather to endure, better things will come to you and like the mountains they are not yours.
There is no sun on your horizon. Bleak shadows encroach on your ship. But fear doesn't strike you because there isn't anything to fear. You believe, like the others, that this too isn't your battle to wage.
You are wrong.
You sit with a smile, one leg bent, your knee to the sky. your foot falling on deaf ground. No one is here to whisper your name, to pull you back from the depths of hell that so certainly you will face. No one is here because you left them all behind. You stepped away from the only ones who loved you and now you will suffer this alone. No mountain was yours to climb, no storm yours to endure, because what comes to you now is far worse than any nightmare you might face in your dreams. But this is no dream and I am just the storyteller. This is where we part.
This, is where I bid you farewell.
Go back ? You might ask. And why would I want to do that ? You may not. But those are doors you can't afford to close. And I. Am the story teller. So sit back because you still can and listen to my words. they'll dog you down the valley floor as you sail your ship past swaying seas, but never on them. Non. Watch those mountains float past your window and be thankful they aren't yours to climb. Anymore.
Were they once ? You want to ask, but that is not mine to tell you. It is not yours to know, if you don't already.
New clouds sprinkle the sky with their thoughts. One at a time, popping, they flicker like candles in the wind. But they never go out. Instead they build, with each gust of a breeze they grow stronger and more omniscient until you think they might pop on your ship. But they wait. Because this is not your weather to endure, better things will come to you and like the mountains they are not yours.
There is no sun on your horizon. Bleak shadows encroach on your ship. But fear doesn't strike you because there isn't anything to fear. You believe, like the others, that this too isn't your battle to wage.
You are wrong.
You sit with a smile, one leg bent, your knee to the sky. your foot falling on deaf ground. No one is here to whisper your name, to pull you back from the depths of hell that so certainly you will face. No one is here because you left them all behind. You stepped away from the only ones who loved you and now you will suffer this alone. No mountain was yours to climb, no storm yours to endure, because what comes to you now is far worse than any nightmare you might face in your dreams. But this is no dream and I am just the storyteller. This is where we part.
This, is where I bid you farewell.
22.7.08
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't mean this in a self destructive type of way. I mean this in the most realistic of senses, and I'm asking--What the fuck is wrong with me? Because something is, and I am over it. I don't want to be this anymore. I have had enough. I want to find out what is wrong so I can get rid of it. I want to destroy the part of me that is set out to destroy my entire being.
Because this is what it feels like. When I procrastinate. When I don't work hard enough and I fuck up each chance that comes to me. When I lie in bed until noon. When I watch television. When I act like a sloth and a glutton and gnaw away at the part of me (I believe still remains) that is fundamentally good.
When I wait until the last minute to apply to the school that I have dreamed of going to for three years. To the program that I want to be in more than anything. When I am so shocked at being accepted--because, I'll be honest, I don't deserve this. Somebody else does--that I party myself into a coma for three months instead of applying for entrance bursaries and scholarships and student loans and working to make sure that I can GO.
One thing gets accomplished, so I inadvertently throw another hurdle into the mix, just to make it that much more complicated.
Why am I so terrified of success? What is it about good things happening in my life that makes me want to scream and give up and RUN away? Is there anybody else in this world that is so self deprecating? I don't know that there is. And everybody else hates this too. It isn't just me, it is everyone around me that I affect and I drive away--for some fear of just living. Of just breathing. Of just accomplishing goals and actually doing something positive with my life.
Why do I feel less deserving than every other person on this planet? And why wouldn't I be less deserving than every other person? What the hell have I done to make this world a better place? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Who the fuck cares about this? About me? Nobody!
Because who really cares about anybody else? Every one's main priority is themselves. That is why we are all fucked. That is why we all die in the end--it's like the ultimate punishment for our greed as human beings. Fatality. This knowledge, throughout our entire lives, that no matter what we do, no matter whose asses we kiss, we are all going to die.
This death sentence hangs above our heads, day and night and we fight so hard to forget about it. To carve out our own niche in a world that no matter how hard we try to change it, will undoubtedly forget about us.
