tiger lily

perdition does not belong here

2011-10-27T12:09:00.002-04:00

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

2011-09-30T15:51:00.003-04:00

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

shake the dust

2011-09-30T00:27:00.005-04:00

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

And the hippos were boiled in their tanks

2011-08-09T00:03:00.004-04:00

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

2011-08-04T10:11:00.004-04:00

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

Bluesfest, boozefest, brofest

2011-08-02T13:21:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-18T20:44:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-07T16:57:00.021-04:00

^{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

2011-06-22T15:49:00.003-04:00

They went to Santa Fe

2011-06-22T15:32:00.005-04:00

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

shutter butter

2011-06-14T00:50:00.002-04:00

Chess in Dundonald Park

Ada's Diner

Ada's Diner encore

My heart sunnies

the unbearables

2011-06-08T01:38:00.006-04:00

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

2011-05-19T22:23:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-18T22:05:00.000-04:00

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

2011-05-15T13:45:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-08T22:45:00.000-04:00

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

2011-05-04T22:15:00.003-04:00

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

2011-04-16T21:25:00.009-04:00

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

2011-04-14T17:29:00.006-04:00

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

2011-04-14T17:05:00.000-04:00

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

2011-03-08T20:00:00.004-05:00

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

2011-02-28T15:43:00.008-05:00

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

2011-02-21T20:50:00.027-05:00

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

style muse: krystal simpson

2011-02-11T00:08:00.007-05:00

thanks to ash dawn, i fell onto her blog "What is reality anyway?" and now look to her for style inspiration.

All photos found at Krystal's blog!

the seat belt sign is on

2011-01-25T03:23:00.005-05:00

My eyeballs are burning. They're burning right out of their sockets. Right out of the little cubbies they've called home for over 25 years. The nooks that caress their globe-esque figures. They're burning and this means that I won't sleep tonight. It's 3:30am. I may sleep yet. But with a head buzzing at a frequency too high to settle I will get no rest. And so, I write.

I've got nothing though. Nothing to share. For once I am out of opinions to project onto you and stories to disseminate. I'm basically useless...because let's face it...what am I without my opinions? I'm just a mediocre gal really. Small stature, small voice. So opinions are important to me. They feed my napoleon complex. Sure, I've got one. I'm 4 feet and eleven inches of chipped shoulder and snarly attitude and have something to say about everything. Except at this moment I don't have much to say. But I fear that if I don't write anything down I'll watch the clock turn an evil hour and curse the sleeplessness that has taken over my life.

Last week was an awful week for sleep. The week previous...just as severe.

One of the blogs I follow SemiCrazed focuses primarily on mental illness. I read her posts not because of the grandness of reading material or her regular disciplined writing habits, but because I connect with what she has to say. It matters to me. Recently she expressed on her blog that she'd steered too far from the theme and needed to get back on track. I have felt this way as well. That my blog has taken on a life, a calling, a meaning, of its own...and in a sense that may be a great thing...but if you've got this goal in mind...this goal to not only reach a certain audience but to KEEP that audience...if you've got that as a goal then...you need some focus. Some form. to your blog, book, nose picking rituals...ya know...if you like an audience when you gold dig.

So her recent post has inspired me to create an altogether new blog for fashion alone. Perhaps another blog for film. And another for poetry, prose, literary critique, etc. All linked, of course, to this blog.

I don't know. We'll see. I haven't too much time on my hands lately. And my computer is in the shitter. Not literally, though..would be a little odd if my computer sat on the can and took a shit..what a useless skill that would be.

Back to my point.

Which was...that I haven't any points to express tonight. I'm just being a baby, in bed, sleepless, mind running to and fro and skip skip skip to ma lou.. so on and so forth.

See how ridiculous things are when they make little sense at 3:40 in the EH EM? yeehaw.

I suppose it might be worth noting that...well that I haven't been on my meds since the summer. Winter has been causing a torturous amount of violence in my brain. I've seen dandier days. But I'm doing it all on my own. Using everything I learned from cognitive therapy to get me through the cloak of despair that covers my tiny self every day. and unlike this time last year, I actually see something on the other side... the light or whatever. at the end of the tube. tunnel. slide. clearing. cave. whatever analogy you wanna paint in your cervaux..think of that..and then picture something sweet at the end of it. that's what I see. I can feel that these days pass. They always make a come back...but they also fuck off for a while first. So you know. this is good. This is good, I say... and that's some great self talk right there.

six bows deep

2011-01-05T01:35:00.008-05:00

I am steering clear of the emotional posts while I'm in Miami and focusing more on posting looks. I think I'll deal with the seriousness that is myself when I return...but for now I'm in denial.

so. here are a few photos!
I snagged this bow yesterday and I have already worn it two ways as you will see below.

large lace bow: claire's
denim shirt: thrifted
shoes: thrifted
polka dot dress: h&m
jewelry: xxii

wynwood bound

2011-01-04T13:09:00.005-05:00

today's outfit is also on my chictopia blog and lookbook.nu

wishing everyone a happy tuesday from vacation spot miami fl!
xo

blouse: thrifted
high waisted jeans: bdg at urban outfitters
penny loafers: thrifted
purse: thrifed

reminds me of the ad

2010-12-31T00:11:00.008-05:00

"have you any grey poupon?" or perhaps they say "do you have any grey poupon?" I ought to youtube the damned commercial but I'm feeling rather lethargic at the moment. I leave at 8am tomorrow morning for Miami...home of the Heat, Dexter, and Vice. But even more wonderful is the vintage shopping! Below is today's outfit. All of which is thrifted except for the knee high socks. those were a winners buy!

Sweater- thrifted - value village
Lace up boots - thrifted - value village
jeggings - thrifted - good will store

Hysterics "Mostly Untitled" Music Video

2010-12-17T17:01:00.000-05:00

double-headed coin

2010-12-16T09:50:00.007-05:00

When does diplomacy take the back seat to humanity? When does one's government stop acting as an international representative of its political position and start being a representative of its citizens and their rights. Seems an obvious answer: Always. But the reality remains a utilitarian ideal. What's best for most, is what's best...period. So when Canadians are stuck in foreign countries where our government assumes diplomatic loyalties our state upholds its vow and respects alien law, even at the expense of one of its own. And for what? Just to "keep the peace?" How juvenile is that?

We've witnessed this regressive and backward practice over and over and over and over and for the love of Allah, Jesus, Moses, and Tom Selleck's moustache, please make it stop. We've seen it with Omar Khadr, we've seen it with Nzzia Quazi...and we continue to see it with 26 year old Nathalie Morin. Ladies and gentlemen the Conservative government has responded in a most delightfully-rightfully-totally useless and inexplicably ignorant fashion, stating "When a Canadian is on foreign soil they must respect foreign law and policy." Whoa whoa whoa. Hey, Tories, mind if ya park the horse for a moment and answer me this: If one of your citizens is mistreated and this treatment is not only acceptable but legal in another country, why don't you get down from that saddle and head for the front lines of the moral battle? When the question of repatriation was raised with regards to Nathalie Morin, the Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and to the Minister of International Cooperation responded as such: "Mr. Speaker, this is a very complex family dispute with no easy solution."

Alright, ladies and gents, here is what Deepak Obhrai considered to be a "complicated family dispute."

the meat of it:

Nathalie, a Montreal born Canadian, married a man she understood to be a Canadian attending Concordia University, or at the very least an international student with a visa. They had a child together, also Montreal born. When it was discovered her husband was in Canada illegally and thus deported to Saudi Arabia, he insisted she visit him. She did so, twice, and returned safely, twice. After having been persuaded to keep the family together and move to Saudi to be with her husband, Nathalie gave birth to a second child. And it's around this time, folks, that things seem a little bit prickly. It became clear to Nathalie that something had changed inside of her husband. He began to abuse and rape her, and thus, forcing her to bare a third child. It has been five years that she's stuck in Saudi, facing abuse on a daily basis, on constant lock down, and unable to leave the country. Her husband has assumed a house arrest policy over his family, keeping them locked in an apartment 24hours a day, seven days a week, with no plumbing or telephone for the most part. Under Saudi law, wives and their children are not allowed to leave the country without permission from their spouse. Nathalie's husband has been oh so kind to allow her to leave Saudi without her children. Oh, thank you Saeed, how fucking humane of you....you jack ass. But Nathalie refuses to leave her three kids behind with their physically and psychologically abusive father.

I don't care what your colour or creed or political stance, this is NOT a "complicated family dispute." In fact, it's really quite simple. Spousal and child abuse is wrong, whatever country you're in or planet you're on. So tell me, Mr. Secretary of I-don't-give-a-shit-foreign affairs, what's so god damn complex about that? Sure, Saudi has their own idea of human rights. Sure, they're a sovereign nation and thus practice their own laws and policies and so on and so forth. Sure, they don't have to accept our concept of basic human rights. Sure, they're an absolute Monarchy and their constitution is the Q'ran, thus practicing no separation of divinity from state. But, as said over and over, a Canadian is a Canadian is a Canadian. And more so, a human is a human is a human.

But what can be done? And not just for Nathalie, but all people who are subject to unjust treatment and a lack of human rights? Whether in the middle east, Africa, Guantanamo, or right here in the Great White North, what can anyone do about it? The only solution practiced in the past has been war. Jump in and "fix" their government and turn them into a true "democratic" state where women are given the right to vote, travel, and abstain from sexual activity if they so choose. And thus, give children a safe place to call home, since it is not the children who decide where to live. Is there no better way to help Canadians, and all humans, abroad? Okay, Saudi, you may be the largest oil exporter in the world, but since when does that make you invincible? And as for you Stephen Harper, pull your balls out of your stomach because there are more important things in life than money. Aren't we all born from a mother? Aren't we all born somewhere without choice? Nathalie may have chosen to reunite with her husband five years ago, but her three kids didn't. If the only remedy is war, I don't blame the Canadian government for tip toeing around Nathalie's unfortunate circumstance. But I do blame them for not having adequate foreign affairs policies or consular services available to Canadians abroad. I blame them for being too polite.

Mr.Speaker, a human is a human is a human.

style muse: anna karina, head-dresser

2010-12-11T21:25:00.007-05:00

anna karina, godard's most prized starlet of the french new wave era of cinema, is not only stunning but also very chic...in the timeless-yet-vintage kind of way.

Straw hats were huge this past summer season, but did they ever really take a spot on the back burner? not in my eyes! I wore my straw hat allllllll summer long.

Always a well dressed head, even sans hat.

Bows bows bows! They're everywhere. If one isn't so inclined to purchase head accessories at the marked-up prices that American Apparel sells them then check out thrift shops. I've had so much luck!Vintage shops also tend to carry them at reasonable prices. I found a navy blue clip-on bow for 6$ and it's made of lace. Sterilize them first though, you don't want soemone else's scalp cooties (ICK!).

And don't forget the chiffon floppy hat as a super chic accessory. These have been coming and going for decades but have made an aggressive come back the last few years.

Damn You Auto Correct!

2010-12-11T00:15:00.001-05:00

for fellow iPhone users...
this is probably my fave one on damnyouautocorrect.com so far.

three courses for confidence

2010-12-10T12:02:00.003-05:00

I'd like to run into someone in my head space. We'd collide and stroll through the vastness of ourselves and of each other. I'd like someone in there...just to see my insides. Maybe they'd rearrange a few things and bring some light into this place. They could design a whole new floor plan and I'd suddenly find myself at home. And I'd dwell there and it would be healthy instead of self destructive. We'd enjoy the newly acquired furnishings and decor. We'd sip tea topped with philosophy and a teaspoon of insight. We could even bake a cake made entirely of good intentions. We could cook dinner and stir in some optimism and wash it down with a pint of pride and then move onto a salad mixed with self-awareness and peace and when our cake is warm and ready, we'd devour that too. We'd become the perfect people. Completely uninhibited. Completely morally just. Completely...complete.

la terreur CHOUINARD!

