perdition does not belong here

find skulls and write poems
barefoot
in the back seat
staring at me through the rearview mirror
catch the hazel
put it on your page
break the skin where i've mended it
tell me it's for the best

drown my handmade pottery with your coffee
and your smoke
tease your tongue with the air that touches me
you hold it there while
you take such lovely photos
of the bottoms of the people that
try so hard to look their best
for you.

you paint pretty pictures of old women
whose wrinkles resemble lines drawn in
sand
the sand you find in North Ontario.
They were bred by long nights
short days
Born from moments when life is
where you can only reach it on your tippy-toes.

There's a stick and a sling and both can help
keep you together for now.
Instead you take nothing for yourself
and give me that last little bit of whatever it is
you've been saving.
And you've saved it for so long in your back pocket
where you found the button that belongs to
some old cardigan your papa had
when your papa still was.

You tell me you live to
be here
And here is a place riddled with laugh lines
and yellow finger tips
and people i've never met
and will never meet.
why must you be selfless
with those things you cherish.
keep them
for yourself.
keep me for yourself.

You travel like a man penetrating the walls
of Petra.
What guards you does not stop you
and then i ask how you can be like
that man we used to talk about
who never let anyone
touch his papa's cardigan.

And now my friends are telling me
how lovely my new sweater is.
But I rest where this fabric rests
And wonder what lives in your back pocket,
now.

it was not good enough, Beethoven

"..until the stars began to fall from the sky
and it looked like the entire universe..
had begun to cry."

shake the dust

Everytime I write I'm cutting out parts of myself just to give them to you.

And the hippos were boiled in their tanks

Camping on the beach in Port Stanley is about as close to camping on the ocean as an urban dweller like myself gets to experience nowadays. No time for the jet setting since work's rude and untimely interference is imminent. I've taken to the road in Bonnie (who by the way needs new brake pads, an oil change, ball joints, and whatever else my broken wallet can afford).

Wave of mutulation

^{Ardene Headband ** Thrifted Sunglasses ** Thrifted cut off shorts ** Thrifted Boots}

Bluesfest, boozefest, brofest

Here are some photos from this year's festival, featuring hipster santa, skid squatter, skid creepers, eccentric dress lady, tatted mid-lifer, bands, and friends and beer.

Summer Buck

Nelly of Familytreeland.com and future roomie of yours truly has now arrived in Ottawack. Though since his arrival there's less wackness in town and more radness. Aside from the lingering bromance found in these photos there's also an abundance of alcohol, an aroma of our choosing for the last few days. Day drunk evidence is available here. Trendy Pants Becca, Trudeau, Jesse Nelson and myself give summer buck our best shot.

British Columbia, where the boys have long hair and the girls like other girls

^{Tj * Kits Beach * kickin' it}

^{Bailey Mitchell fills up at Pow Mountain Base}

I've humbly returned to Ottawa in one piece, yet parts of me are simultaneously existing on the best coast and here. I know I belong out West and in the near future I'll reside there once more. But for now I'll bite my nails, try to remain present in my current situation, and smile when I am granted the gift of bubble wrap and other simple pleasures, regardless of location.

Shutter Flutter

They went to Santa Fe

^{thrifted top * thrifted vintage levi's DYI cut off shorts * thrifted shoes * thrifted bag}

shutter butter

Chess in Dundonald Park

Ada's Diner

Ada's Diner encore

My heart sunnies

the unbearables

I've been writing abundantly. I'm hoping to enter a few writing contests with deadlines approaching so my focus is primarily on pieces that I'll be submitting. But tonight I stepped away from the disciplinary writing and decided to disseminate my thoughts here once again.

My best friend will be visiting for a week as of Saturday. I'm hoping to venture into the night with her on Sunday. But because my nature is to assume all that is unbearable really is unbearable, I find a great deal of anxiety revolves around these kinds of settings. Outings that may or may not turn out to be stimulating. Then I begin to ask myself, how do we know when something really IS unbearable? If it passes then we know it is bearable, if it does not pass are we stuck with the unbearable sensation until death or does the sensation claim us thus ending in death anyway?

