urban decay

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

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

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

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

...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.

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.