Teddy Bear Picnic

AmaZING

A whole New Level

new idea

existentialism: compressed

i love you

but i've chosen disco.

Happiness is..

*today* i discovered CHARLIE WINSTON




...a warm gun.

dream.

i dreamed i dreamed of a dream that nobody can dream of but me...

some sort

of

ethereal--
ephemeral

discontinuity of

despair.

some where i took a photo

and laid it in your hands.

you never looked down
to see my imprint
on

you.

recycled words/just a little different
this
time.

recycled ideas,
from my washing machine.

the spin cycle molds everything in
to
one glob--

and

each time i pry it apart

i remember another idea
i haven't written down
in a while.

these surface like fruit flies

on

the funniest of days.

Walking up St. Laurent...

"Let's play eye spy!"
"...ookaaay.."
"I spy with my little eye....a pimp!"
"...."
"..."
"Did you just start a game of eye spy to point out that guy dressed like a pimp?"
"Wasn't that fun?!"

HI :)

Perspective.

(from a prank exhibit at the Bristol zoo, posted outside the glass-cased cafeteria.)

And...

if you want to know what the neo-nazis are up to, just go here.


(it must suck to have the entire world know your "secrets". dumb blonds.)

AmaZING

Lego's tribute to 8-bit video games. Wasn't really in to either, buuuut this is pretty spectacular.




(i have no idea how to post a video. the picture is to get you excited. aaand it's a link.)

polaroids.

my room mate left his polaroid camera on a table in the "arts/crafts/computer/living" room about a month ago. it was a big box of amazing. i picked it up and took a couple of artsy polaroids to make sure that it worked...including one of myself.
then my other room mate came in and i hid the pictures. he told me that room mate (1) couldn't buy film anymore and only had a few slides left.....ohhh...ooops.
what a waste. i can't even show anyone my awesome artsy pictures because i'll get caught. they're on my wall though. placed very carefully.

Croatian Rulz

This rules.
The real *gem* comes around 1:25...but maybe that is because i am biased.

This entire video is really just magnificent as a whole. And maybe that is because I have no idea what the common thread is between chubby kids in swimming pools, weird beaches, Croatian biker gangs, mirages, paintball (or real??) guns and Global Agents for Change--ie: my lady love, Gala Milne!
But I'll let you decide for yourself. Everyone seems really happy to be in Croatia, so that's a bonus.

http://dnevnik.hr/bin/tv/?media_id=60242242

(Ignore the awkward 10 second commercial. K, thanks.)

Today is

Today. I can only pretend--
I can only make-believe that you are not. That I, am not. That there is not--us, or you, or me--that we will never, really. Be.
You come around, every now and then. And I think it's kind of all. Right. Right now.
And you come around every other time, and you spin these syllables like papier mache on a pedestal--of titanium daisies. But what the fuck is that. Even.
But you. You don't unravel like the rest. Paint pretty pictures with your silhouette on a cloud that I cut from cardboard two nights ago, under that moon.
That moon. You (my mother didn't like this word/I think i'm over it as well. Suggestions welcome).

(My) Words

haven't been particularly prolific lately. Probably because July was about the worst month/ever. I'm still recovering...but so far, I'm convinced that August is going to rule. Mostly because it isn't July. But also because the sun has been shining. Though the birds chirped all through July/don't catch me on cliches..
..and because I got a new bicycle, with curly handlebars/and an amazing *gem*
from the sally ann. Because we are getting a new roommate who can't possibly be worse than the last (he ate a lot of Hawco's almonds without asking. Which made Hawco throw hissy fits and grow increasingly paranoid about the whereabouts of his food/alcohol/cigarettes[he doesn't smoke, though])...and because I made a to-do list that might actually get done.
I got into the creative writing (minor) and am taking poetry and fiction this year/maybe that's why I haven't been writing. I'm stashing the goods.
Last time I wrote, someone (anonymous) commented with a youtube link to 57 (or something) "Ohms"...nice gesture. I sat through six or seven then put on Pink Floyd and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I keep meaning to go back and listen to the rest. Little repetitive though.
...but this kind of doubles as my journal--and will continue to do so...so as much as I may need to loosen up--this is where I don't actually have to.
And if you don't like it, then just look at the owl (I'm trying to find him a cat eye to replace the creepy black one)...

These are the days when nothing is known. All is uncertain, and yet...and yet there are still answers to be found--
I know where they are; I can't reach them.
I've never been lonelier, than the days when I am submerged in this crowd--
of writhing bodies, all rotting in their own descent.
I've never felt more lost, than the days when my place is marked on a map;
when I am most traceable, I am least accessible.
But I keep turning around, and around...I don't move forward, unsteady perhaps, but forward--
no--
I spin. Not like a child in a field full of daisies, but frantic and confused...and displaced--
because this is what I am--
without belonging:
neither there, anymore, nor here--yet.

