Taking a piss in the Bloor Cinema washroom tonight after seeing 400 Blows, I was reminded of the first time I ever came while standing up. I sat on the toilet and the window to my left was ajar enough to see the street alive below. There was traffic, noise, cyclists swerving, people trying to get laid, lights shining in all directions and there I was looking at it all. It was exactly how it was in my hostel WC in Rome six years ago. I remember not having masturbated in a while, and my finances never left me with a room of my own, often even without a locked shower stall, making jerking off difficult. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I must have taken my vibrator into the bathroom with me, and started touching myself with it. There was a tiny makeshift window that was a hole in the wall and I could see inside the top windows of Stazione Termini, tilting my head I could also make out the people on the street. I remember slowly focussing on the sensations I was used to, but I had to ground myself in my feet to let the awareness take over. It took a while, but I wasn’t going to give up, I was going to break new ground. I remember focussing on a person inside the terminal window, imaging it to be some sexy Italian man who could discern what I was doing, even if it my window was too small for anyone to see into. He would look at me, then scan my body - my swollen tits, wet from the shower that was on as to not rouse suspicion in my room mates, to my belly, circling the piercing, to the hair just growing in surrounding my pussy, around my pelvis and hips, down to my legs and painted toes. I’d close my eyes and let him see me come, let him watch my face turn and my lips spread open while I gave way to muffled groans. He’d touch himself too, he’d have to, he’d see the water running down my thighs and imagine his own cum in its place. I came three times.
I have to go back to Montreal just to see this exhibition,
At the heart of this exhibition is a break-up e-mail that the artist received from a lover, which ends with the line “Take Care of Yourself”. Sophie Calle decided to do just that. “I received an email telling me it was over…I asked 107 women (including two made from wood and one with feathers), chosen for their profession or skills, to interpret this letter…”
Originally produced for the French Pavilion at the 2007 Venice Biennale, PRENEZ SOIN DE VOUS consists of texts, photos, films and voices of 107 women of all ages who interpret the break-up letter through their various professions. This poetic and often touching project speaks to us all about our relation to the loved one.
Text projected on the body is one of my favorite things. It excites me. Sophie Calle excites me. Montreal excites me. It is a win-win. Now, I just have to find enough money to go before October 19, 2008.
Also, tonight was the opening of Please. + Thank You Too at the Gladstone, and I had a piece in it, a painting of my vagina with one of my used tampons hanging from it. I also walked around with a bag of my tampons to hand out. People would touch them, and when they found out what it was they promptly walked away. Someone told me it was gross and inappropriate, others asked if it was real, another asked if I had covered it with anything to which I responded, “Nothing, just pulled it out and let it dry.”
No one advertised the exhibition, we did nothing to promote it. What a shame, for a non-curated show I was quite impressed with some of the talent.
Oh and I lost one of the closest, most intense friends(hips) I’ve ever had last week. Reynolds Number was always with us.
My Bangface wristband snapped off on Wednesday, August 6, 2008. It was on its last thin plastic thread, and in a drunken haze I whipped off my sweater and it came right off, landing on the kitchen table. I am glad J was with me, he was there when the memento had lost its life with me. It’s on a shelf now, all lonesome. It did last 101 days! His didn’t last as long, but his job deals with sound equipment and heavy lifting. I think it was yoga asana’s that did mine in. All the wrist stretching - it would pull at the wristband, always. We had some good times together, the wristband and I. The first days, when I would shower awkwardly lifting up my right arm out of the water’s way. The time I went swimming with my brother and had my wrist out the whole time because I was afraid of getting too much moisture inside it, until my brother would chase me around to get me under; he never succeeded besides a few splashes. Whenever I’d be fucking, if J would hold my wrists I’d have to wiggle my way out and remind him, “Bangface,” to which he’d grin and totally understand. With yoga it was the most challenging, because in downward dog my wrists get bent a lot and it’s the most often done pose, or with bridge. I’d get nervous, sliding it up and down the small perimeter of my wrist. Comments would come every time I went out, “You still wearing the bracelet. You are amazing.” I’m not so amazing, Bangface is so amazing. It became like one of those medi-bracelets. I depended on it for everything. Life would get me down, I’d just look down at my wristband. In the final stages before orgasm, just look at the bracelet. Too drunk to know where I was, bracelet served as my mini-GPS.