We overachieve (not I), we drink too much, we snort uppers and downers and smoke things that were never meant to be smoked. We eat too much, we eat too little. We exercise to condition our bodies...we employ every method known to man to avoid this unbearable realization, that no matter who we are, we are all going to die. We make films and paintings, take photos, send postcards and write down every fucked up emotion and feeling we ever had, in this redundant effort not to be left behind. Not to be just another person.
It's a sad irony that we cannot escape. The harder we try, the more disappointed we will be in the end. The harder we will fall.
So is it any surprise, then, that I don't fucking try? That I give myself no credit for these bullshit achievements that really, truly, mean NOTHING.
All these wonderful things people do. All these fabulous things I could be doing and should be doing in order to make my life better...they are all arbitrary. They are all fucking pointless. Because no matter what; I too, like billions before me, will die and I too,
will be forgotten.
I don't mean this in a self destructive type of way. I mean this in the most realistic of senses, and I'm asking--What the fuck is wrong with me? Because something is, and I am over it. I don't want to be this anymore. I have had enough. I want to find out what is wrong so I can get rid of it. I want to destroy the part of me that is set out to destroy my entire being.
Because this is what it feels like. When I procrastinate. When I don't work hard enough and I fuck up each chance that comes to me. When I lie in bed until noon. When I watch television. When I act like a sloth and a glutton and gnaw away at the part of me (I believe still remains) that is fundamentally good.
When I wait until the last minute to apply to the school that I have dreamed of going to for three years. To the program that I want to be in more than anything. When I am so shocked at being accepted--because, I'll be honest, I don't deserve this. Somebody else does--that I party myself into a coma for three months instead of applying for entrance bursaries and scholarships and student loans and working to make sure that I can GO.
One thing gets accomplished, so I inadvertently throw another hurdle into the mix, just to make it that much more complicated.
Why am I so terrified of success? What is it about good things happening in my life that makes me want to scream and give up and RUN away? Is there anybody else in this world that is so self deprecating? I don't know that there is. And everybody else hates this too. It isn't just me, it is everyone around me that I affect and I drive away--for some fear of just living. Of just breathing. Of just accomplishing goals and actually doing something positive with my life.
Why do I feel less deserving than every other person on this planet? And why wouldn't I be less deserving than every other person? What the hell have I done to make this world a better place? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Who the fuck cares about this? About me? Nobody!
Because who really cares about anybody else? Every one's main priority is themselves. That is why we are all fucked. That is why we all die in the end--it's like the ultimate punishment for our greed as human beings. Fatality. This knowledge, throughout our entire lives, that no matter what we do, no matter whose asses we kiss, we are all going to die.
This death sentence hangs above our heads, day and night and we fight so hard to forget about it. To carve out our own niche in a world that no matter how hard we try to change it, will undoubtedly forget about us.
We overachieve (not I), we drink too much, we snort uppers and downers and smoke things that were never meant to be smoked. We eat too much, we eat too little. We exercise to condition our bodies...we employ every method known to man to avoid this unbearable realization, that no matter who we are, we are all going to die. We make films and paintings, take photos, send postcards and write down every fucked up emotion and feeling we ever had, in this redundant effort not to be left behind. Not to be just another person.
It's a sad irony that we cannot escape. The harder we try, the more disappointed we will be in the end. The harder we will fall.
So is it any surprise, then, that I don't fucking try? That I give myself no credit for these bullshit achievements that really, truly, mean NOTHING.
All these wonderful things people do. All these fabulous things I could be doing and should be doing in order to make my life better...they are all arbitrary. They are all fucking pointless. Because no matter what; I too, like billions before me, will die and I too,
will be forgotten.
6.7.08
What do you call this--crazy dancer.
What do you call this twist in the wind.
Who are you, snide turn-falls.
Who are you--
this moment, this place in the sands.
Tie me--without a rope.
Haul me--back from the dead.
Bind me--with words.
Your afflictions burn like polka-dots painted--
under this umbrella of stars.
What's this? You ask without wanting--
to know.
Nothing--
I tell you without daring--
to answer.
We dance through verses sidestepping to avoid collision.
Two thousand worlds apart.
Sitting beside each other--
on the floor.
