Magdalena O!

Brighton by the pier, April 27, 2010

I am (sick) in Brighton drinking Camomile tea at the local pub, The Druids. The server is sweet and has been refilling it for me on the house. Earlier J was with me and we had delicious curry and thai hot and sour soup with coconut milk. We’ve had lots of delicious food and cuddling in Brighton. I love Brighton a lot, even though I was unable to recover from Bangface Weekender here because the place we were staying at was full of displaced unfulfilled artist egos. This morning we moved back to Matt’s place and it’s exciting again, even though it came too late. Tomorrow morning I am leaving for Toronto. I have a full review of Bangface and it’s amazingness in my fingers! J and I stayed in a chalet with Loops Haunt and Jimmy Edgar and I fell in love with them both. Ok, Ok. I fell in love with everyone at Bangface.

People wear too much strong perfume in Brighton, even on the street it stuffs my nose up.

People are real lookers here.

The seagulls are the biggest I’ve ever seen, especially compared to the ones we have in Toronto.

All the shops, and even cafes close between 5 and 6pm.

Cars yield to pedestrians and cyclists respectfully.

I feel like I know Brighton now. I like the comfort in that.

Anton’s Memory Exhibition, Venice, August 2009

This is a picture I took of the famous poem I stumbled upon earlier this year that made me fall in love with Yoko Ono, and in turn it gave me the words to fall in love with you.

Penestin, France, July 2009

After I sat on a cliff watching the Atlantic Ocean it rained. It was my first time. I cried because it hurt and opened me. I had to bike back to my caravan with heavy clothes. I was climbing the rain.

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Touch

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

-Octavio Paz

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Dalida Statue, Montmartre, Paris, July 2009

This is Dalida. She is a goddess, but really an Egyptian-born French singer. Three of her lovers committed suicide after being with her. I took her photo from all angles, especially to showcase her hair. It reminds me of mine. It reminds me of the story of Samson and his locks. I am pretending to be between them right now. Saul Williams in a poem, This Type of Love says: “…I want a love that makes me want to cut off all my hair. Well maybe not all of the hair, maybe like I’d cut the split ends and trim the mustache but it would still be a symbol of how strong my love is for her.” Yes! I say this so much as an extension of my love! I am so fervent about my long hair. It’s everywhere. Playtime!

I want to go to there.

I want to explore what it means to be me (how cliché is that?), what it means to be allowed to experience everything. Sitting in front of my laptop playing Solitaire isn’t getting me anywhere, but it’s what I do. I’m stressed out. Solitaire. Finished a part of an application. Solitaire. Being told what to do at work while someone else makes the decisions isn’t working me out. It’s wearing me out. Being in the same city since I was a preteen isn’t conducive to risk. But I’ve never been a risk taker, so what do I do? I have these projects lining up in front of me, but I cower. I take them on, on, on but not with all of me. Never with all of me. Where is the exploration in a desk? I don’t want to be no armchair archeologist. I think I’m starting to grow old because I think about my mortality in a different way. In a way that things are changing, moving so fast that all I have time to do is go through the motions. Sometimes I feel because J is such a dreamer, I have to be the one to induce practicality in our lives. He is the one living out his dreams as an artist. I can’t let myself.

MP3: Neon Heights, 16 Again, A View from the Heights

This song is from my favorite downtempo house album of all time, A View from the Heights. My ex introduced me to them. I don’t even recall how and when. I wish I remember the story of how he came across them. I  found a copy of the album in some small shop on a corner in downtown Paris. I also bought Cassius’ 1999 and Feeling for You for 5 euros each. This was 2002 and the euro was just taking over, all the prices were still in franks too. This lovely blonde woman worked there. She kept talking to me and I pretended to know more French than I truly did. She found it pleasant that such a young girl was backpacking and still had the will to buy vinyl to carry around so she gave me some French house record. I felt so cool. I didn’t feel so cool when I was sweating buckets in June carrying heaps of records from the different cities I visited, but at that age, the struggle feels less. Always.

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.