You can't pin me down.

But nobody can. I am unfathomable--infallible. Ephemeral. Ethereal, perhaps...and incongruous.

------

Fuck. I mean really. Fuck. Fuck you in all your glorified passivity; your pretense and apathy. You are the world, and I am the one that falls beneath your footsteps. You are each heel to my neck, pushing me further to the mud. I am this land that once made to serve you--and now run as I may, I cannot escape you. You have destroyed me, and so I am bound to you more than any other. You kill me; you cannot get rid of me, until you perish also.
This is the story they told, so many years ago. It is the story we overlooked when we thought we might outlast (it). It is the story we're to repeat as we turn soil into ashes and back again for eternity.

------

And some days I am so angry. At me..the world...at everyone and everything. I don't pray/ god is a fallacy. Spare me your wisdom, I'd rather decay in ignorance/ right? Well, they tell me, somebody's got to know it all.

Let me know when you find them. They've got the weight of it (sic:"cliche" the world) on their shoulders; they'll be a hunchback to the floor/ cynical and bent on exemption--from it all.

Dreary days forge a gloomy mind...the sun doesn't shine so bright, inside my head. But all is well this time. This time.
And the rain still pours, and I cannot decide why it is I haven't peace of mind--though all in all feels quite still.
But stillness does not equal peace, as many have found before me.
Perhaps a piece of me wonders, if the sky must cry, then shouldn't I?
This indecisiveness is debilitating.
But there is something....something that won't quit gnawing..won't leave me be in this equilibrium.
Something tells me, that something is not right--
is not wrong, but--rather--not there.
I'm not content. Not that I should be, or that anybody really should be...but there is such a weight threatening to tip me over...trying to hint, to push me in a direction. But every time I squint and try to see the distance the mirage fades and the desert stretches for miles.
It's that destination I know is there, but I cannot determine how far, or whether it is the place of my dreams, or of my nightmares.
What do I do. What do I do...What do I do?

Guidance doesn't exist--in the land beyond the clouds.

I have had the strangest dreams--I have found some peace of mind:
it has stopped turning for now.
I have found a level of contentment that hasn't existed for me in a while.
I notice little things like the curve of my shoe against the floor, and the dust on my sweater--I watch the wind blow the drapes across the way, and for once it doesn't worry me about the day--but introduces me to how the cotton flies in the draft.
I dreamed last night of a place far away--a place that I belong. I dreamed of the journey to get there and the many obstacles in the way--
and how wonderful it would be to get there. Not because of the place, I realized, but because of the people who are there.
I have a sense of impending excitement...something is about to happen--something wonderful, and complex--
something that will change everything I know about myself, and everybody else.
It came upon me yesterday as I rested under a tree in the park. A loud separatist rally writhed up the hill above me; children played dodge ball in the sun. And I laid against my tree surrounded by life and beauty and diversity.
But it wasn't the moment that allowed this feeling--it was the calmness that allowed me to perceive it. Apprehension, brevity, adventure: something lingering just around the bend in this overgrown, forest trail (think Frost, The Road Not Taken).
I don't want to sleep anymore. I want to wake up and see what I've been missing--I gather this is a lot.
I am often overcome by an urge to sell all of my belongings and move to Brazil. My rationale tells me this is a bad idea, but it is this impulsiveness that intrigues me...perhaps a less drastic impulse, I should follow.
I think what I feel is the return of my cravings for adventure. Last time it brought me to Montreal, before that the French Alps, Prague, Vienna, Rotterdam...I need to loose these shackles and roam--
not in discovery, but in acquiescence. In an understanding of the dichotomy that exists within myself--
I'm like the existentialist tripper who took a wrong turn and ended up on Mulholland Drive, for a little while. Who finally found her own feet again, one shoestring at a time, and began to pull herself together--pull herself back toward the part of her that had fallen by the wayside on the slippery streets of superficiality.
There is a piece of everyone before me, left within me--it's frightening to think of all these destinies to fulfill...so many things to do, to try--I feel them all pulling at me, little urges: different ones each day.
I want to be it all, and so I have been nothing.
Today the sun is shining, though I can only see it reflected on the windows across the alley-way--I know it is there. Today I ride my broken bicycle (again) to the shop, where I hope they will fix it for me, or give me a better one. Today I am making one effort above all others.
A curious man from Trinidad taught me yoga yesterday. He spoke of committing actions without any expectations--of not wanting reactions, but simply doing things because we want to do them, or because they are nice to do for others.
What a feat! Human nature--through our societal disconnect--is to expect something in return, always.
My roomate just woke up. He has his own demons--often they pollute the air in the apartment, scrambling for attention. I can feel his unrest...I hope he finds peace.
This isn't even a stream of consciousness, because my consciousness keeps shifting--rather it is an evolution of thought...a journey through the morning, fueled by coffee and complexity of desire.
It is time to go forward in my day.
It is time to find out just where I might be going.

