Toutes portes ouvertes
En plein courant d’air
Je suis une maison vide
Sans toi, sans toi.
Comme une île déserte
Que recouvre la mer
Mes plages se devident
Sans toi, sans toi.
Belle, en pure perte
Nue au coeur de l’hiver
Je suis un corps avide
Sans toi, sans toi.
Rongée par le cafard
Morte, au cercueil de verre
Je me couvre de rides
Sans toi, sans toi.
Et si tu viens trop tard
On m’ aura mise en terre
Seule, laide et livide
Sans toi, sans toi,
Sans toi.
^ ^ ^
I want to stick white fluffy stuff all over my walls and pretend it is clouds. Then I want to build boats and make people out of all of my love. All the love I have, I want to just expel into making a small village of little people that will swim in a boat from cloud to cloud on my wall. I watched ‘The Science of Sleep’ and it made think of this, plus I need to let out some of this stuff in my heart.
It fucking kills me when I start bawling while jerking off. I remember the first time it happened in 2005. I was mourning. Seems like yen really loves to shove its way up to my conscious mind when I’m at the peak of my elation.
I am losing myself…. unlike most of the world, I don’t perform well under pressure. I don’t succeed when my ass is on the line. I do things slowly, calmly while I turn into a storm. My eyes burn so much I can’t even cry.
Where are you?
Are you there?
I just want YIMBY to do well. So well. I have 10 days to make it. To make it out alive.
Stress somehow manages to be like the evening tide, and bring all the dirt to the surface. Everything, even the pieces that I thought were lost deep in the ocean somehow make their way back and flaunt their memories in front of me, letting the yen take over me, torturing me.
Doppelgänger Effect.
I’ve had a tampon in since this morning and I can feel the blood leaking into my underwear. I’m going to eat Sea Salt & Vinegar chips for dinner.
I’m running a festival, all by myself and I’m anxious that the participants aren’t rolling in like the previous years. I’m anxious that the early-called election is taking full view.
I’m desperate for sharp conversation, but when it’s right there I in all my social awkwardness take over and mumble about something or other. Food politics! Down with Harper! Cocaine! Wobble basslines! The city’s arts scene! Everyone is dancing the same!
I wait days and then you have to take it away prematurely. But isn’t any time before forever premature?
I don’t write anymore. There’s no fiction in my words, there’s just running around selling my ideas, helping on projects, reaching out to everyone and anyone for grad school, for community politics, for my documentary. Everything is external of me. I enjoy the way it masks my depth by pronouncing my knowledge of current events. That seems like a contradiction but really it makes sense to me. By involving myself with everything around me and facilitating ideas that involve many, I don’t have to think about the hurricane that is subsiding at the slowest rate possible inside me. By being involved I can seperate myself from my grief, from the memories, from the reminders. But they are there, they were there when I ate the Dr. Oateker pizza yesterday, or when I think about getting my driver’s licence. Smell is supposed to be the most intense sense in memory recollection, but intensity of experience scraps smell and instead lingers on every sense.
The writing class I wanted to take was full by the time I was ready to register. I didn’t have to loaf, but instead I was too intimidated to let myself inside my own writing. It’s so easy to feel anxiety and cry about not being able to do what you want to, it’s way fucking easier than giving in and doing it. So instead of using the grief to write and write, I’m just letting it go away, even if it doesn’t seem to want to.
-
She pulled at the seaweed covered branch stuck between the rocks, trying to lift it up just enough to throw it over the stone’s edge.
“Come here!” She yelled after him, as he disappeared into the dark.
“Leave it alone.”
She managed to slide the long thick branch over the stones, just near enough to touch him with it at the other end, “You’re it.”
“You’re it,” he jumped over it and pummelled her onto the stones, catching the back of her head with his hands.
“You’re it.”
“You’re it,” he grinned looking at her so close, he could no longer focus.
“Always catch me. Ok?”
“Yes… Yes.”
I think I’m done for real. I am such a broken record with this, but I am weak, I admit & I don’t know where to find the strength to finish it. It’s sunny outside but instead my paralysis has me in here, unable. I want to be able, for this, for certain.
Riding around late nights with the heat on my back. Racing down streets, tipsy and stoned, laughing, pretending to be falling all over the place. Falling all over myself. All this year has given me is rain and cool weather. How can I go meet my friends at 1 in the morning when it’s so cold and dark. I have memories of waking up in the morning after being out til 5am and taking tokes from my pipe to start the day. Riding down the hill to work only to finish by the afternoon to do it all again. The sunshine made it all possible, made the energy appear in places you’d least expect it. We’d search for empty courts and play basketball and pass out with our sweat sticking to the grass. There was no worries, there was just proof of youth.
I spent the day walking around my neighbourhood trying to get some sun. I sat outside for a bit reading Erica Jong’s biography of Henry Miller but the midday sun burned my scalp and I got awfully dizzy. So dizzy my stomach started hurting and I had to keel over and lay down on the dirty gravel messing up my white shirt. Instead, I grabbed my camera and walked around the Wychwood Green Art Barns. Sneaking around the construction, hoping nothing would fall and kill me. It felt so strange walking around all alone. For a moment, I wanted to call someone, have someone with me even if by telephone, but I stopped myself. How can I ever think about anything if there’s always people noise around me? This summer has been so strange though. It always ends up pouring rain at some point in the day. The weather is strangely proportionate to how I am; I’ve been a pouring thundering sky the last few months. Blindingly sunny in the morning, overcast midday, a bit of sun peaking through in the late afternoon before the thundershowers start. Toronto’s weather has been markedly undecisive and confused, just like itself. Unable to decide what it should do, how it should be. Instead it’s always dreaming of a place that is sunny, that has choices; dreaming how to let go of itself and become another city. How fast can you untangle history?
“I remember we were driving driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped ’round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged.”
“It’s been a long, long, long time running
It’s well worth the wait.”
&
I sometimes post music links. If you want yours taken down let me know. & for the rest of you, if you don't buy music & just d/l links, you should feel like an asshole.