Unbearable has frequented my vocabulary when I search for words to describe my recent days. And yet, I'm pumping blood, I'm inhaling the urban air around me in all its rowdy and polluted splendor. In essence, I AM bearing the unbearable, am I not? But I don't feel alive or connected or lit. I sense nothing ...and then I sense the unbearable. This is my reality every day. I awake with a gap between myself and this place and the gap's grandness becomes grandeur and the unbearable slowly yet swiftly calls my thoughts toward it. So seductive and toxic is the unbearable. Something to be so severe that you can't face it is the unbearable element. You must escape it. And to realize that what you can't face is yourself or your actions or your emotions is tragedy as tragic narrative. To want to escape yourself is the spirit of the unbearable.

I've learned to face it everyday and because I face it I bring toleration along with me. Tolerance causes death to the unbearable. If you can tolerate that which is unbearable, it is no longer that which you can't bare. Bringing consciousness to it brings light, and with light comes visibility. As I've been told time and time again by my friend Ben, "if you can see it, you can kill it." We may identify the unbearable when it's too late, when all is lost or life is over or we've been locked up and medicated. We may mistaken the unbearable for a day riddled with poor judgement and lack of effort. Those days when the dirt sticks to your feet and water is out of reach and you develop a fear of the soil. Days when masturbation brings loneliness to your mind so you lose all sight of what was once a healthy libido. And those moments when you kneel on hardwood floor, destroying your knees while you cry pathetically, staying as close to the ground as possible so that your legs don't buckle from your temptation to surrender to anything that might tell you to die. Unbearable days, moments, minutes, whatever severity, can be changed if you turn your attention inward and outward, simultaneously...leaving no room for protest of what's real and no room for analysis or judgment. Attention, consciousness, awareness. These are our weapons against the unbearable.

But we don't want to hike through life tolerating the constant struggle to "be." And it's not only the zealots like myself with BPD or clinical depression or bipolar disorder who trek through this on the daily. Mental illness is in all of us on some level. Some are born with or grow to have a better temperament and are more likely to turn their unbearable moments into positive experiences. People like me though, tend to find the heavily leaded stem of a feather more frequently than most. Life becomes a thing we tolerate instead of take part in. How awful does that seem? Life is a thing we tolerate. Life is a thing I tolerate. So then I ask, is that even a life? If I'm continuously looking for ways to change my situation so that tolerance becomes experience and experience grows into enjoyment, then will I ever have the strength to truly change? I find myself almost constantly wishing I was somewhere else, in other company, in other parts of the world, in another state of mind. And this might be because the present tends to feel so very very, relentlessly unbearable. And the present is all we have. If I don't change anything today I won't wake up different tomorrow.

We think in terms of the future or progression. We think in terms of "progress." We put all of the things we'd like to feel in the future so that the present time becomes only a gateway to something better. But this is self destructive. If we're continuously looking ahead for salvation, then salvation will always remain there. It will always be ahead of us. We won't be able to catch up. If we tell ourselves "I'll be up for it next week," and put it off this week, then we are gambling our own happiness. We're delaying it. There's no need to sit and wait for the future. The future will come to you eventually. And when the future comes it will be the present. And when that future that has presented itself to you, you have to be conscious and open and proactive. You can't open the door to the future and then close the door to it once it steps inside. That's what we do over and over when we seek things to fix us down the line.

There's no waiting for salvation but there's no chasing it either. It is here, always, but it doesn't come easy. I try so hard everyday to stay alive. I mean this literally. Feeling alive and staying alive are separate sensations. Feeling alive is vibrant and beautiful. Staying alive is survival. Surviving is not living. Surviving is getting by with very little pleasure. That's what I, and many alike, push through in the waking hours. Peeling a cheek from the pillow when our eyes slowly open is an undertaking. Cleaning the junk from under our finger nails is a major operation. Making a phone call is dreadful. But once staying alive is natural we will be able to feel alive again. In the unbearable times it's easy to forget that. The unbearables are finite only if patience can greet them. Patience will bring the vivid. The vivid will bring the eyes. The eyes will sting the unbearables.

hard labour

Loneliness. Heartache. Desolation. Withdrawal. Call it what you will, but we all bare this burden at one point or other. There's no avoiding it. It's inevitably relentless. At times, it is insatiable. At times, it is too heavy to bare and yet, one must bare it alone. At times it is the least expected emotion, and other times, it is all too familiar. I'm beginning to see just how lonely I am. Whether I'm paired off with someone special or not I am always lonely.

