Magdalena O!

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.