Nobody knows what this means. I don't think. Nobody cares to find out. Would you? Don't strain yourself--honey. It will all be fine in the morning--she said. But now I want to know:
who is she?
Words twist like carnivorous ribbons fighting their way through the lives we design. Words cut through our frontiers--facades, if you prefer. They destroy our own notions of ourselves. In lieu of the truth. And then one must ask: but what is truth? Where does truth begin and so end the fable? Who does lie? Who does know the difference?
I'll tell you what I know, and what I know, I know to be right. That makes it the truth--
to me.
I'll tell you that nobody tells the truth, as it is. And nobody lies, if they might get caught. We all tame our words to do our own bidding and tell others the things that we wish them to know. And tell others not of the things we wish to keep to ourselves. Such is human nature. And such will human nature continue to be until the end of time. Or beyond.
Everybody. Yes everybody, does it. And everybody, yes everybody, knows it. And nobody, not anybody, will admit to it. Because an accusation is so final and devastating that if we admit to its truth, then we have nothing left to protect ourselves from the sanctimonious hypocrisy that envelops the pathway of life.
P.S--STOP FUCKING UP MY PLANET!
What do you call this twist in the wind.
Who are you, snide turn-falls.
Who are you--
this moment, this place in the sands.
Tie me--without a rope.
Haul me--back from the dead.
Bind me--with words.
Your afflictions burn like polka-dots painted--
under this umbrella of stars.
What's this? You ask without wanting--
to know.
Nothing--
I tell you without daring--
to answer.
We dance through verses sidestepping to avoid collision.
Two thousand worlds apart.
Sitting beside each other--
on the floor.
Nobody knows what this means. I don't think. Nobody cares to find out. Would you? Don't strain yourself--honey. It will all be fine in the morning--she said. But now I want to know:
who is she?
Words twist like carnivorous ribbons fighting their way through the lives we design. Words cut through our frontiers--facades, if you prefer. They destroy our own notions of ourselves. In lieu of the truth. And then one must ask: but what is truth? Where does truth begin and so end the fable? Who does lie? Who does know the difference?
I'll tell you what I know, and what I know, I know to be right. That makes it the truth--
to me.
I'll tell you that nobody tells the truth, as it is. And nobody lies, if they might get caught. We all tame our words to do our own bidding and tell others the things that we wish them to know. And tell others not of the things we wish to keep to ourselves. Such is human nature. And such will human nature continue to be until the end of time. Or beyond.
Everybody. Yes everybody, does it. And everybody, yes everybody, knows it. And nobody, not anybody, will admit to it. Because an accusation is so final and devastating that if we admit to its truth, then we have nothing left to protect ourselves from the sanctimonious hypocrisy that envelops the pathway of life.
P.S--STOP FUCKING UP MY PLANET!
23.6.08
Could it ever make sense to just cut your ties and move on? Would you lose the people that you've been trying to keep, or could everybody just move on with you?
I'm cleansing my life.
But who does that mean I should keep, and who should I throw away? And are the people I am throwing away worth tossing, or should I give them another chance to continue the journey and move forward? And really, what is forward? If we are constantly moving ahead and forging onward, then isn't every friendship one that we should be trying to move on from? Shouldn't everybody get left behind? What if I want to leave everyone I know, and try something new? Is that discriminatory, or sane? Who decides what is fair and what isn't?
I've done you. I could say. I've seen what you have to offer.
But is that fair? If somebody said that to me, would I accept it? Or would I protest, because you never feel as if anyone has seen all that you've got to offer. If I cut you loose, who am I to judge? Who am I to say that you have given all that you have to give? Who am I to ask these questions that you can't even ask yourself?
Who are you to question me? Who are you to wonder whether my judgement has been misplaced. If you haven't risen to the occasion, then are you any better than the rest? I ask you these questions; you refuse to answer. And so, in that refusal, I dredge my answers and learn the things I never wanted to learn. You aren't ready to move forward with me. I am not ready to take you. Exist in your existence. I'll exist in mine. We'll see each other another day, and maybe then, we will be ready to exist together as we do so separately in these times.
The world evolves in curious ways. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? I don't know up from down, let alone right from wrong. Nobody is in a place to tell me. I am not in a place to listen. Watch me grow and watch me learn and watch me watch you with every twist and tumble and move...Take care, friend.