Goodbye to you Bangface Wristband. April 25-Aug 6, 2008. RIP.
Tags: bangface
My style blog is back.Tags: fashion
I think I’ve been listening to the wrong people. I think I’ve also been paying too much attention to distractions(ers) that keep my desired life away from me.
&
When white people say,
“I can’t stand that area. It’s so white.”
I wonder if they realize they are the ones that help make the neighbourhoods that way. Perhaps they aren’t aware that their habitation brings more white people and so on until, the neighbourhood “is so white.”
Tags: life, racism, realizations
Last weekend was full of theatrics, tears in alleyways, bruised ego’s, unrelenting Jager shots and the birthdays of two of my close friends. So we danced and got messy and played music really fucking loud.
Going out this Thursday was no different. I decided to go for that American Apparel sleeze look with a man’s tanktop over some shiny leggings. I am so fucking original. Went to the Drake (for my second time ever! i am still that pure) to see The Bug and Warrior Queen. Immigration lead the woman back to her home and gave us Flowdan instead. The opener, some dude representing Ninja Tune in Montreal played a shameful set sans actually mixing, of dancehall… on Serato! Yes, dancehall on Serato. Ninja Tune praises itself on having a roster of serious DJ’s and they give us this drone? Didn’t mix one tune and was using Serato. If you’re going to bust out dancehall, you need to do it with the real deal. It was embarrasing. I had to drink. Some friend’s found out that the friend I was rolling with had chach and so they all tried to impart their wisdom about how “it’s so boring.” “don’t do it. i just did some and now i’m so tired.” “i’m so done with that stuff, it’s so useless.” It was amusing to me, because a. i barely do that shit b. they’re both into it. I enjoyed the drunken worry. In the bathroom. Quickly. I had to. The Bug gets on. Complete wreck. Plays some tunes I enjoy, but is so inconsistent. Fucks with his levels too much. Flowdan comes on. Mosh pit ensues. I start thrashing around my body. Go do more. I try to remember the complete euphoria of Kode 9’s set in Montreal in May. Focus. Can’t. Flowdan announces last song, I already know what it’s gonna be. I start screaming and pounding my fists on the stage. It comes on. I’m finally getting what I came for. Too bad it’s some shitty remix, but I keep focus. I need something. It’s over.
I run into one of the dude’s that’s the cause of all the drama I wrote about in my last entry. I confront him. He makes up some bullshit. Attempts diplomacy but I can see right through it. I’m feeling hostile. “C’mon. Just stop it already,” I tell him. He refuses to acknowledge his hate-on for me. He refuses to acknowledge anything. “We’re all vying for the same thing here. We want good music for our city.” I can’t believe he’s feeding me all this. We get interrupted by another friend of mine who wants to dance. I go dance with him a bit, then get dragged out. We walk to the Pizza Pizza because Dare’s there. I knock on the glass with marked haste. Some poor Abercrombie & Fitch model is sitting near the window alone eating fries and gives me cut eye. I start dancing around and making faces at him. I’m feeling totally high school right now. We’re hanging out high on a Thursday night in front of a pizza joint. It calls for it. Angry faces come back at me. Darren comes out, “Dude is really pissed off.” So I make more faces. Jon says, “I’m still hungry. I really want a fry. Get me one.” I agree and go inside to get a fry from model dude. “Hey man, I wasn’t trying to diss you. I just wanted to get my friend.” He nods and gives up a fry when I ask. At this point, anything childish will keep us entertained.
Some guido walks by and yells, “Flash me for 20 bucks.”
“Fuck off.” I yell back.
“Fine. I’ll flash you for 20 bucks.”
“Ok there buddy.” Dare says.
Buddy responds, “I know you’re gay but I’m not.”
I give a look, “Whhhhhhhat?” and slap him across the face. Buddy can’t believe it. “Yo, I just got bitch-slapped by a chick. What the fuck?” A whole riot of cuss words ensues. He tries to understand what happened. “I don’t care for homophobia. So go fuck off.” I say my last words to him. Sham gets in his face, “You’re gonna get bitch-slapped at some point so it might as well have been now.”