I've walked a thousand midnight walks accompanied by millions of scrambled thoughts...and have sought out pieces of myself that I've left somewhere when I was happier, stronger, calmer and sweeter. And on each of those walks I'd hoped to discover I belonged there. That I belonged anywhere. Instead, everywhere I am and everything I do feels like I'm a distorted shape trying to squeeze into a square, trying to fit perfectly, to fit nested, to fit... period. Mind you, I don't try to fit in. I'm aware I'm wildly outspoken and this sends some people in the other direction. This is not what I mean by feeling I don't belong. This sensation is an inner battle. I try to find who I am in all the wrong places. In lovers, in friends, in activities, in media and fashion. I rarely stop and ask myself: If you stopped looking, what would you be left with? And the answer would be: myself. I would be left with the core of me, the true self.

Perhaps this post is meaningless and narcissistic. But I hope someone understands what I'm trying to convey here. I've never been very good at upholding my identity because my sense of self wavers so easily under times of distress. I've always believed that it is under extraordinary circumstances that a person's true character is tested and revealed. Maybe I'm built of weak character...though I don't believe that to be the case. Regardless of my foundation, I know I've got to gut it and make something of it. Something completely my own so that in the future I know what I'm made of.

behind steel walls

I feel like an awful person. I feel as though I'm being punished for the pain I've caused someone else. I feel miserably uneasy with who I am right now. But I also have faith in myself that I will be and feel better. That I am capable of giving love properly and selflessly, but that I need to find this within myself first, before I can hand it out to anyone.

So for now...while I'm being punished...

I feel like an awful person.

unstuck

How do we know when we're ready for change? When are we ready TO change? In many cases, it's easy to walk away from something that is causing you pain or feels difficult or is too much work. It's too hard to wait for the change that will lessen the pain, that will ease the work load, and that will ultimately save what needs saving. And it always leads to the same outcome: something ends, something gives, or someone gives up.

How does someone know when they've been unhappy for too long and it is time they leave? Perhaps when the unhappiness begins to leak into other parts of their life...when they can no longer concentrate on a book they were enjoying only days ago...or when they've lost sight of who they are as an individual... or maybe even if the unhappiness infects them like a sickness and they feel it physically, like an ailment, that taunts them and pushes them to the edge. I wonder, and I ask myself, how is it that things can get so bad? And then I remember who I am. I remember the things I do to cause these scenarios to arise. I remember the things I do that lead me to the saddest and darkest places. I remember the things I've done that lead me to be alone, hating myself, hating everything I do to people, feeling like there is no redemption to be had or found inside of me or outside of me. This is an awful place to be. And when I sit in these miserable places, I recollect how incredibly well I work under pressure and that suddenly, I have an abundance of inner strength.

Why couldn't I have found this before a beautiful thing wilted in front of me? The answer is fairly simple: I stopped acknowledging that each person has their own set of values, needs, opinions and perspectives. I forget these things when I'm emotionally unstable and lost, because I can't see my own two feet and all I want is to be rescued. And when I want so desperately to be rescued I forget that I am responsible for myself and that while I need some people, they may also need me at times. And I forgot these things because I stopped working on myself and I stopped being the great person I believe I am. I recently read an article about women with borderline personality disorder written by a psychiatrist who is very objective on the subject, which is a very difficult thing to find as many psychs have had awful and impossible experiences with BPD patients... Anyway, he mentioned that most men find relationships with women who have BPD are filled with passion and emotion and fun. That the greatest part about their partners is they are compassionate women who feel everything straight to their core and practice empathy to an uncanny degree. I agree with this. But he also noted the fact that often times, when these women become too comfortable, too co-dependent, they forget how incredible they are as supports to their loved ones and make everything about themselves because they can't bare to carry the burden of who they are on their own. Suddenly, their lovers' interest must only be their interest in her, otherwise they fall into a pattern of insatiable insecurity and self-defeat. This is all too familiar for me. The psychiatrist made it clear that when patients with BPD are in therapy, they can usually move forward and carry on healthy adult relationships that are mutually respectful and mutually affectionate. Ah-ha! Therein lies my problem. I stopped therapy, or rather, for a long time therapy was no longer available to me. And then I began working and forgot that I had this terrible disorder that impedes my ability to have stable interpersonal relationships.