2010-12-04T17:04:00.008-05:00

During filming of "The Perfect Roommate" I went to visit Chloe-La Terreur-Chouinard in Montréal on my two days off. We met at Sweet William. A newly operating rad-doubling as a photography studio- hair salon. Bernie Fernandez, part owner, is a friend of Chloe's who I've met a couple of times. The dude is splendid company. Plus, check the wall paper, is it wicked, or is it wicked?

I was having a bit of a laugh-attack and Bernie jumped in.

what salon would be complete without the most adorable vintage sitting chair?

Or the most comfortable hair washing station EVER?

We hopped along to the Sparrow for a small dinner then to le Belmont to check out a DJ Terreur digs. Chloe and I fell in love and took photos.
See the love? It's coming out of our noses.

When Chloe visited Ottawa her, D, and I, went to value VEE! Andrew is a goof. And this photo proves such.

afraid of everything.

2010-12-04T16:43:00.003-05:00

I'm a chicken shit. I really am. and now it's time to get over it.

don't stop turning just for me

2010-12-02T04:31:00.007-05:00

Tonight Franca and I are chatting about the reality of ourselves versus the way others see us. I sit here and speculate about myself and my behaviour. Everything I say and do is a representation of who I am. But how accurate is that representation and how much of myself is lost between my mind and my outer self?

Franca asked me why we can swoon over a man we have known for a few minutes and continue to fall deeper into him as we learn more about who they are and recognize their mannerisms and all the things that make them different from us. And my answer was simple: the universe may present us with all sorts of incredibly passionate and inspirational connections. the universe may place someone in our lives for us to encounter. but it is not in the universe's nature to stop everything and make sure that that person stays ours forever. in short: the universe is massive, why would it stop moving to guarantee us a lifelong relationship?

So yes, we may meet someone with whom we feel a great bond. And this bond may last the length of time that it takes to drink our coffee, or fight cancer, or even the quick few hours of a one night stand. The connection may stand the test of resentment and entrapment. Or it may be too frail. It may have been released into your world prematurely. Malnourished, neglected, under grown. It may be too weak to handle your long working hours, your unrelenting standards, your clingy manifestations of what a relationship ought to be like. It may fail to live through all of these things and you may be left wondering what the point of it was. That is the reality about romance that many of us struggle to accept. The reality being that the impermanence of life does not impair the connections we make or lessen their value, but that romance is in fact finite. Perhaps it's important for helpless romantics like Franca and myself to learn to embrace the finite nature of these deep romantic connections we share with others.

When couples spend the entirety of their adult lives together it isn't the romantic connection that continues to seal them. The truth is there's a lot in life. And all of those other things in their lives outside of their relationship works with their companionship. It's not the chemicals that churn their unit into something durable. It's everything. Their ability to be in the right place and right time, ready to work and commit to one of the hardest things humanity attempts to do: be together.

I believe the only way to be with anyone is to be the most accurate representation of yourself. which brings us back to the original discussion. Exactly how much of ourselves is brought to the surface? It's difficult to say. Are my actions a representation of my true self or are they a portion of what I wish I could be? And when do we know what to put forward and what to conceal?

I'll have to get back to this at a later time so I can discuss it with Franca further and perhaps take some time to ponder it with a clearer head. that's all for now!

The trial of Squirrel

2010-11-30T21:23:00.008-05:00

One memorable Saturday evening, Ashley Dawn and I attended slam poetry at Mercury Lounge in hopes of feeling inspired. When it was over we felt great. We headed to the Dom and ran into the infamous Jason Squirrel. He's always been a hoot and a riot when he's drunk. These are snaps of his never-ending battle with his wool sweater. I'm not sure if he ever tied it up.

One. Solo mission.

Two. here comes the distraction.

Three. conversation errupts

Four. conversation continues

Five. frustration sets in.

Six. give up the dream.

colours colours colours

2010-11-30T20:54:00.004-05:00

BUY NOTHING DAY

2010-11-24T10:11:00.006-05:00

is this FRIDAY NOVEMBER 26TH in NORTH AMERICA! And the 27th internationally.

I'm trying to think of ways to celebrate this day. Ways to influence even the smallest portion of the consumerist's wheel and put things in motion. Some have suggested dumpstering. Others have proposed placing pylons in front of targeted stores such as Wal-Mart. I even read one idea (for Americans) to walk into large US banks and strip naked.

Adbusters is pushing this day to help with the environment, moral fibre, standard of living, integrity, revolution, evolution, rebellion, for the children, for the elders, for today and for tomorrow.
Pick a motive...whichever you choose, do something about the effervescent entity that is capitalism. Help to put a cap on it, shake it up again, and turn it into something else.

We continue to be a part of the problem. We continute to aid in the swelling of the demand for things that are irrelevent, expendable, and lavish. When we do this, we create more supply, waste, pollution, poverty, inflation, recession, depression, plagues, and regression. If we don't show up, they won't build it again. If we don't buy it, they won't make it. If they don't make it, they won't advertise for it.

If you take part in BUY NOTHING DAY and thrive on the variance then perhaps you will find satisfaction in altering your consumer ways every day of the year. It's simple. Whenever you can, thrift shop. Go to thrift stores for your clothes, housewares, books, whatever! It's a greener way to shop and often supports a noble cause. In the summer, hit up garage sales when you're looking for furniture, or estate sales even! These are ways to purchase essentials under the radar and outside of the system.

For details check http://www.adbusters.org/campaigns/bnd and sign up for a meeting near you.

retreat

2010-11-12T02:08:00.000-05:00

She stands there. Lamp posts lay ahead of her, shrinking in a line.
Go to this girl. Go!
to her and see what you yourself are afraid of being.
Look to her when you ask "Who is going to be my revolution? "
And she holds no stiff and long shaft to defend herself on a day when
She finds herself in a vice of two genders.
Two people she is supposed to be just to be
The one person she wants to be.
And is
The person you would be if you fled the scene of your systematically
Choreographed
masquerade
that you claim to be the purpose
Of your life
Of your meaning
Of your plan.
She will not avoid the hobo, even in the night when
Shadows and imagery are no longer useful.
She has confidence in the nature of her race.
She dissects all stereotypes and judgements to a grain
And it is soluble
And edible
And tastes of sovereignty.
And she is then clean of it after this ritual
When she can love something in everyone.
And is free to discover that which many people don't see in others
As they have reservations about the poet,
the prostitute
and the skid.
I will go to her
And to her I will become the anomaly that conforms
to a sensible
a better
a worthy
representation of herself.

moonstruck

2010-11-01T03:55:00.000-04:00

I don't sleep. I have not been able to sleep a good sleep in years. Instead, my face burns, my cheeks are a stained pink, and I constantly turn the pillow over in a hunt for the cooler side. I stick my foot out from under the blanket. I put my feet at the head of the bed for a change of scenery. I do all of the routine things most people do when they are faced with a night of restlessness. Do any if these strategies ever work for anyone? Why do i repeat this ritual if it has failed me so loyally? "Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Dammit Einstein, must you be such a judicious mad scientist? Of course you must, especially with a name like Einstein.

On nights when the tears are too plentiful for my eyes to read pages in a book or to write pages of my own, I gravitate toward the mirror. I stare at myself...I stare at me... at my absolute worst. I watch my eyes turn a bloodshot red and puff up. I put my hands to my cheeks as if to assume the "poor me" position. And on occasion I provoke dialogue. Yes,this is a fancy dancy beat-around-the-mulberry-bush way of saying "I talk to myself."

To say I talk to myself, however, is a misrepresentation. I definitely talk while I'm alone during an episode, but I am not talking to the frail figure in the mirror. I'd go so far as to say that the girl in the mirror is stronger, and talking to the girl standing in front of her, begging for empathy. Every time I'm there, conversing with the reflective surface, I'm telling the dumb-ass emotionally overwhelmed narcissistic borderline psycho that she is undoubtedly a dumb-ass narcissistic psycho. In short: I take part in malevolent self-talk.

Disregarding how absolutely awful, cruel, and contradictory this self-talk may seem....it usually calms me down. Perhaps it's humbling to see myself while I'm not quite myself. I tend to judge the girl I'm looking at and out of spite I try to prove her wrong...to rise to the occasion if you will. To "snap out of it", get to bed and go fuck James Dean in my dreams.

There's a very large and almost overwhelming part of me that says my psychiatrist would have a problem with this self-soothing method. I can't understand why...I mean, who doesn't need to give themselves a good kick in the cunt once in a while?

frenemy? try foodemy!

2010-10-31T03:39:00.000-04:00

I've taken to a new leisurely activity... that is: to be honest with myself. I may weigh only 93 lbs. I may be a vegetarian who is quite strict with her diet. But I also adore eating. So when I eat, I over eat, because I'm like those little sex addicts...you know those things we call rabbits. Rabbits have no intellectual or physical capacity to know when they've stuffed their faces enough. They also disperse fecal matter while they eat (they quite literally shit where they eat).

The other day I had a caprese salad... and marinated tofu.... And (drum roll please) more cheese. Yes I realize cheese is awful for you. Yes I realize it is fattening. I'm also aware of how disgusting the concept of cheese is, trust me, I'm aware! But everything about it says "I want to be inside of you" So, if I'm being honest with myself about my diet it's that I've fallen off the wagon and I probably shouldn't complain if my stomach isn't what I want it to be or my love handles have made a comeback. It's nobody's fault but my own...or rather the crooked and corrupt dairy industry's fault. Damn you and your incredibly delicious tasting smoked gouda and creamy double-churned goat's cheese.

But seriously, why should I be eating something from a goat? What an odd concept. Mammals are gross to begin with, but our species is the only species that take it to another derogatory level. They start us off as mild cannibals with the breast milk feeding and nipple gnawing and all that Freud "I secretly want to marry a woman who has the same tits as my mother" bullshit. And then suddenly that becomes taboo and we are expected to drink cow's milk that is not only 130% more fattening and full of BHT from a cow that has never seen the light of day but also probably contains carcinogens (because everything causes cancer nowadays) and really we are all just slowly committing suicide. So much of our food today makes me say "I forbide you to enter my little belly!!!" and then sometimes I am bad and eat it anyway...like cheese...fucking cheese!!!!

And you can't trust anybody. You can't trust eggs they're awful for you too, not to mention how awful it is for the poor hens in the factory farms. You can't trust yogurt, that is just insanity! And you can forget about coffee, unless you can sleep at night knowing what those poor farmers in South America go through just so you can get the jitters and stay awake. The only way is a purely organic diet, plant based, and if you can..keep it local.

Except for the coffee part of course. Try and find a local roaster who purchases organic fairly traded coffee, or even better, who work as a CO-OP with their farmers. There's nothing like having your coffee roasted on site, right in front of you. I had the pleasure of going to a roaster in Almonte, Ontario, which is coincidentally only 20 minutes from my house.

Here is what a fairly good sized roasting machine looks like:

And here is what the coffee looks like before it's roasted:

The above coffee is from a co-op farm in Ethiopa. This coffee tastes spectacular.
So the only way to win is to be a good person I suppose. Think of the farmers, think of your own body, think of the animals!!!

