a laugh less ordinary.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Stevie Nicks

a child under the influence

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

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

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.