I'll see you another day.
I'm cleansing my life.
But who does that mean I should keep, and who should I throw away? And are the people I am throwing away worth tossing, or should I give them another chance to continue the journey and move forward? And really, what is forward? If we are constantly moving ahead and forging onward, then isn't every friendship one that we should be trying to move on from? Shouldn't everybody get left behind? What if I want to leave everyone I know, and try something new? Is that discriminatory, or sane? Who decides what is fair and what isn't?
I've done you. I could say. I've seen what you have to offer.
But is that fair? If somebody said that to me, would I accept it? Or would I protest, because you never feel as if anyone has seen all that you've got to offer. If I cut you loose, who am I to judge? Who am I to say that you have given all that you have to give? Who am I to ask these questions that you can't even ask yourself?
Who are you to question me? Who are you to wonder whether my judgement has been misplaced. If you haven't risen to the occasion, then are you any better than the rest? I ask you these questions; you refuse to answer. And so, in that refusal, I dredge my answers and learn the things I never wanted to learn. You aren't ready to move forward with me. I am not ready to take you. Exist in your existence. I'll exist in mine. We'll see each other another day, and maybe then, we will be ready to exist together as we do so separately in these times.
The world evolves in curious ways. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? I don't know up from down, let alone right from wrong. Nobody is in a place to tell me. I am not in a place to listen. Watch me grow and watch me learn and watch me watch you with every twist and tumble and move...Take care, friend.
I'll see you another day.
17.5.08
In an effort to write profoundly, she closed her eyes and dove headfirst into the swashbuckling glamour dissolving her toes. She never thought of coming up for air as whirlpools sucked her deeper into empty chasms. Which turned out not to be so empty, but full of dancing fireflies. They beckoned to her and she followed. They revealed the mystères of her mind, unfolding each moment in time, they played out to her--the things she should know. Does know. Will know. Each unveiled and moved her forward until at last the fireflies went out and she was alone.
Grasping there in the dark for a light switch, all that met her fingers were icicles of stone. Sharper than swords they cut the air into jagged teeth of open space, she would have been frightened, had she been given the choice....
Grasping there in the dark for a light switch, all that met her fingers were icicles of stone. Sharper than swords they cut the air into jagged teeth of open space, she would have been frightened, had she been given the choice....
28.4.08
New York City. The city that never sleeps. And doesn't that ring true at 4am, curled in a fetal position under two layers of blankets, one hand over each ear and eyes squeezed tightly shut while car alarms blare through the night. Easily forgiven with the discovery of a red-eye in the morning. Red-eye: a "coffee" that consists of a shot of espresso, filled to the top with coffee. Unbelievably strong, potent, and necessary after a night of little sleep; it's a rough transition from the Sooke hills in B.C, where the only night time sound might be a dog barking down the street. At least dogs tire of barking. Car alarms, however, have a surprisingly long battery life.
Enough of that though.
New York! What a crazy town this is. Since getting over my fear of looking like a tourist, I've been taking pictures non-stop! There are so many layers to this city, two blocks in any direction takes you to an entirely new facet of Manhattan life. From where my mum has her little apartment in Greenwich Village, it's an easy walk to SoHo, NoHo (ha ha ha), East Village, West Village, Union Square, Avenue of the Americas....it goes on. The first day here we hopped on the subway down to Pier 17 which is right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, and also not far from the site of the World Trade Centre. I have to say, it was bizarre visiting St. Paul's Cathedral, which is the church very near the World Trade Centre, where there was a large civilian effort to aid the 9/11 aftermath. It should be a memorial area with shrines and dedications and reminders of the day, however when we went it was packed wall-to-wall with tourists and people taking flash photography. There is no easier way to ruin the sanctity of such a place than to pack it with people who don't understand the significance of the peace it represents.