And no, I am not on a caffeine high right now. I have had to drop the Joe habbit and replace it with all natural herbal teas. The last time I had caffeine I was at Ashley's house and I puked up my Orange Pekoe. Yes. It was a tragic day, the day I bid farewell to caffeine.

I did not intend to preach, but I suppose I may have done so a little bit in this here post.

HOWL -- Premiers November 5th, at Bytowne Cinema

2010-10-30T19:15:00.004-04:00

Next Friday is opening night of "HOWL" at BYTOWNE! I'm counting on this film to inspire me, re-invite me into the world that was the Beat Generation, and to re-read all of Ginsberg's work.. I have quite a bit of faith in James Franco to portray him well, after all, he did play James Dean. Not to mention that writers/directors Rob Epstein and Jeff Friedman have lots of experience making documentaries in the past, so I have a feeling this will be mockumentary style with just the right pinch of drama. I'm very very very eager to see, not only the performances, but the way in which the film is written and what it is about Ginsberg that they will focus on. It's no secret that Allen was an oddball...But how much of that will shine through in HOWL?

For showtimes check out http://bytowne.ca/movie-calendar

please, call me Downer.... Debbie Downer

2010-10-26T05:53:00.008-04:00

I'm asking for a revolution of my dreams. to sleep in a basin of new ideas. progress and assertion and all the things I need to feel alive when I'm awake and asleep when I am in suspended consciousness. homo sapien sapiens have this inert ability to derive everything they need from everything around them. self sustainability is obsolete. post modern world is nothing more than ideas metamorphosed into some other version of its original self into another remix of its newest update and it never ends. It doesn't stop there.

What did this world do before ideas belonged to someone else? Where did it all begin? How did it begin? The first thought, the first creative thought...the first sign of hindsight...the very first song. The aboriginal expression of emotion and of inner existence. Who are we now? How do we define ourselves?

There's this thing we do called "communication." but really it's just "regurgitation."

The literal definition of regurgitation often pertains to puking up your food. Food is a thing creatures use as fuel to stay alive and function. Fuel is a thing cars need to remain mobile. Cars are a thing humans use to become mobile. Humans are a thing Earth doesn't need.

We are at the bottom of the chain, no matter which way we look at it. Who the fuck needs US?

Shit, I have some serious pessimistic doctrines.

Good thing we have almost wrapped day 12 of filming. I can finally get to sleep at 8am.

I don't care... I want the iPhone.

2010-10-24T21:22:00.006-04:00

snap from my iPhone.

this film gig seems to welcome a lot of down time. A sign that someone is experiencing a time of "down" is the elevation of their feet onto their work station as I have displayed so informatively in the photo below.

For some reason, the human race has decided that this is the universal symbol for slacking. I am one who frequents the 'slacking' position. Probably because I tend not to take work seriously. In fact, the only thing I take seriously is myself, which is decidedly a tragic flaw.

I have only read two Vonnegut novels but have many more on my shelf at home and am eager to turn their pages. Here is a photo from Breakfast of Champions, which I have recently finished reading.

t-bag

2010-10-23T11:58:00.001-04:00

A man within- coming soon

2010-10-21T07:17:00.001-04:00

I am really excited about this film. If you aren't a burroughs fan, become one. If you aren't familiar with burroughs, make it so. If you don't give a shit, learn to give a shit. This man is legendary. This man is everything a writer hopes to be. This man is William S Burroughs.

shrink it down to size

2010-10-19T00:09:00.000-04:00

Everything grows bigger as you approach it. Buildings get taller. Lanes seem wider. The only exception to this rule is the sky. When you're in it, the sky has a finite quality to it. Like you could meet a friend for a drink on cloud nine, and then head down the street and around the corner to 7th heaven, as though they shared the same area code.

I'm starting to get the sense that I've jumped back into work too soon. Or that I at least shouldn't have jumped in with two hands and two feet. But what was the alternative? Which road do you take when all of them potentially lead to another hospital visit or admission to the psych ward? And then I look down at my arm and my tattoo and realize, I'm doing exactly what I ought to be doing. And that is, pushing forward, regardless of damaged spirit or feeble health.

All the things around me are starting to feel so big. I'm losing perspective again. I absolutely must get a grip on how I want to see things, and what I want to make of them.

I almost forgot to pull down my pants when I went to take a piss tonight after work. This is not a good sign. But at least I've recognized it now before all is behind me and I'm looking back with resentment.

On a positive note: The film wraps soon and I'll be out of Ottawack for a vacation. Hello sunshine, I've missed you.

...and the leaves go crunch under my feets.

2010-10-18T22:40:00.000-04:00

this look is also seen on my chictopia profile!

everything above is thrifted, head to toe.

smart art

2010-10-17T08:02:00.000-04:00

This is a mixed media canvas that I made for my best friend Ashley. It was to celebrate her 25th birthday this September.

A lot of the clippings are from various issues of ADBUSTERS, which (if you are not familiar with it) is my favourite magazine. There are also earrings that I hot glued onto the convas as well as a broach. On the bottom left corner you'll see Ashley carrying myself, a photo taken on my birthday this year.

thank you for being an inspiration, Ashley Dawn.

nerd parade

2010-10-12T11:02:00.000-04:00

who owned NERD GLASSES best?

Johnny Depp...perhaps..

Ginsberg?
Young

and middle-aged.

Maybe Marilyn did.

As much as we love the international Man of MYSTERY...I don't think he gets my vote.

Gotta hand it to the king of wigs, Mr. Andy Warhol, for pulling off these rad glasses that have since made a huge come back.

Woody Allen is no stranger to the nerd look.

It is my profound belief that THIS man, unlike any other figure in history or current events, has worn glasses best. And not only has he worn them so well, but the glasses became his trademark. May you rest in peace, Malcom X.

Sharp dresser.

Let the right one in... Americanized?

2010-10-11T13:16:00.000-04:00

Why oh why did they have to remake this film? Two years ago, Swede filmmaker and writer Tomas Alfredson and John Lindqvist made a phenomenal movie by the name Let the Right one in, or "Låt den rätte komma in" in its native tongue. The original is one of my top five favourite films made in the last five years, among the likes of Pan's Labrynth. I suppose it may be the film snob in me who feels such a strong prejudice towards the remake, but I don't think I'll be able to view it without any bias. I just don't see why they had to remake a film relased only two years ago. Is this a question of money or sucess? This happens too frequently... The need to bring something artistic and unique to America. Why not just re-release the originals if they have such an appeal to North Americans? If there's a market for a remake there's a market for the original. However, it's a little tricky to guage if the original would become more sucessful only because there's a remake or vice versa. This seems to be the case for a lot of films. Solaris, for example, became an instant Sci Fi success, compared to Kubricks 2001 Odyssey, only once the petty George Clooney remake sucked balls. Before the retelling, Solaris was mainly popular in Russia and Europe, and among critics.

but why the need to remake something so soon after its original's release? This is a curious thing to research. Which I will probably do, because I'm a nerd.

The American version of Let the Right one in, with the title "Let Me In," has received great reviews. I am just not sure I'm open minded enough to enjoy it without feeling I've committed adultery on its predecessor.

first day on the job, a reflection

2010-10-06T16:07:00.001-04:00

First day at work for the film was good, aside from the smoldering temperature in the production office. Mind you, it probably didn't help that I was clothed in a wool sweater. Feature films are a little different from television, but the same principles apply. Just trying to get a grip on the admin areas of the production and I'll be set.

I couldn't help but notice the poster of Smash Cut, a film made by this production company, in the front entrance of the office. For all you Entourage fans, Smash Cut is the film referenced in several episodes with guest star Sasha Grey. She's the protagonist of SC. I wonder what it feels like knowing most Megaporn.com viewers, and probably Entourage watchers, have seen you naked. More over, have seen you gang banged. She's a pretty girl. What do her parents think of her work? Do all the guys she went to high school with secretly jerk it to her? What about her creepy uncle, does he do it too? The world is too small to conceal such a career from anyone who knows you, and quite frankly I doubt there's been any effort to make those films incognito.

Now that I'm no longer a Facebook user, I think about some of the photos that were posted of me. Some may have been inappropriate, some may have been straight up unflattering. And even that made me wonder what my parents thought of me. I couldn't imagine being on the other end of a "I can't believe you fuck people on camera for money" speech.

I guess all it is in retrospect is taking what you do in the privacy of a bedroom and splattering it on someone's television screen or monitor. What's so bad about that?

thread adventure

2010-09-09T14:20:00.000-04:00

museums. yes.

and broken down fields.
yes.

I saw a man about a horse

2010-08-26T10:41:00.001-04:00

Lake Placid scooped outta me some much needed light-hearted fun. A part of my spirit I tend to ignore lately. My beautiful best friend Ashley Dawn and I broke in my new car, Bonnie, with a road trip. It was grand. When we arrived in Saranac we went straight to the rugby park to see the team kick some serious booty. Then we headed to the traditional dwelling of all the rugby boys and men at Schulte's, or however you spell the place. Later in the night Ashley and I got into a bit of a verbal fight with some police men. We'd been bar hopping and dancing and needed a cab. Ashley, the smooth talker she is (especially with members of the opposite sex), asked the police if they may be so inclined to call us a cab. It became swiftly apparent to us that these officials in uniform wanted nothing to do with chivalry. Ashley noticed the cop's oversized SUV idling while he chatted up some drunk locals on the sidewalk. "Why is your car running?" she boldly inquires.

"So it's warm when I get back in it," the ignorant official informs us.

"That's illegal in Canada," I say, with confidence.

"Well, we're not in Canada, are we?" He replies.

"No, that's too bad."

Clearly, the do-gooders Ms. Dawn and I are, we are completely baffled by this. We cross the street in hopes of finding a cab. After several minutes of waiting in our barely clothed selves, we decided we are just too damn cold. We cross the street again to join our favourite men in uniform. It appears our Earth-hating enemy has gathered with some more police men, who also seem to ignore the fact that the SUV has been idling for over 20 minutes now.

"Excuse me," Ashley interrupts their conversation, "is there a reason your buddy's car is still running?"

"Yeah, it's so everything is charged, so our stuff is charged, you know in case there's an emergency of sorts."

"Right, so are you alright with this decision? Do you live with your decisions or are you tormented at night when you try to sleep?"

I'm quite certain that our drunken attempt at protesting this man's blatent display of neglect to take responsibility for his share of emmissions did fuck all but make the cops resent us. But hey, as long as we spoke on behalf of mother nature, we can rest assured we've done more than they have.

Another night Ashley and my momma got a little boozie, and snuggly too, as you can see in the photo below.

And of course, the besties shared a smooch too.

Ashley's arms, tat and accessories included!

And I, the aloof little one.

Alright, moving on to my birthday.

Ashley took me out for a swaggy dinner chez Oz Kafe. It just so happened that an old friend Merrill was working and she brought me a lovely little surprise: desert! I was very grateful. See the gratitude in my face?

Alright, so then a few of us headed to celebrate. Daly had many faces that night. Ashley spilled beer all over herself. And Dustin, being the knight he is, was as tall and large as ever, as shown below.

And then there was this guy, who, despite calling the street his home, has not given up his day job of funny face making and hockey fanatic rituals.

your honor, I object

2010-08-24T19:40:00.000-04:00

There must be a word, a term, outside of my own vocabulary, to describe the precise feeling of a dream bleeding into life. Not knowing when it began and if it ended. There must be some medical diagnosis for this feeling of detachment from one's own body, one's own life. Feeling vivid asleep and clouded awake must be an illness because this can't be living. And to look at everything with resentment and objection. To be a monumental objector in this world is a curse. Always writing everything off. Always pushing everyone away. An objector gets creative in pushing loved ones away. Smother smother... or to be distant. Or even to be cold. At times cruel. Others irrational, crazy, mad. But how does an objector gain any control if nothing remains within reach? How can an objector survive this way? Does the objector care even? There's no sense of attachment to the real world, why care?