So, why is it therapy plays such a major role in the salvation of someone like myself? Well, for one, it lifts most of the weight off my friends and family because I'm turning to them less frequently. Mind you, I will always want my friends or partner or family to trust that I'll be open with them, but I tend to keep the dramatics at a low when I'm in therapy. I save the theatrics for the professionals. I also become more aware of my behaviour and thus have more control over what I say or what I do, and how I say or how I do things, long before I do them. Whereas lately, I've just been a sporadic nut who can't think straight before she leaps.

Now that I'm entering therapy again, I'll update my progress on here as I did last year. In the meantime, I'm going to Value Village tomorrow, they're having a 50% off sale and I'm ready for some retail therapy. Luckily my new place is not so far from a pretty decent location.

I am not a crook

Write a song. Jump a cliff. Pop bubble wrap. Doing the stuff that gives you kicks. Happy people do these things. They're at the mercy of themselves. I want to be at the mercy of myself instead of something else, someone else. Even in my weakest moments, I want to be in control of my emotions, my reactions, and my behaviour. I want this so desperately, perhaps too desperately. I'm so in love and yet I sabotage that love. I'm so happy to have strong friendships, and yet, I meddle with those, too. I have family who have seen me at my worst and continue to see me right through until I've brought myself back up again. I am a fortunate girl but feel I have no fortune.

It's been some time since I've been so boldly awake and aware of what's happening around me. And I've realized that these events don't happen TO me, but rather most of them happen because of me. I am not a victim even though I feel victimized. If I am a victim, I'm only the victim of myself. My own worst enemy. The tyranny of this disorder has worn me down, along with the people I love and look up to. How could I let this evolve so majestically? Where did I lose my mind? I must gain perspective. That's all I ever needed to do. Perspective before spoken word. Because my words can be cruel, tiring, and trying for those who must receive them.

This post is cut and dry as I have no creativity in me at this time, and that makes me very sad. But everyday I open my arms to it, ready for a eureka moment when I can put pen to paper and write something beautiful and meaningful. I know I shouldn't wait for something to happen. I know that I must find the creative bones by digging and holding and releasing and grieving and thinking and pushing. To be honest, I'm exhausted. Anyone with borderline personality disorder can vouch for the fact that everyday is frightening, sometimes to a paralyzing degree. Someone says the wrong thing to you and you feel rejected, betrayed, abandoned. So you react accordingly. You may yell, you may cry, you may make snide remarks. But when you treat the people you love that way you put yourself in an awful situation and that is the cycle of guilt. You say or do those awful things and almost as swiftly as the words leave you do you wish they never left. You realize you've hurt a loved one. You want to make it better. So you cry harder and enable worse self talk. Telling yourself you're a bad person, you don't deserve love, you should hide away from everyone, and ultimately, you tell yourself you ought to be rotting six feet under. You swear that you'll never treat that person the same again. You'll try harder. And yet you can't catch yourself before the emotions take over your mind, your speech, your behaviour.

I wish I never stopped therapy. I was so much better when I was working on this disorder. I was so different. I was myself. And myself is a pretty good gal when she wants to be. I was capable of thinking clearer before speaking unforgiveable things. I was capable of soothing myself without constantly searching for external validation from a lover, friend, or parent. I was secure.

I've been to the hospital again and I am very hopeful. I'm optimistic. I have a different plan this time around. A long term plan. I won't come back here to this dreadful head space...and if I do, I will be armed with the right weapons to defeat the demons. Because I believe in therapy and I believe in myself when I really think about it. I won't be in this position again. I can't handle being this person anymore. Too many times have people had to carry my mess with them. It's important to have my own legs, but to know that once in a while there are people out there who will lend you theirs, but only once in a while. There's no such thing as a saviour, only those who can help make the unbearable moments more bearable.

Plant me, please

what do you do when breathing feels too much like an obligation you don't want to succumb to?
what do you do when you've paced back and forth, the length of the isle of Manhattan, and still your nerves are dancing restlessly...

what do you do?

what do I do?

I try to slow myself down. Breathe, I tell myself. One more hour and it'll pass.

and the hour passes.