Yesterday we headed down to SoHo to Mulberry street where there is an up-and-coming designers market on Saturdays and Sundays. There was a mix of vintage and new, edgy and alternative clothing and accessories. I restricted myself to a bracelet and a necklace but could have bought a lot more. From SoHo we jumped on the subway to Grand Central Station to meet Tommy, Francoise, Ines and Scott (our friends from Paris who happened to be in NYC for the long weekend) at the Oyster bar. The Oyster Bar, which is inexplicably closed on Sundays...so, like any writer would, my mum suggested we try the Algonquin Hotel for lunch--a famous hotel where many writers and poets, like John Steinbeck, have spent hours funneling creative energy into bottles of scotch. Unfortunately the Algonquin seemed a little too posh for our lively company so we decided instead to find mum's "Russian"place. Six blocks turned into ten blocks, turned into sixteen blocks...and two and a half miles later, after circling four blocks two times, we arrived at Uncle Vanya's. Needless to say, Uncle Vanya's looked as dilapidated from the outside as any novel by Chekhov might imply. Inside was very small, though not quite cosy, and completely empty. They actually brew their own vodka there, which we didn't try because mum insisted it is far too lethal for daytime. They had five flavours though--cranberry, lemon, chili pepper, garlic and horseradish...another time. The food was actually quite good and we came to the conclusion that the place is probably owned by some branch of the mafia because of their lack of concern over whether or not they have customers.
My foot is now a unique blend of purple, black and blue, very puffy and very inflexible. I went for a swim this morning which didn't help much...but in the persistence of new-found optimism, I am positive that it is getting better.
One last question before I venture out into the rainy day. Why is there a condom dispenser in the toilets in the duty-free zone of Victoria airport? Is this to encourage safe sex while joining the mile-high club?
Answers please.
Enough of that though.
New York! What a crazy town this is. Since getting over my fear of looking like a tourist, I've been taking pictures non-stop! There are so many layers to this city, two blocks in any direction takes you to an entirely new facet of Manhattan life. From where my mum has her little apartment in Greenwich Village, it's an easy walk to SoHo, NoHo (ha ha ha), East Village, West Village, Union Square, Avenue of the Americas....it goes on. The first day here we hopped on the subway down to Pier 17 which is right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, and also not far from the site of the World Trade Centre. I have to say, it was bizarre visiting St. Paul's Cathedral, which is the church very near the World Trade Centre, where there was a large civilian effort to aid the 9/11 aftermath. It should be a memorial area with shrines and dedications and reminders of the day, however when we went it was packed wall-to-wall with tourists and people taking flash photography. There is no easier way to ruin the sanctity of such a place than to pack it with people who don't understand the significance of the peace it represents.
Yesterday we headed down to SoHo to Mulberry street where there is an up-and-coming designers market on Saturdays and Sundays. There was a mix of vintage and new, edgy and alternative clothing and accessories. I restricted myself to a bracelet and a necklace but could have bought a lot more. From SoHo we jumped on the subway to Grand Central Station to meet Tommy, Francoise, Ines and Scott (our friends from Paris who happened to be in NYC for the long weekend) at the Oyster bar. The Oyster Bar, which is inexplicably closed on Sundays...so, like any writer would, my mum suggested we try the Algonquin Hotel for lunch--a famous hotel where many writers and poets, like John Steinbeck, have spent hours funneling creative energy into bottles of scotch. Unfortunately the Algonquin seemed a little too posh for our lively company so we decided instead to find mum's "Russian"place. Six blocks turned into ten blocks, turned into sixteen blocks...and two and a half miles later, after circling four blocks two times, we arrived at Uncle Vanya's. Needless to say, Uncle Vanya's looked as dilapidated from the outside as any novel by Chekhov might imply. Inside was very small, though not quite cosy, and completely empty. They actually brew their own vodka there, which we didn't try because mum insisted it is far too lethal for daytime. They had five flavours though--cranberry, lemon, chili pepper, garlic and horseradish...another time. The food was actually quite good and we came to the conclusion that the place is probably owned by some branch of the mafia because of their lack of concern over whether or not they have customers.
My foot is now a unique blend of purple, black and blue, very puffy and very inflexible. I went for a swim this morning which didn't help much...but in the persistence of new-found optimism, I am positive that it is getting better.
One last question before I venture out into the rainy day. Why is there a condom dispenser in the toilets in the duty-free zone of Victoria airport? Is this to encourage safe sex while joining the mile-high club?
Answers please.
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