And yet, the objector feels so much at all times. Objectors cry and scream. It's as though they are constantly living in a state of grieving. Constantly living in a place of consequences and rarely in a place of experience. Ah, experience. The very thing that depressives yearn for. The privilege of experience does not relish within the depressed or the objector. And it is once the depressed and the objector collide that salvation seems absurd. Salvation: too main stream and logical for the objector, and too tiring and impractical for the depressed.

Pain becomes the only thing real. The only thing strong enough to penetrate the shield of self loathing and animosity built around them. Pain, it seems, becomes excitement. Pain as a compass. Pain as a landmark to the waking life. And yet, pain exists in the dream world under pseudo-circumstance and hyper reality as perceptibly as anywhere. It lingers throughout the day, like a residue sticking to a mood and fluctuation of occurrences. How can the depressed objector escape anguish? Perhaps through lucid dreams. Perhaps that is the only way to gain control.

Or perhaps the depressed objector needs to drop the existential crisis that is his life and realize that life can only mean something if he wants it to. That all these objections he carries around everyday and all the depression is a hand bag full of daily drudgery and simple problems. That it is easily dispersed through a tunnel of release, like a drain sent to sewage... and one day he can be free of it if he can just ignore his narcissistic tendencies--if he can look past the desolate nature of the world and accept the colours of the flowers and scent of freshly cut grass. All the simple things that one should admire, the depressed objector should too. Perhaps that is the remedy for us all. Perhaps is all there is. Perhaps as possibility, as never-ending paradox. Perhaps-- that is all I know, for nothing in life is as certain as the sun rising and setting.

wisdom for sale

2010-08-17T19:31:00.000-04:00

if your bread is stale, make toast.

buddy holly version two point oh.

2010-07-24T14:56:00.000-04:00

I've been having a little fun lately. Yes that's right, the F word. I spent three drunken days and nights at bluesfest dancing outdoors and admiring the hotties on the stage. But before that I attended two weddings, both with my great pal D who is now sitting by the window in his apartment in paris sipping on some diabetes friendly beverage and reading nobokov or some other influential author. D, we all miss you and you've been gone a mere few days.

Here's a shot from us at one of the weddings. I'm wearing this black dress I got at a vintage shop called Ragtime here in Ottawack. I'm obsessed with it. I finally found something to wear it to!

Here I am farming. I've got a full bag of tricks. I can write, I can sing, and I can drive antique tractors. Notice the pink shoes? Yeah...so did a lot of people.

The wedding was a hoot.
Thanks D, for reminding me that I'm still full of life and fun to be around at times, regardless of my health.

So bluesfest came and saw and conquered my weekend. I also got wastey...which for me is a rare occasion nowadays. But it was great! The first night was a good time. Dizzle and I waited in line at the ID tent for a good 20 minutes before we got our bracelets. And another 20 of edgey, anxious, and impatient foot tapping in line for booze. When we approached the server she asked for ID. I only have my BC driver's license on me most of the time and because I didn't have bangs back then, the girl was an outright bitch. She made me pull back my hair. Asked one of the other workers how tall 150cm is and if I looked like I was that short. I thought to myself, shit, if she thinks I'm taller than my ID then there may be hope for me yet! Then Daly ordered his drink and she gave him a kick in the balls. Not literally of course. But I suppose they're all just doing their jobs...

We watched Drake, who was awful...and the Stars..who I've always enjoyed. Because I'm four-foot-eleven I got onto Daly's shoulders to see.

that face he's making is because I was drunkenly falling backwards and he was trying to pose while keeping me alive.

Okay. Saturday proved to be less driven and more low key. I danced in the afternoon at the Whigs show and stared at the bassist Tim. He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. I'm not a groupie and have never desired to be, but shit...that's one hot musician. I was on the big screen during their show at least a dozen times. It was slightly embarassing. I'm not sure why. My mom said the camera dude has a crush on me...but it could have been that I was moshing alone at 6pm and wearing a very interesting hat. Who knows. Then we went to the comedy tent which was hilaaaarious. And lewis black was performing that night too. Man, he's a riot. check out some of his stand up some day if you have the opportunity.

Finally, sunday I met up with Mikey and we laid on the grass like a couple of hobos while all sorts of acts played on stage. We were both exhausted so we passed out and woke up just in time for me to link up with D and go watch .....

WEEEEEEEEEEEZEEEEEERRRRRRRRRR

We were right up front and Rivers was all over the place, playing the crowd like a winning poker hand...oh and speaking of poker...Anyone else absolutely love their cover of poker face? And rivers' amazing lady gaga wig. Shweet. The vibe out there was unforgettable. I've been to a lot of shows and Weezer puts on one of the best. I loved that they unintentionally mocked mgmt by covering kids. It's as if they were saying "ya, we're getting old, but we still rock the house louder than you new fuckers."

The last song they played buddy holly...it was their encore presentation. And at the very end, they proceeded to mish mash together in a paradise of percussion. All of them jamming on the drum kit. Stellaaaarrr!

Next weekend my BFF and I are headed to lake placid. the dog is coming with. Pictures will be plentiful so stay tuned. And then on my birthday (august 7th) I'm finally getting my first custom tattoo. :) I hate my birthday. I've always hated it. So I suppose I may as well do something rad to make myself hate it a little less and put something permanent on my body.

now I must go be free in the forest with blondie over here. she's due for a pee and a poo and a hike with her beloved.

how do you solve a problem like Maria

2010-07-12T16:42:00.000-04:00

Time is measured by the in-between
Of rational would-be's and
Irrevocable have to be's.
And the coffee dates served
To you and your nomad on
Frigid trays.
And the separation
Invites
The despair on the washroom floor
and loss of accountability
by achievement and failure.

Ruled by time
Suffocating to have one life
And eternity, too heavy!
Release the pressure my sweet,
Sweet little tablet.
Steal it--
those hands that say:
a minute has come and gone.
Rid me of agenda and
Replace sensibility with something
Like a Myrmidon who submits
To the chief of the unconscious.

So that
Days become precious
little jewels in the box.
Pick one to wear today
Because
Time forces decision
And choice is foe--
It never gave me the day off to
experience paralysis of
All extremities that cause
All the voices to say
Pick me, do me!

Feed me an abundance of
Freedom and I will only discover
That so long as the hour persists
Liberty remains to be a handicap.

the not-so-inspiring post about inspiration

2010-07-12T16:17:00.000-04:00

It's not that I'm against socialites. It's not that I'm against the scene or hate on everyone who's a part of it. What it really comes down to, is now that I've completely withdrawn from it, now that I've taken myself away from the scene as much as possible, I realize that I didn't enjoy the person I was while I was in it. The great parts of me were hidden, while the lesser parts of me were embellished.

A few years ago, I went to dinner at this man Conrad's place in southern Florida. Several Argentinian filmmakers were present. We spent the evening talking about Descartes and Anne Sexton's poetry. About foreign film and the revolutions that took place in history. By the end of the evening, we were all gassed from red wine, so we took the party outside onto the patio. We danced under the stars and hugged the sky. That night, I was the girl I like. I was someone with confidence and inspiration and creativity. I was pleasant and well mannered and fun and completely uninhibited. The girl I was in Ottawa or Whistler's scene is different. And I don't think I have room for the latter anymore.

Last summer while I was away from BC visiting Ottawa, a buddy had posted on my FB wall "What will the Whistler scene ever do without its Queen?". Reflecting on this, I say to myself, I don't want to be the queen of any scene, or anyone, but myself. I want to own who I am, good and bad, and experience everything possible to encourage the little-yet-big personality inside of me. The real one. I have met some intellectual and stimulating people within the scene, both here and in Whis, but collectively, the "scene" and each "group" of people, sum up to a bunch of (dare I say it?)-- FLUFF.

I don't mean to come across as snobby. If people want to drop acid to party instead of to paint, then step right to it. I suppose I've come to realize that I'm too humble to take part in the scene's night life or social life. That I'm just not fierce enough because quite honestly, I'm just too fucking honest. When you're as honest as I am, everything around you suddenly seems so false. Whether this is a tragic flaw or a great gift, I have yet to figure out, but I know that I don't need social status to be popular, a thousand photos of me on FB to be seen, or a loud attitude in a bar to be heard. All I need is the true me and an outlet...and of course, my outlet is writing.

Okay, so now that everyone thinks I'm a mass hater...Let me express what I DO love!

I've discovered how much I absolutely adore nature. That I'd rather be barefoot by the lake dancing to a friend's acoustic guitar, than stuffed in a bar with mad bass pumping into my ear drums. I prefer to be outside where everything is alive, than inside, mimicking everyone around me and behaving "accordingly." I like boat shoes instead of heels. I do the things I do because I like them. Not because it's trendy. I substitute milk with soy for the same reason. I have a vegetable garden in my yard because I'd rather know where my veggies come from, not because I'm taking part in the hundred mile diet. I love Nestle. She's the sweetest little pup ever. We've been going on these grand hikes together and getting lost and stuck in the rain.On those days I don't even hide from the rain, I twirl in it! There's something so pure about being vulnerable to nature. Something so sincere about working for nature, instead of making it work for you.

I haven't the slightest clue what the point of this post is. I suppose I just got home from my best friend Ashley Dawn's apartment (see her blog link on my page) and every time her and I get together, we can't shut up about the things that inspire us. I simply wanted to get all of this out before the thoughts dissolved into my frantic mind. I'm such a scatter brain these days.

Oh yes and Bertha is back on the road. She's so perdy. She's got a new windshield!

I can't believe that girl has taken me to Cannmore and back to whis, and whis to Ottawa. She just won't die.

you've got mail

2010-06-12T23:21:00.000-04:00

Ben Wannamaker, editor of Fodder Mag, friend, poet, activist of affection and dweller of my heart, wrote this for me(to me) in an email on May 27th, 2010:

Poets have
so much time
on their hands,
creators of terms
and humanization;

head anthropologists
of interrogation and
ringers of real
spirit and reasonability;

bar no one else opting
for a place in this place
where:

the
top
reminds
you
of
you

and

the
bottom
reminds
you
of
you

and

you
can't know
everyones
everything.

Instead we rely to
obscene degrees,
lie
on a sheet and worship
the time the small bolts
left stronger bonds in
the brain; search for our
salad days where things
sure to come never quite
became.

Making change off mystery

is dated.

Misery is peek-a-boo babies
that
don't
get
the joke.

Don't wallow or be afraid, get
flustered or increase the beat
of your individual blood flow;
or really, resort to anything.

Panic?

Why should that be?

We now know
there's no
such thing
as strange

rs;

it's true, the ones
before you lied about
that;

laid In parts, too;

in sheets
like one'll
be lucky
to not be capable of:

even saying

one

did.