Buddy’s friend comes over trying, “You did the right thing girl. He deserved it.”
More 3am wild chatter. I try to undermine the whole situation because I start to get awkward with all the attention on me by all the others and intermittently cover my face - hiding.
I held this off for a few days, because looking back at the situation, I grimace. What was I thinking? It’s the dog days of summer, really.
What does it mean that I am not fucking my brains out while totally loaded on Meritage red wine from a staff party?
Because I could be. But I managed otherwise. I really should be getting the shit fucked out of me right now. I really should. The picture below is from 2006. Just in case you were wondering.
Many of my discussions with J revolve around loyalty and my inability to take it easy when it comes to ‘having someone’s back’. Sometimes I even think that my intense need for mutual respect and giving credit where it’s due is to my detriment. But I shouldn’t think that way.
Being involved in a specific music scene in my city in every way (as a dj, promoter, party goer, label pusher) makes my demand for loyalty and no-bullshit very tricky. On one hand, I’ve never been able to shut up about my opinion and calling out people on their lameness, but it is precisely that, that hinders many relations that I need to have to survive in the scene. Being a chick isn’t a fucking great option either. I was talking to Brett from Offshore about why there’s no girls ever let into the cliquey boys club, because he’s one of the few guys in the scene that doesn’t seem like a closet sexist. He told me that it arises when you find a bunch of dudes that have a hard on for something, meaning they don’t want any girls in on the circle jerk. So when a girl comes around that isn’t interested in sleeping with them but has the knowledge and is balls out, they’ll take everything she offers as a hostile move.
What the fuck? Why am I even so bothered about this? Who the fuck cares about their circle jerk sessions. I’ve been there. I’ve been given daps for about a second when I drop knowledge, and then the smoke clears and I realize that it’s useless for me to give a shit about people who don’t give a shit about me. I don’t even care about them or want to be involved with them, but my love of the music, especially the particular sub-genre in which there is only a few of us into, gets twisted into thinking that they are part of it and thus must be part of my experience. I will admit, that, sometimes I do wish I would be accepted, that I would be part of it, and there are times I am, or think I am. Sometimes I do want to fit in. And they do do good things for drum n bass. What?! Why? It’s all so silly especially because it’s one small city and my love is beyond that and if I really really wanted to fit in, I’d keep my mouth shut. But it is my city too and I can’t just let them run it. I can’t. I can’t stop trying to bring my perspective. I can’t stop. Just like when I’m full of shit, I want people to call me on it.
I wanted to write more about loyalty. I’ve been thinking about it more and today I checked out Sarah / Disposable City and there it was, everything keeping my mind busy.
Its boring to think that the “key to happiness” is really just keeping my fucking mouth shut and having as few emotions as possible. Were I more even-tempered and less demanding in the realms of reliability and respect and loyalty, Id probably get along in the world much better but, instead, I expect only the best of social manners from the people I have around me and when that is compromised I have no problem making it known. I look at certain relationships and I cant quite figure out how they thrive when the people they are comprised of are such disrespectful imbeciles. Perhaps its the fact that I refuse to waste my time with people that only hang around for their own gain or maybe Im a heinous bossy bitch, but either way, it just doesnt make much sense to me. That being said, I completely envy it on some level or another. I wish I could just grin and bear it when it comes to bad friends and mistreatments, because clearly this works. Theres no knowing what goes on behind certain closed doors but some people, evidently, are just really good at maintaining this neutral attitude at all costs.
Several weeks ago I started up yoga classes again. It had been so long, and doing my own practice wasn’t giving me the deepness I need to further my practice. All day today at work all I could think about was 19h10 to lay down in shavasana and begin. Begin moving my body to my breath. Breathing in and out to the asanas. There are so many things that make me happy, yoga’s ability to induce intense emotions in me is one of them. Today’s class was really productive and I was able to go deeper into Plow, and maybe one day I’ll be able to stand on my head again. I’ve only been able to do it once many years ago with help from my instructor. The Great Seal deepness also gave me a lot of pleasure today. I should set up a routine to do even a wee bit every day like I used to. This is what I want.
Maybe this will keep me away from causing shit with the elite boys club that is the jungle scene in my city.
Tags: Yoga