It has not fled.

what now?

wait it out, I say to myself, it will weaken.

but it only gets worse.

my own strength is hiding from me, playing a joke, seeing if I'm smart enough to discover it once more. but this isn't fair. I'm too vulnerable to catch up to it. I'm too fragile.

I just want my strength to help me pull through.

why won't it help me? why must it play this game?

do I do this to myself? Or is this illness controlling me now?

Do you see in this post the amount of question marks? I could go on. And then I'd feel even more helpless. Perhaps the key is to stop asking. But then I don't know what to do with my mind. The moment I halt all analytical activity I become completely weightless, taken away by the smallest breeze, and then lost.

I just want to be on the ground again. I want my feet on the ground again.

Comfort food

Ashley Dawn, soul sister


Jordan's red shoes, foot disturbers


York Street, town's trophy strip


Stephanie, shrimp


Stephanie and Jordan, ultimate homos who smooch in public

les chaussures

I just ordered these online. Or rather, the boyfriend did since I no longer have a credit card (thank goodness for that!!)

I'm excited for them to arrive but I have to wait at least a week since they're travelling from the UK. :( But ASOS provide free shipping worldwide...which I think is super liciously fantastic!!!



I think these down here are great mens shoes also available online at ASOS.


Jack and Jones, at asos.com


The only problem with these deck/boat shoes is that they're leather and suede and I don't support such things, being a vegetarian and all.

But hey, they're great inspiration.


River Island lace up espadrilles. Gosh, these are gorgeous.

hyper-link me

We are in an age of hyper-connectivity. And yet, it is that hyper-link we all share that seems to be causing a deteriorating effect on our ability to align. Constant contact à la facebook, smart phone, dumb phone, twitter, is making me feel alone. Even though I don't have a facebook account. Even though I try my best to keep my phone hidden and in my bag or pocket when I'm in good company, I still feel the segregating effects of these communication systems. How can I be in so many places at once and remain myself? Maybe I'm just a head case (which I know very well that I am). But there's something to be said for the amount of "friends" I've lost in the transition to a facebook-free life. My closest comrades know where to find me and we are still in a great place. But all those pseudo friends have more or less disappeared into cyber space somewhere, along with the memories we've shared raging on dance floors and drinking PBR. And what other memories did I share with them? None that shook me to the core the way my dearest friends have. Nothing that inspires me to be the best version of myself.

That's all for now. Just a quick thought to disseminate.

power trip

How do you admit to a feeling you're ashamed of? How about a feeling you're afraid of? Or a feeling that isn't anger but makes you angry?

I have two strong emotional reactions that I'm battling. They are distinct and separate, yet communicate frequently and are perpetually influenced by the other. On one end of the cable there's a terribly anxious, seemingly desperate, young woman trying to repress the awful feeling that is so guilt-worthy it makes her stomach twirl. And across the cable is a romantic, carefree, passionate gal terrified to confess the beautiful sensations that peep through her skeptical mind. Each girl instigates the other, fighting for complete control of the vessel (me), all the while doing so without permission. I'm tired of being ruled by my emotions. It's exhausting. I want to possess just enough moxie to straight up say what I want to say to the person I want to say it to. But I'm afraid because the anxieties that ride along side this gesture are terrifyingly powerful. All I can disclose is this: If I say anything at all, to you, or anyone, I will lose the confidence vote. I will lose myself. I'll have nothing reserved for later. No wild card. No secret weapon. No power, or adequacy, or sway, or warrant, or dominion. And I know that matters of the heart should be free of prestige and jurisdiction. Matters of the heart are not matters of game or politics. I know this, but I still keep my most valuable piece to myself, waiting for the right time to expose it. Moving forward is a virtue for most, but for me, it's frightening. So, this is why I proceed with caution. This is why I'm lagging behind. I can only hope that I don't get left behind.

burn after reading

Last Wednesday Jack and Will (neighbour's kids) were upstairs napping when I arrived to care for them for a few hours while their mother was out. I made myself comfortable on the olive green sofa for a few minutes and read a few pages of Catcher in the Rye before noticing I was feeling slightly frigid. I filled the electric kettle with water, picked out an herbal tea bag to plop into a mug and waited for it to boil. I heard the familiar 'click' sound that notifies me there's about 750ml of boiled water ready to meet the mug that would caress it. Seconds later my legs looked like this.