And it's true:

we can all

be a pillar

urban decay

2010-05-28T17:45:00.000-04:00

I've made enemies of my cuticles.
friends with a culture whore.
culture whores are the melting pot of urban life.
death to identity.
a breathing manifestation of globalization.
not a clue.
no.
she hasn't one.

playing spoons on St. Catherine's
Montreal has more identity than
the one who poses for photos
who holds the camera above her face
smiles
tilts her head to the right
and online for the rest of
contributors
contributing to the death of
all that we used to take pride in

we were proud to put our hands in soil
rough palms
and perspire into the air
that the sun heats
in August
And time was a biological thing
was never an in between
coffee or meeting
only a telling of hunger
or need for rest.

a species of consent
agreeing to terms pushing toward
destruction of value
not price
but worth.
200$ for a hamburger
pay for the carbon foot print
the labour.
the cost of additives to your body.
stamp it with a tag on cattle's life
or the farmer's lost rights.

slaves to ubiquitous society
lost sense of present
and
appetite.

spokenwordspart1

2010-05-25T20:48:00.000-04:00

quotes from some of my favourite screenwriters and filmmakers.

I want to tell you a terrific story about oral contraception. I asked this girl to sleep with me and she said 'no'. -Woody Allen

This CGI bullshit is the death knell of cinema. If I'd wanted all that computer game bullshit, I'd have stuck my dick in a Nintendo. -Quentin Tarantino

I'm always surprised at who's there when you fail, ... It's usually not the people you expect to be there. It's easy to have friends when you're winning. And Jerry Maguire was kind of about that. This was about that, but it's like success and failure get trumped by an even bigger issue, which is, 'Are you going to be truly alive, and do you even know what that is?' -Cameron Crowe

Me, Remixed

2010-05-15T10:40:00.001-04:00

Six weeks are up. Friday past, released back into the wild I'm searching for ways to reconcile with my lack of belonging. I've made it to the other side. I am changed. Relapse is a possibility but I'm armed and ready. Entering the six weeks I was asked by Dr Mcbride if I'm happy my attempt failed, happy to be alive. I told him I was completely impartial to this world. Indifferent. Apathetic. In the final week, the question was posed to me again. I have fleeting moments of inspiration, I said. Of insight. Of beauty. Moments that I feel so high off of my own spirit I swear I could get lost in the serenity of the here and now. Moments that come and go, quickly and swiftly. But they do come. And I appreciate them. I touch them. The dim eyes still rest in my head. I continue to see the world as a trivial place on a daily basis. But I do not wish to leave it. I'm curious about Tibet and Costa Rica, I'm curious if I will publish my book, I'm curious to see Madison grow older, I'm curious to hike with Nestle. Curiosity is a life force stronger than my pain now. Besides, who is "happy." What is, "happy?"

People feel the heaviness of life at times. People feel. Everyone experiences ups and downs. Though I've spent the majority of eleven years dwelling at the back of a man made cave, I can accept that I will continue to experience the regular ups and downs of humanity. And instead of allowing myself to become my emotions, I have learned to keep them from escalating to such a degree. Anyone who knows me well is aware that I spend a great amount of energy analyzing and thinking, and stuffing myself into a tight space of anxiety. I always believed I knew who I was and what I needed. I always believed I was in tune with my body and my emotions and that I was expressing them sufficiently. I can't imagine going back to that belief. Because now, I'm so aware of what my feelings are telling me, what they're truly saying. I have improved my self talk. Constantly evaluating and questioning why I am feeling anxious, angry, irritable, desperate. When I tap into the source of the emotion I can name it. And, as Ben would say, "if you can name it, you can see it, if you can see it, you can kill it."

I have yet to be properly diagnosed. I was told 6 weeks was not long enough to fully assess what I'm burdened with. though, it's been suggested I am living with borderline personality disorder, mild narcissism, and atypical depression. Well which one is it? I wish I could get a clear diagnosis. I feel it would make this all that much more tangible. Or maybe I'm simply a product of my environment, soaking in too much, releasing too little. Either way, the remedy is all the same. The work I bring with me will require attention for the rest of my life. Depression is a part of me, but it isn't me. I am not defined by my sickness. I am committed to being creative, not to being committed.

Angelina Wrona

2010-05-09T22:46:00.000-04:00

I bought this print in Merrickville a couple of weekends ago. Artist Angelina Wrona, a local to the town, has quite possibly dug into my psyche and pulled out images I couldn't create myself. Her dark characters speak to me. This is possibly the least disturbing of her dolls. Take a look at her website: http://www.angelinawrona.ca/

Browse the nature of a world many do not experience, but one that I've found to mirror the dim space my soul often visits.

benny and joon

2010-03-29T22:08:00.000-04:00

...So I don't have anything to say lately. But fortunately I've watched a lot of great films and my eyes are happy little globes. Tonight, home alone (not the film, quite literally I'm at home alone), I watched Benny and Joon. I'm on a bit of a Johnny Depp binge lately. How have I never seen this before? I've laughed and smiled with my full heart throughout this flick, something I haven't done much of in a while. I don't have anything else to add. My brain is in overdrive from focusing on other things but want everyone I know to see this movie.

Oh yes and...I made out with the great Johnny in a dream once. We're planning a June wedding.

a laugh less ordinary.

2010-03-18T11:51:00.000-04:00

Public transit, a luxury in disguise. Parked Bertha at Terry Fox, hopped onto the D96, slouched in my seat, and opened a book. Ignoring surroundings, worrying not about traffic or speed or regulation. Worrying about nothing. Reading Douglas Coupland, who in the past, I loathed. But I've recently come to appreciate his style. As our long city limousine approached Centretown, I looked up out the large, modest window. Man tits. Gray hair, broad shoulders, blue dress shirt, pulled at the chest by breasts bigger than my own. Man titties make me laugh. So, I laughed, on the bus. I suppose there may have been a few glances my way, curious as to what on earth that 5 foot nothing young lady could find so humorous at such an early hour. Is it wrong to laugh at man tits? Maybe.

I don't really care. He didn't see me laughing at him. He was on the street, oblivious to the great big urban submarine, fostering working class observers. Ah ignorance could be bliss, in such cases. Come on people, man tits are funny.

So are muffin tops. Classless girls trotting around, low-rise jeans, skin exposed, blubb-- I won't say it. No, I couldn't. I too, once had a muffin top. Of course, I kept mine in my pants and under a shirt, but hey, I'm not perfect either. I flashed a taxi driver once. In high school. It was a dare. There you have it. I've done my share of exhibitionism.

The mad man at Hazeldean Mall is funny. A hockey buff, carries around a radio, listening to the games. A true fanatic. Make eye contact and a thrilling conversation will sprout, namely concerning the Habs or the Red Wings. His favourites. He smiles. Endearment, truest form therein. He's 60, maybe older. Always ready to make a new friend. Always willing, and always open. He's warm. Funny too. He once told me while on the shitter, Habs scored, and he shat it all out at once, in excitement. Clearly, the radio is with him at all times. Funny though, yes? He laughed, I laughed in accordance with him. Only on his terms.

I'm okay with laughing at man tits and muffin tops if I can redeem myself by indulging an eccentric old man in a conversation which he finds stimulating. I'm okay with that. So, I don't care if you're not.

freezeframevolume1

2010-03-12T12:43:00.000-05:00

a few of my favourite movie stills from the great directors antonioni and tarkovsky.

red desert. by antonioni

ivan's childhood. by tarkovsky

l'avventura. by antonioni

andrei rublev. by tarkovsky

andrei rublev.

taxes and coffee.

2010-03-12T12:27:00.000-05:00

And it's the beginning of the end of the week. It's time for the rouge to uncork. It's time for a tardy slumber.

The office is buzzing with procrastination. Restless breezes and pointless conversation flow through the air. it's Friday. My desk. Stacks of files. Some mail. My T4 slip. It's tax season. Oh my dear federals, please grace me with a delightful amount of return this year. I will invest, I will not consume. I will be good. Oh dear federals I promise.

And a package. Fodder Magazine. My dear foddermag. My article sits well with the others. I like to see my name in print. Smile.

This cup of joe disperses the aroma of a twelve pound bag of pennies and provides me with a headache in the back, by my hair clip.

I'm thinking about the melting of cultures, the molding of image, and the senseless chit chat I hear in the cubicle opposite.
It's small talk, of course. Oh how I'd love a world without small talk. Mine, eliminated. I do not engage in it, i refuse it. but still...its counterproductive existence boils my brain with resentment. Stop! Everyone stop. cut out the drab and go straight to peak. right there, right to it, talk about it, instead of around it.

boredom often provokes one of my attacks. presumably why I've had two anxiety attacks here at this office in this building in this city in this country in this month. joe doesn't help. joe promotes a faster heart rate and agitation. offices encourage joe consumption. offices encourage lethargy. offices encourage death to the creative wing of our minds.

damn the office. damn the office and its taxes...and damn its awful coffee.

attack of the morning rant

2010-03-12T12:18:00.000-05:00

Walking around. Faceless. Knowing nothing, of ourselves.
This is society.
This is us.
This is the collective.
This is globalization.

Too much time pondering what others are wearing, what others are doing.
Gazing, admiring, envious...too much time.

What is humanity if humanity bestows no insides upon itself. Humanity is shallow.

Too many members of humanity know not themselves, only know too much of others.
So much heresay. So much observation.
Observe oneself, observe and know, so society runs deep.

Humanity deepens.

Trying to connect to others, try to connect to you. only you.

To know yourself...is to know others... there are no others without the self.

only if others know themselves.

let's jump into the mirror...let's join the face we see.
let's search behind it.
let's all do this so we may know each other, truly, truly know one another.

on the job with mtv.

2010-03-11T09:57:00.001-05:00

seth and I have a mutual respect for one another.
seth frye says: steph, you're such a fat ass.
steph: seth, you're a fag.

wordsmithsvolume1

2010-02-24T09:40:00.000-05:00

inspirational writers. these crafts are no papier macher. these crafts are made of words. a few writers' quotes I've found motivating this morning.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray. - Lord Byron

You cannot find peace by avoiding life. - Virginia Woolf

Wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air. - Sylvia Plath

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” - Jack Kerouac

stylemusevolume2

2010-02-24T08:35:00.000-05:00

look the part of a legend.wild card. queen of hats.

Stevie Nicks

a child under the influence

2010-02-23T13:26:00.000-05:00

just skip, hippity hop over those hands of time.
hurry, run, or they'll trap you inside
their bubble too tight, too thin, too fine.
and what would you do, oh what could you do there but hide?

pump up those boots full of air and float!
jumpity jump, atop the tall chrome lighthouse.
ahoy matey! says the captain of a wooden sail boat,
permission to board say you, like a silly pocket mouse.

take hold of the ship, lickity split! tight grip on it!
flippity dip, into the sea you've fallen.
Ocean tastes awful, I suggest you spit-spit-spit!
Do you smell, with your nose, it's pollen.

swim, jiggidy finn! there's an island in sight.
sniff, daffodils so sweet, pretty and neat!
this land is fruity, mmm and juicy, take a bite!
Uh-oh! a creepy crawly lands on your bare feet.

dash, diggidy flash away, so afraid of bugs you are.
stop, halt look! a cabin, there's a cabin ahead!
a man in red boots, a rocking chair, a guitar.
would you like to take a rest, a rest in his bed?

trust is a must! when you're stranded abroad.
sleepy, cheeky pipsqueak, dream for now wake up when it's day.
yawn, stretch, arise at home...what? this story is flawed!
but where did you go, what did you do? where did you stay?

chumpity chump, you believe everything you're told.
don't listen to me, I only tell tales when I'm bored.
when you're wiser you'll know imagination collects mold.
so exercise your brain! let creativity be restored!

stylemusevolume1

2010-02-22T10:41:00.000-05:00

Zooey Deschanel.

it's morning. closet: what would Zooey wear?

Fly fishing today? no. not today.

pitterpatter i feel pretty.

..and witty...and smart.