The dichotomy of the living: the field notes of the dead.
One whispered to another, why are we dressed in red?
A painted pretty picture; a paradox of lies--one slipped beneath another:
concentrated in the eyes.
The tale of tales, a storybook told--one villain to the next;
there is no life, or love: is lost--
there is no glory, that's the cost.

("The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.")

I should be sleeping. Instead, I am awake wondering about things I can't control. The first of which, is you.
Stuck in a limbo-hold between love and hate:
I feel neither.
I don't know how you'll react, if you'll react. And maybe this is the problem.

Remember me? That little glimmer of something you saw some-time ago...sitting in an alcove, all pretty-like, or so you said. I was the one that got away--from everybody else, and yet you still managed to hold on, long enough to keep me ensnared. So what now?
Have you forgotten already? So soon after those empty promises that shattered on some cheap linoleum floor--not mine.
Your mouth says you remember, but that is all. And every day your whisper is a little bit quieter--though I wonder if it's me that's moving away.
I don't believe you. Not anything you say. If it is true, I marvel at it's veracity, then caste it aside. If it is false, I only wonder at how you think I couldn't know...
I remember a feeling, a nice one, from such a while ago...some time when my smile was real and yours wasn't so far off...some time when laughing was my favourite pastime--though I wonder if that too was as real as it felt.
Where has the world gone? In all its swept up glory--those rainy day promises kept in a jar while the desert took its toll.
Did anybody hear the glass break when we smashed it on the tile and ran for the coast...did anybody step on the shards when they were looking for our remains, now sodden in the dampening dark--
go home, somebody yells over the sound of the waves crashing on the beach--I am, at least in my mind, from time to time.
But you...you don't unravel like the rest. You play games with our heads--we're just pieces on the checkerboard (nobody likes chess)...and maybe you're right.
But every once in a while, it probably wouldn't destroy the odds to think that today, in this battle of where we are going in love lost or unfound--
perhaps, you are wrong.

and I have been trying ever so slightly to come across a specific passage in Tropic of Cancer, but as much as I hope to see it with my own eyes--because indeed I know it is there--it simply won't present. I spend my days scouring the pages, in chronological order growing closer to the end, or at least the end of this one...and nothing. And I don't want to admit that it might be what I am looking for--because that is a secret.
Henry Miller's stream of consciousness reminds me of the things I have heard about James Joyce--about his stream-of-consciousness writing style that leads sentences into paragraphs into full chapters, never pausing for a minute to punctuate, and take a break.
I wonder why these things cause me to react in a similar way--why reading someone else's train of thought from one hundred or more years ago changes my own from punctuated and concise to rambling, thought provoking (even), bumbling, un-ordered, un-conjugated muttering of somethings...but nothing as decisive as a stream of consciousness..nothing that actually takes me anywhere except further in to my own head.
But I no longer want to blame Miller or Joyce because thinking back, I've always thought like this--only, I have always tried harder to disguise it...to change the way the words come out, from the way they existed in the first place.
Words. They mean nothing until we tack meaning on to them...they are empty vessels that we restock like freight container ships--letting them empty and lose their meaning and then rebuilding and filling them with new connotations..annotations. denotations? Words are just sounds we've learned to make with our mouths and tongues and breath and voices...words are meaningless, were meaningless until we learned meaning in itself. Then we were able to attach distinct meanings to distinct sounds--words came about. We created them; this means we can also destroy them, will destroy them.
And what might come after words? When we have exhausted, torn, twisted and pilaged them...what then? We'll have no more use for them--they'll be tossed out the window (if we have those anymore) like an old pair of socks. Perhaps, we will even cease to communicate at all.
I don't believe in the space age.
It seems like such a fabrication from such a small and idealistic group of people...people who would have to convince so many more people that any of this could be possible, and more than that, useful.
I think instead we should regress.
Progress could still be regression--that is, perhaps going back to the beginnings of things might be a better act of moving forward than moving forward itself--the moving forward we mean when we talk of moving forward.
Speaking of moving--here, for now, for today and this day--I am done. I am moving on.