Initially I was planning on tending to this catastrophe myself but then the pain kicked in and it spread to my tummy and left thigh. I was screaming and crying and completely dumbfounded. I had no clue what to do. I called my step dad who said to call 9-1-1. I told him it seemed petty to call 9-1-1 over spilled water. I believe the screaming, crying, and barely distinguishable language coming out of my mouth were hints that yes, i really ought to call 9-1-1. I didn't want to though. I called Chris, the father of the kids sound asleep upstairs at 3:30 in the afternoon. He's a cop. He said, call 9-1-1. Okay, fine, I was convinced. I called 9-1-1. then I called the boyfriend while I waited for the paramedics to arrive because anytime I stopped talking the burning sensation got worse. I talked to him, if that's what you would call it. I cried and pleaded for my nerves to rot and die so I could breathe normally. Who knew freshly boiled water could cause such damage? Apparently a lot of people. Not me, though.

I was in a seated position when I poured the kettle of water into my lap instead of into the mug, my instinct was to stand up and strip. Leggings are tight. Panties are too but...not quite as much. So, my panties went with the leggings and when the paramedics showed up I was standing up in the kitchen crying a pantsless-pantyless cry. I looked like a total asshole. But I didn't care. I only cared about the fleshy gross body part that once looked like a leg and functioned like one too. It was throbbing. My tummy and left leg were mangled only half as badly, if that. The ride to the hospital felt like an eternity. The f word may have escaped my lips a few dozen times in the 20 minutes it took us to arrive.





That flannel covered man is the boyfriend, in case you were wondering why I had an audience.
He came to take care of me. met me at the hospital and stayed over a few days.

I have had three nurses over the last three days come in to change my bandages and now I've been trusted to do them myself, for myself.

here's what the leg looked like on day 3.



Taken with my iPhone so not as clear, but you get the idea. The point is I'm healing. Slowly, but healing nonetheless.

That's all for now.

Take a page from the good book of Steph: when pouring boiling water, make sure it reaches the dish.

miami heat

Nearing the closing days of December I dipped down to Miami for 8 days of vacation fun. I spent most of my time fiddling with my new Canon G12 (courtesy of ma and papa steve a la xmas gift) and walking around solo. But I also went to Ft.Lauderdale to party and act a fool. I visited the design district and a few galleries in Miami, just to keep myself from being lost in the jersey shore wannabe culture. Seriously, everyone down there dresses like a skank ball. Anyhoodle.

The photos almost all speak for themselves so I'll get on with it and add some captions here and there.

part 1 : boardwalk mission


This photo was taken during one of my creepier moments...sure...it's creepy to take photos of children you don't know...but I wanted to save what i thought to be a beautiful memory that a beautiful family had created right on front of me. So really, it's their fault i am so creepy.




that's a stray dog up there. click on the photo to enlarge. poor guy has a gimp leg.
I loved walking that boardwalk, especially when hobos like these were striding ahead of me. I love hobos god dammit.







"Knitta pleeeease"... Knit street art is a movement that was born out of Texas and continues to grow thanks to its founder Magda Sayeg. she has knitted sweaters for all sorts of urban architecture...she's even knitted a city bus! This bike, however, is not a Magda Sayeg original for two obvious reasons. the first being that she wouldn't knit the tires.Magda is a fair and responsible and considerate street artist and thus does not want to obstruct any object's functionality. Secondly, this sweater isn't as intricate as her work. but once I discovered knitta, the shit pops up everywhere. A tree outside of my boyfriend's place on York st in Ottawa is knitted, check ca, check check.



alright, back to the seriousness that was my trip.



Ocean Ave times two.



So I was staying chez Tony and Claire and below is the view from their balcony and as you can see they've got a sweet swimming pool. I didn't swim in it once....but it's a damn swell place to read next to.




money shot..cleavage and shit.



snails. pink snails. you haven't the faintest idea how badly i wanted to be stoned with these ladies. tabarnac.




part two: juvenile fun.

best party back yard, ever.








G and andre





So I promised a certain dude I wouldn't post the naked photos of him from this trip...but to paint a picture: we played a game in the car and he lost so he ended up naked on the side of the road in Ft.Lauderdale. it was awesome and his ass is white as snow.
the end.

Now for more photos.




nekked boys in cars. and such.



completely really ridiculously silly photos