Anon

2009-12-23T23:39:00.000-05:00

The colours of the world have lessened in saturation
It's a tragedy of mild proportions, if such a tragedy exists.
Shades of gray spill into sight and everyone's face is bland.

The wind's song is too faint to hear, the air is silent and dreary.
A meadow, once a beautiful lover, now but a clearing in the wood.
Even the trees have surrendered their roots to the indifference of this spirit.

Abandoned by the ruling power of desire, all are orphaned, all are alone.
In this thought we reunite, we come together.
Cherishing the scent of the oak and the lilies we seek a mere drop of purpose.

By the side of the barn a bird's conversation with the leaves is heard.
A freeze of hesitation, we finally approach him, ready for his wisdom.
He says to watch, smell, hear all we can as one day these abilities will desert us.
The colours will come back to you, he says. The wind will sing again.
A beautiful meadow will make love to the flowers and lift the dull souls from the dirt.

The pollen tickles our faces as it's blown through the air and we smell the breeze's breath.
The scent encourages our memories and we're reminded of angelic days.

Looking up at the blue blanket over the world, we see the paints of the wild anew.
Indifference has become the orphan now. Indifference bares shades of gray.
We have found our mother now, she bares but one name: our beloved Mother Nature.

Uncertainty. A demon defeated.

2009-11-10T02:41:00.000-05:00

Uncertainty. It's the darkness staring back at us through the door frame... and we are often too afraid to walk through. We hesitate when we aren't sure of what's waiting for us on the other side. We turn around, ignoring our curious nature, ignoring the intrigue, ignoring the attraction to mystery and exploration. We turn around at times when perhaps we shouldn't have.

I'm guilty of closing doors before I have a chance to discover anything new. My immediate reaction is often that of regret and curiosity of "what may have been." I run, fast on my feet, avoiding the unknown. Two years ago, bored, unstimulated, and numb of my daily routine, I had a moment of spontaneity. I decided to take a blind leap and move across the country at a time that was both irresponsible and completely inconvenient. I had no money saved, no job lined up, no place to live and no plan. But I felt compelled. The uncertainty didn't phase me because I didn't take the time to think about my fears. I wasn't fearless by any means, I was most certainly afraid, but I didn't focus on the fear because I knew it would keep me from the freedom of discovery. I walked through the dark door frame and on the other side I found everything I was afraid of: loneliness, homelessness, poverty, and great responsibility. I told my thoughts to slow down so I could take a moment...

I looked up and remembered where I was...I was in the mountains. I made it. I held my arms out to hug the landscape. I made a promise to myself that day. I promised to conquer it all, regardless of uncertainty. I promised to myself that I would never turn away from an open doorway because of something so small and petty as "uncertainty." Because if I allowed uncertainty to consume me this time, I wouldn't have found myself surrounded by this inspirational beauty.

We are a very fortunate species. We possess the freedom to discover all that we want in our lives. Perhaps we have technology to thank for our jet set adventures, perhaps even without it we would have always found a way to embark on our journeys. Perhaps if we are passionate enough we can achieve true nobleness of character. True to ourselves, always. But we must take advantage of this incredible freedom because it embraces our nature and our spirit. The world can give us so much if we give it a chance.

I feel words

2009-10-27T03:45:00.001-04:00

In the last 2 months I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my friends. I was working 6 days a week, 10-16 hour days, and met someone I wanted to spend all of my free time with. After the first month I noticed my cell phone wasn't ringing as regularly as it normally would. The texts and invites to parties and social events were growing thin...a very strange thing in Whistler. I couldn't blame my friends. I made it a habit to be absent. Friendships are incredibly important to me but I knew I had to rearrange my priorities in order to focus at work. And focus I did.

Once the two months of hard work had concluded, I felt abandoned. I felt alone. I thought that I'd be happy to take time off for myself and spend some time alone. Oh I was mistaken. Last week was terrible. Down in the gutter of dark thoughts, I dwelled and held my head in my heads several times a day. No work. A man far away. And friends with whom I'd lost touch. As the week came to a close and the melancholy infected my mind, I decided that I would take a trip down to Hongcouver and reconnect with my favourite gay couple, Matt and Adam. The next day I packed a bag and dashed for the city. The moment I entered their apartment I knew I made the right choice to leave Whistler for the night. Warm hugs and incredible conversation came into play immediately. The night flowed splendidly. We inhaled a bottle of rouge and relocated to a live jazz lounge in Yaletown. The band encouraged a sense of time travel...A sense that I had disappeared into an era of flappers and feathered headbands. I ordered a 20$ pizza and two vodka waters. When my pizza arrived I had been prying my eyes open and my cheeks were flustered. I was drunkity drunk drunk. Matt and Adam witnessed my fatigue and suggested we go home once we were finished eating.

When we got back we sparked up a canon of a joint and got silly. I mean really silly. I regret not having had some sort of recording device present. Conversation topics were plentiful. Philosophy was in the air. And laughter was unavoidable. I must have giggled the way I giggled when I was 16 smoking pot in Secret Park (that's a reference for all my Beacon Hill folk). Matt had a particularly productive high as he discovered why he's a writer. "I feel words," he said. Sitting on the chaise by the window I surrendered to dream land and left my wonderful friends behind.

In the morning I saw clouds. Too many! Another gloomy day...I just couldn't take it. I sluggishly got up off the couch and we went out for breakfast. As we walked to the restaurant the clouds parted, as to say "let's give everyone a break, just for today." The afternoon was stunning. We walked the entirety of the sea wall. With my trusty new 150$ digi cam in hand I snapped photos every few steps. I was taken aback by the beauty in Vancouver. Matt and Adam live in English Bay, a truly rewarding place to live. The two of them have created an eden of their own. Floor to ceiling windows that look onto the ocean and a magnificent city scape make for a couple's everyday retreat.

I've spent quite some time in Vancouver, mainly in Gastown and Yaletown and of course doooowntown. But this was my first true Sea Wall and Stanley Park experience. We walked from their front door, over to the Lost Lagoon. It amazed me that within blocks, just minutes from the buzzing of the city, was this incredibly calm land by the water. Matt and Adam, arms linked, walked ahead as I froze to enjoy the scenery. Like a sponge, I soaked it all in. I took a moment to evaluate the last 2 months I spent as an Assistant Producer with a television show. Naturally a deep feeling of nostalgia blew over as the melancholy planned its infiltration. But the sundance on the water and the clean air that I was breathing in formed a moat around me. I was finally able to reflect without tears, without the "poor me" syndrome, and without the feeling of desertion.

Armed with a new sense of triumph, I continued to walk with Matt and Adam who patiently listened to me meander among words about relationships. I had so much to share and their ears were approachable. We reached the Sea Wall somewhere between my babbling and our collective foot steps. Standing in front of me I noticed the oddest structure. Not quite uprigt, and defininitely taken out of context, this structure reminded me of the Crooked Kitchen. For some who aren't familiar with the "Crooked" or the "Crazy Kitchen," allow me to elaborate. The Crazy Kitchen is a very popular installation found at the Canadian Museum of Science and Technology in Ottawa, Ontario. It's designed to give you motion sickness. One corner of the room is slanted by 12 degrees, making it 2 feet higher than the other side of the room. The tiles, the countertops, the table and chairs, are all designed to seem flat and in place. So, your eyes are telling you one thing, and your body is struggling to remain upright. As I stared at this structure along the Sea Wall I couldn't tell if the logs were lopsided, or the railing behind it was angled, or the structure itself was toppling over. But I reverted to a time when I was a child and walking through the Crazy Kitchen was as good as a roller coaster ride.

Next, we decided to walk over to Yaletown, so we headed for Granville. On our way, we ignorantly stumbled onto a film set. Suddenly, all of the vehicles had European license plates, and the street signs were written in German. Even billboards were replaced with ads found in downtown Frankfurt. At a standstill, we finally realized what we'd walked into. A snotty queen asked Adam if he was wearing his sunglasses in the last shot. Confused, he hesitated to respond. The snotty queen then said, without hesitation, "You're going to have to leave." Having just worked on a tv set shot on location, I knew what it was like to tell people they needed to ditch the scene, but I'd always use the word please when asking someone to flee. This man had a chip on his shoulder and a stick so far up his ass I thought I could see it coming out of his mouth. We bitched about him for a few blocks until we arrived at Yaletown.

A little window shopping and the day was complete as we wandered back to English Bay. I collected my things and said my goodbyes and headed for my white van. The two hour drive home was a pensive one. I had a nice little getaway but it was time to return to the bubble that I call home. With honesty and conviction, I would like to say the escape worked. It was probably the perfect combination of great company, red wine, and magnificent sights, that were responsible for the quick resurrection of my fiery soul.

an introduction

2009-10-26T04:08:00.000-04:00

Matters of the heart always bare the deepest part of us. To write about them is to write about our insides. To reveal our fears and our weaknesses. But also to share with the world the beauty and passion we've encountered. The most radiant souls confess everything... like an open book they tell tales of courage and loyalty and of course, love. At times, these tales provide hope, and others provide rationality. Oh, since when is love rational? No. No it isn't. But all things rational must exist in order to carry us through the irrational ups and downs of the heart.

Each experience we take with us plants a seed. A seed of rational thought. It's important to allow these seeds to grow. They will form dimensions in our spirit that prove useful in the future. We're all dynamic beings. Ever changing. It's only natural to accept these growths and to nourish them because they will evolve as we do. A fair warning: not every seed is light. Not every seed possesses positivity. In fact, many seeds that are planted will be dark and grounding. Some will be humbling. Still, they are all necessary. Once we've adopted them and welcomed them into our core they are no longer baggage. They weigh nothing as they become one with us. a past lover. a dead friend. a broken window. We no longer drag the emotional anchor. Instead, we have enhanced our existence. We have enhanced our being. We've taken a negative experience and placed it somewhere it can be beneficial. We learn from the past, always, but must remember that our future is sovereign. These seeds, these growths that are within us, they're not ghosts. They push us in the right direction, they push us towards a progressive self. If we don't nourish them, they can turn on us. They'll reiterate jealousy, greed, and anger. It's vital that we don't ignore the seeds as they flourish. And when a gloomy seed tickles our ego, our emotions, our mind, then pay attention to it but don't go backwards. Don't revert to the source of the seed, because it's gone. The seed is there to represent what has past. The seed is an ambassador of the things no longer present. Only look to the seed for guidance... no further.

For the heart door to unlock we must have faith in everything that's blossomed within us. If we are not supported by internal entities, external beings will have a difficult time connecting. Knowing yourself takes a lifetime. This is not about knowing ourselves. This is about awareness and acceptance. Aware of our flaws and acceptance of our weaknesses. Ignoring the seeds will lead to failure. To acknowledge and be honest is to own ourselves. And to own one's self is noble. Nothing bad ever came from being noble, did it?

he travelled on his spirit's two feet

2009-10-18T13:22:00.001-04:00

deeply he spoke into the cave where he saw his soul's face
it surprised him with its resilient smile, a soothing sight it was.
not all are as lucky as he, for most of us have souls with no expression at all.
he knew how fortunate he was and so set forth into the cave.
he was searching for a life force stronger than his own
but what was there at the end and into the deepest part of the earth
was nothing more than everything he already knew.
nothing more than his memories. his emotions. his most promised ideas.

"why have you come here?" the cave asked.
and he stood there, boldly, with nothing to say.
she demanded words or she would strip him of his humanity slowly.
a threat so large he froze and a tear of ice fell from his eye and his eye bled.
recognizing the man's perpetual passion for life and the human race
she urged him once more.
"why my dear creature have you sought me out?"
a calm flowed through his veins and encouraged him to speak softly to her.
"I've come to find the seed that grows beneath my spirit's feet."
with a gentle grin she responded with great wisdom
"It is there, up there on the surface. somewhere near and dear to you. it is with you everyday and in the air when you breathe.
it is not in religion or adrenaline. it is not in books or the arts. but it is strong. and it is yours forever."

wounded by her words he left the cave with a sense of dissatisfaction
he would spend the rest of his life searching for the seed that grows beneath his spirit's feet
and it was a task that gave him a sense of fulfillment and ambition until the end of his time.
and he never, not for a breath, not for a thought, questioned himself again.

the monogamist's throne

2009-03-14T21:30:00.000-04:00

What is it about pairing off as the end all be all to our personal success in life? Why do we feel complimented, justified, complete, when we find someone who loves us, cherishes us, and wants to grow old with us? What's so great about someone loving you romantically? Isn't it sufficient to have friends in your life who would die for you? Take a bullet for you?

I think humanity has a serious ego issue. This is probably why women in relationships often don't get along well with women who are single. Not only do they believe every single gal out there is on the hunt for a man, but they tend to think that every woman who talks to their spouse is hitting on them. Sure, they might be insecure, but does that really vindicate the dagger eyes? Perhaps. Circumstances could ask for it I suppose. And why is it, being single inspires pity from other people? "So, are you seeing anyone special? No? Oh, don't worry, you'll find someone soon, you're a great person." Thank you, I know I'm a great person, I don't need a ball and chain to legitimize my existence in this regressive society!

I refuse to indulge in the hierarchy of the monogamist's union. When I enter a healthy relationship and find someone I can tolerate for more than five minutes, it will be solely for the reasons of enjoying their company. I don't need arm candy. A spouse shouldn't be treated as an accessory. "This is my boyfriend, see how well he goes with my new smile?" Just the other night my friend told me that his friend dated someone of 'high' status, which automatically makes her a catch. Um, excuse me? She hooked a successful guy so suddenly that makes her admirable? We must stop praising people for their abilities to lure men and women towards us and start praising them for who they are as individuals. If we don't, we'll only perpetuate this pathetic display of superficial relationship syndrome.

Just to clarify here, I am not anti-monogamy by any means. I definitely prefer being in a healthy relationship than being single. But I don't think I'm any less of a person if I don't have someone in my life. And I don't need pity. I'm happy when I'm single. I'm sad when I'm single. I'm happy when I'm with someone, and I can get sad when I'm with someone. It's all the same. The key is finding things you love other than love itself.

free love -- for ashley dawn

2009-02-26T21:01:00.000-05:00

free love is the best love.
it moves with the wind, caressing the trees, stroking the leaves, bringing life to the silent wood.
when it sleeps, it rests in the earth, where it lay, seducing you, bringing you closer.
as you open your soul to nature, free love finds a new home.it now lives within you, eternally. streaming through your soul, lifting you above the clouds of your personal burden.
that is where you will rest.
where WE will rest, as ambassadors of free love.

the riddle of the rattle

2009-01-23T03:30:00.000-05:00

No subject is taboo between one of my closest friends Justin and I. One night, hangin' in my room chattin' away, I brought up the topic of a fulfilling life. In particular, my fear that I may never slip into the niche I was meant to find and will ultimately lead a life of pointlessness. I explained to him that I'm not really sure what makes me happy. I know what tickles me pink and what leaves a stink. But what on earth makes me, above all other things and people in the world, HAPPY. Justin believes that happiness is an illusion, one of his many beliefs I don't completely agree with but respect nonetheless. I always try to take his ideals into consideration when determining my stance on an inssue. He explained that everything is perspective. We can create our own reality. We can choose to be happy. We can choose to think positively. Or we can choose to go the darker route.

Assuming everything is perspective and happiness is an illusion, then I wonder, is ignorance truly bliss? Nobel Prize winner Anatole France once said that "a person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance." Should we agree then? This makes me think of the rattle snake. The rattle snake is one of my favourite groups of snakes for many reasons: they are one of the few snakes who give birth to live young, as opposed to laying eggs. They are venemous and can strike faster than the human eye can even follow, a trait found only in this species. Because they are often underestimated in speed and length of reach, they are damn good at biting people. But the greatest thing about them, and what makes them relevant to this here blog post, is that they can't hear their own rattle. And believe me, I've worked with rattle snakes back in the day (Little Ray's Reptile Zoo, kudos to you guys!) the rattling is not quiet. Rattle snakes are oblivious to their warning sign (the rattle). It's a natural instinct for them. Humans don't have the luxury of acting entirely on instinct. We are burdened with deep thinking, contemplation, emotions. How are we meant to find 'happiness?' Is Justin right, is it an illusion? Or is life an illusion, a distraction, from the inevitable feeling of loneliness until we meet our end: death.

Perhaps happiness is a journey. So long as we continue to search for it throughout our lives, we will find it in the end, once our life in this world has finished. Or perhaps humanity is incapable of happiness because we are observers, or at least some of us are (I know I am). My analytical side is definitely a tragic flaw. Observing makes it difficult for us to determine what reality is and how we are supposed to find our niche. As my friend Chloe, an aspiring photographer, says, "everyone wants to be a photographer." It's true, most people are searching for a unique experience, a unique lifestyle, daring to be different. But in doing so we are one and the same. Writers, painters, musicians, athletes. Chasing your passion seems to be the "in" thing to do these days, which makes it even tougher to get there. This world is competitive and having the right perspective, a wide perspective, can make or break you.

I recently read a very interesting book, Happiness: A history, written by a historian, Darrin McMahon that investigates the everchanging standard of what we consider to be happiness. He explores all of the ways in which humanity has sought out to be happy, and the dynamic relationship our species has with the things that are meant to get us there. There was a time when happiness was thought only to be attainable in the after life, and that the lives they led on earth were for suffering, serving, and sacrifice. Supposedly, the Greeks were the first to jump into the idea of 'pursuing' happiness. If this is true 'happiness' as an entity is fairly young.

While Anatole France believed happiness comes only with ignorance, philosopher Thomas Aquinas believed happiness is to seek truth. With this in mind, I find my thoughts running circles around the idea of perspective and reality. Seeking truth is unprofitable without some idea of reality, or even a belief that there is such a thing. How are we to determine what's real and what's not, what's true and what's false, if all we have to go on is our perspective?

As trivial as these questions may be, they bring to the surface many aspects of ignorance. If we do not ask these questions, if we do not question our lives, our spirituality, our competence, our meaning, our world, our consciousness, our government or even our supposed reality, then would we be happy as a species?Oblivious to our purpose, we could achieve true happiness should we be capable of distracting ourselves long enough.

in the league of the clit

2008-11-13T21:46:00.000-05:00

Clitoris
–noun Anatomy.
the erectile organ of the vulva, homologous to the penis of the male.

I don't think I necessarily agree with this definition entirely, at least the part pertaining to the penis of the male. If literature on the clitoris continues to compare the clit to the penis then it will only perpetuate the lack of skilled clit commanders in this world. Men will never master the art of tapping into this source of pleasure if they think it even remotely works the same as their dick.

First of all, the clitoris exists soley to provide sexual pleasure to us women, also known as goddesses. The clitoral glans (not to be mistaken for glands) has more nerve endings than the penis, consequently making our magic button a little more magically sensitive than your (male) magic wand. With this information on the table now I would like to extend a message to all you men out there who don't really understand: STOP PUTTING SO MUCH PRESSURE ON MY CLIT. It hurts. It's ticklish. It's not fun or sexy or pleasurable.

Secondly, the clitoris allows the blood that flows INTO it back OUT again continuously, allowing for us goddesses to experience multiple orgasms (A side note: one orgasm is more than enough for me to handle, though many women swear by their multi-dose of the big O). The penis is not this smart. Instead, men have to wait some set amount of time before he can get going again, and this interval changes for everyone.

So in a nutshell, don't suck the clit off when you're going down on us. Don't put too much pressure until advised to do so (some women have a less sensitive clit and need lots of pressure). And for the love of the sex gods, do not bite down.

Now accepting applications for Clit Commanders of all ranks.

a mimbo could be your slave

2008-11-09T21:23:00.000-05:00

Last night I went on a pseudo-date with the most beautiful piece of man meat here in my town of Whistler, British Columbia. I say pseudo-date due to the fact that an actual date usually possesses the intention of getting to know someone you're attracted to, having some time alone with them, some conversation perhaps. Conversation I did not engage in. Physical interaction however, was plentiful.

His lips touched mine so passionately and desperately I thought he may consume my very existence right there in that kiss. He was so hungry for me. His hands travelled along my body and my skin responded with millions of goosebumps on every part of me. I was paralyzed with pleasure. But it was then, in those very moments of pure euphoria that I realized "shit, I'm on a date with a mimbo." How could I let this happen? How did I get involved with such a vacant being? I was so very disappointed in myself. Was it his beautiful baby blues? Was it the smile from cheek to cheek? It certainly wasn't his charm. This poor little man had been pursuing me for a little while now, asking me to spend time with him. I hesitated at first because I am (as always) hung up on someone else. But that was the reason I decided to say yes after all. I thought if I became involved with someone else, perhaps my emotional attachment to the other would dissolve.

Let me tell you something: it doesn't work that way. At least not with someone who has nothing more to offer you than an orgasm and hours upon hours of cuddles. That's another thing, the dude wanted to hold me constantly! Cuddling with someone you aren't into as a person is not satisfying, it's just fucking suffocating.
I didn't sleep with him (thank god), but I did get a preview of the situation 'down there' and is it ever satisfying. Girth, length, smoothness of skin, shaved pubes, the works! Yes that's right ladies and gents, my mimbo has a perfect penis. PERFECT. No curving in any direction, no foreskin, no hair, and no erectile dysfunction. Should I decide to sleep with him I'm sure I'll be tickled pink...

Even with a perfect penis and a perfect body and a smile that sends me away to some far land where beautiful people are my slaves and the beds are draped in silk, I have no interest in him. He has nothing to say. Nothing at all. He even mentioned he was glad Bush wasn't recently re-elected....BUSH. Oh my goodness. During one of the very rare moments we exchanged a few words I counted the amount of times he said the word 'like.' I don't even want to repeat the number for I'm afraid you wouldn't believe me.

Whistler is full of his type of man: Hot, talented rider, tall T's and mad steeze.....Oh ya...and dumb as Alicia Silverstone in Clueless. In the morning when I left I patted him on the head with utmost pity and said "catchya later." I left him there like a poor puppy, all alone while his owners are off to work. I doubt I'll hang out with him again, but if I do it'll be to feed the kitty and nothing else.

A Creative Spill from Del Toro's Mind: A Review of Pan's Labyrinth

2008-09-23T17:47:00.000-04:00

This is a review I wrote for the radio. I once had a radio segment, but those days are long gone.

I want to start off by pointing out that Pan’s Labyrinth is food for both the regular moviegoers and critics. It’s receiving so much praise not by accident, but because it’s genuinely a well-made and entertaining film. The minority of audience members who have disliked it have criticized it for being too much like other fairy tale films. Or Too much like other war films. Vidal has been compared to Goethe from Schindler’s list. Ofelia’s adventure has been accused of being a reconstruction of Sarah’s journey in the famous film, Labyrinth. But these opinions are far and few between. Of course Pan’s Labyrinth is going to assume the shape of a typical war film and a typical fantasy film. But what is atypical about it is its ability to mold the two genres together, and create something unique. If we’re going to criticize Pan’s Labyrinth for plagiarism we might as well call up Jim Henson and Wolfgang Petersen and tell them Guillermo Del Toro stole from their films The Never Ending Story (1984) and Labyrinth (1986) and decided to make a box-office career out of their imagination. I don’t see any resemblance between the creatures of either film and the incredibly inventive creatures of Pan’s. Perhaps some narrative structural elements are common. The adventure, the journey, the ambiguity of reality and fantasy. But in any fairy tale film, these elements will apply. This by no means takes away from the film’s value or quality. So, with this tangent out of the way, I’d like to express why I’ve been so blown away by this film.

As I said, Pan’s Labyrinth is appealing both to the mainstream and the critical audiences. It’s visually stimulating, the sound editing is efficient, the directing is optimal, even the acting is pretty damn good. Gore, and horror are not scarce, but not over done either. The violence is necessary to the plot, and the camera angles work to demonstrate the viciousness of these scenes. But what makes this film so stunning is the story. I’m beyond impressed that Del Toro was capable of creating such an imaginative piece of art. Now, there are many films just as breath taking and powerful. There are many films that speak to their audience loudly and leave them with an emotional response. The story of Pan’s Labyrinth was born in Del Toro’s mind, and his mind alone. Children of Men, is a good example of a film I’ve recently viewed and felt moved, disturbed, enlightened, and the like. The fact that it made me feel so strongly alone makes me appreciate it for what it is, a powerful film. But, it’s a film adapted from a novel. It’s a regurgitation of someone else’s imagination, and re-created appropriately for the screen. I by no means want to diminish Children of Men’s excellence or Alfonso Cuaron’s ability to screen write. It is incredibly difficult to adapt a novel into a screenplay. Not only because you must face the possibility of horrific scrutiny from lovers of the novel, but also it is rather hard to take someone else’s creative expression and stay true to it but also making it your own. But my point is, that Del Toro created an entire universe, which only a fragment of was shown in the film. Ok, so what do I mean by this?

Firstly, for a fantasy world like that in Pan’s Labyrinth to exist, one must develop the details. Since we only see a small portion of this mystical underworld in the film, we don’t really know what the rest of it contains, but it does exist in some form elsewhere…in Del Toro’s mind. Basically, when writing a screenplay as ingenious as Pan’s, if you want to accurately depict a small portion of another universe, or a world unlike the one we see today, then it is imperative to build the foundation. So what I’m saying is, although we only see a small segment of the underworld, Del Toro, at some point, perhaps during brainstorming, perhaps in his mind alone, had to fully create every detail of that universe. Why it is, where it is, how it functions, who lives there, who does what, is it dark? Is it beautiful? How old is this world? All of these things are details that must be acquired in order to express even the tiniest of imagery or portion of that world. If this ‘background’ or ‘foundation’ was not set first, then what we see as an audience member wouldn’t ring true. Wouldn’t make sense. And wouldn’t have the effect it has on us. So, for a screenwriter to imagine this world and make it come to life so beautifully in the language of film, is an astounding display of imagination. A display we don’t see enough of in films today. And for that, I say give the Oscar for best original screenplay to Guillermo Del Toro and his beautiful mind.

On an analytical and deeper level, I’d like to take a minute to explore some allegorical structures found in the film. Interestingly, there is a bridge formed within the film’s narrative between the resistance fighters and the Captain and this bridge is found within Ofelia. While the political spectrum is very black and white, there is a tremendous amount of ambiguity surrounding Ofelia and her journey. Is the underworld real? Is she really a princess? Or is this a part of her mind? We could sit here and debate this for hours and neither of us would come up with any definitive answer with enough evidence because, problematically there’s evidence for both sides. I won’t get into detail as to what this evidence is because I wouldn’t want to spoil anything, but it’s important when seeing this film not to stress too much about whether or not this journey is real. What IS important, however, is the fact that it really is so ambiguous. The structure of the narrative following the resistance fighters and the military is so cut and dry that I’m tempted to say there are archetypes present. Now, I won’t use that word since it has a bit of a negative connotation, but I’ll elaborate on this point. Captain Vidal and his officials are always portrayed as merciless, cold, and evil. While the resistance fighters are innocent victims, good people, and warm hearted Spaniards. There is no ambiguity here. The story developed around these two groups of people is very much a good vs. evil structure. But Ofelia’s story is often in question. Can Ofelia trust Pan? Is she REALLY the princess of the underworld? And even if she is, does this underworld exist only in her mind? However frightening or suspicious her journey seems to be, Ofelia continues to explore and determine her own identity. She does this not by obeying Pan’s every wish, not by obeying her mother or her cruel stepfather the Captain, she does this by her own means. So, having said that, there’s something fairly interesting that most would catch onto and that is, the parallel drawn between Ofelia and the Captain. Vidal is accused of being the type of person who “obeys without question.” Clearly, Vidal being the villain, this is not a desirable trait to possess. In Spain, at the time of 1944, grave repression took place due to Franco’s recent victory. Executions were distributed like candy, and Spain was in a state of fear. Those who “obey without question” were those who obeyed Franco. Those who questioned were killed. A smaller version of this is revealed in Pan’s when the Captain kills two farmers without remorse, kills the doctor, and well, kills anything really. Spain’s repressive state caused darkness among the people everywhere, but nobody who wanted to keep their lives would speak of their fear. The Captain is a man able to obey without question, and in retrospect is of weaker character. A little while after Vidal is accused of being one who obeys without question, Ofelia is told to obey Pan without question. Exactly in those words “obey me without question.” In the end, she disobeys him, but her disobedience allows her to become who she’s meant to be, and on a spiritual level conquer Vidal entirely.

As an aspiring screenwriter, I can’t stress enough how much this masterpiece has spoken to me. Both on the surface and deeper levels of my film viewing experiences. If you can let go, and accept its similarities to other fairy tale films, other war films, and just take it in, you’ll love it. Every genre film will carry common traits, and this one is a fusion of two very different genres yet it blends to make one unique and compelling film.

Breathe in the Nil

2008-09-10T16:54:00.000-04:00

An increasing amount of North America’s population is suffering from clinical depression, myself included. The most common ‘remedy’ is to take SSRIs (Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors). This medication promotes the reuptake of serotonin (a neurotransmitter, like dopamine and others) and in doing so is meant to help with severe depression. I am currently taking Cipralex, an SSRI with the fewest side effects. However, in the last few months I’ve noticed an increase in these so-called “temporary” effects. Here is a list of the most common side effects that Cipralex claims to last only during the first few weeks of consumption:

Insomnia/vivid and strange dreams
Confusion
Shaking in the hands
Diarrhea/constipation/nausea
Decreased appetite
Dizziness
Sleepiness
Nervousness
Sexual problems
Inflammation of the sinuses
Pain in the muscles and joints
Increased sweating
Rash or itching
Fear/Paranoia

Out of the fourteen most common “temporary” side effects, I have been experiencing eleven. Eleven out of fourteen.

I was prescribed Cipralex in October of 2007 and it is only in the last few months that these effects have surfaced. I can’t sleep, and when I do I experience terrible nightmares usually vivid enough to throw me into a rattled state of mind for the rest of the day. My deep love for the taste of foods has sadly decreased immensely and I’m finding it more and more difficult to feel alive. I gain no pleasure in the activities I once considered to be fulfilling. My sex drive, though still present, is fluctuating in levels of intensity. I’m constantly tired and without energy, even though I can’t sleep when I want to. I’m constantly on edge, nervous, anxious, and afraid. I find it hard to concentrate on issues that I am passionate about, and therefore can’t form opinions or arguments as well as I once could. In other words, my intellect is in serious question, and for me, this is the most upsetting ‘side effect.’

As a result of my recent frustrations with this ‘remedy’ for depression, I started to wonder: Is this what my pursuit of happiness has become? The path to contentment starts with a bottle of 10mg tablets? Whatever happened to inner peace, inner strength, independence? I’ve noticed that my “depression” has now manifested into the feeling that I’m simply “not enough.” I need a steady relationship to feel complete, a steady job to feel successful, a tight group of friends to feel loved, and a busy lifestyle to distract myself from the inevitable feeling of loneliness. I am a logical woman, and to me, this statement rings completely illogical. Why should all of these external entities define me? They don’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that when a relationship isn’t up to par, or a friendship is falling apart, I doubt myself. I begin to think negatively about the world and about my immediate self.

If I am a naturally emotional woman who tends to think too much and too negatively and therefore allows herself to fall into a depression, are psychiatric drugs really the answer? I don’t believe they are, at least not for me. The problem, then, lies in myself. I have a consistent need to help people and I’m in a constant search for meaning. Perhaps I’m searching in the wrong places. To pull myself out of this depression I will need to make drastic changes in my thinking patterns, my lifestyle, and my goals.

The purpose of this piece is to find others like me so we can bounce ideas around and somehow come to terms with the best ways to rectify our unfortunate states of mind. Psychoanalysis? Behavioral therapy? Yoga? For some it may be one of those methods and for others it may be all of them. But I believe communicating with each other is a wonderful way to release our fears without feeling judged. Sharing this with a shrink is all fine and dandy but sometimes it’s difficult to ignore the pen and paper they have in front of them as you speak. Friends are helpful but there remains the fact that they just don’t get it. They try to. They really do. But at the end of the day there is no universal sensation in place.

Lately I’ve noticed that sunshine helps a great deal but only provides a temporary relief from my constant struggle to feel alive and well. I’m not miserable. I’m just not happy. As Moka Only says, “it’s not that everything really sucks, I just don’t feel like a million bucks.”

Pineapple Express: Will it live up to the hype?

2008-06-15T16:33:00.000-04:00

Half Baked, Harold and Kumar, Smiley Face. The pothead-adventure-comedy genre is no novelty. From the days of Cheech and Chong to the marijuana savvy characters of How High, smoking the ghanj on film has been a growing choice of subject matter for comedic filmmakers. Pothead-adventure-comedies (or PACs, for simplicity value) can be considered a genre as they have the following traits in common: the main conflict consists of extenuating circumstances that only a pothead could manage to force upon him or herself; the conflict escalates to uncanny occurrences which the protagonists must resolve before the film's end (but don't always succeed in doing so); the protagonists work throughout the duration of the film towards a goal; and finally, lots and lots of Philly blunts, pinners, bong hits, and shotguns are present. Several PACs have been found appealing not only to members of ghanja culture, but some even to the masses. Of the numerous PACs that have been made, none have received as much pre-release praise as Pineapple Express, and it is still over a month away.

Every stoner in Canada has watched the trailer online a dozen times, has seen the Redband rated R version, and played the Pineapple Express game on the website, www.ridetheexpress.com. If this film doesn't live up to its hype, thousands of loyal mary-jane lovers will roam the streets with rage. Ok, they probably won't have any rage at all since they'll be burnt out from the canon they smoked prior to entering the film, but they sure as hell won't be stoked. Remember Wesley Pipes and Billy Bong Thorton? If Pineapple Express carries even a fragment of the stoner-perspective found in Half-Baked, then it will not disappoint. Not to mention the fact that the film stars the new Rat Pack members of comedy, Seth Rogen and James Franco, along with the always hilarious Bill Hader. And remember the abundantly annoying Bill Lumbergh from Office Space, played by Gary Cole? You better believe he's in the film too! Even Danny McBride (Hot Rod, All the Real Girls) has a role!

It is very unlikely that this incredibly talented and comical cast will fail to bring stoners everything they want to see in a PAC: indiotic behaviour, highly unlikely (and hard to believe) action scenes, and of course the green stuff. Get ready to ride the express August 8th, 2008!