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You’re hurting me,

October 2nd, 2014 § 3 comments § permalink

I tell myself.

 

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(photos from an exhibition in Krakow & from a ferry in Greece, 2014).

 

“We’re undone by each other”

March 25th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

“Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something. If this seems so clearly the case with grief, it is only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact.” -Judith Butler

I have notebooks of desire sealed up in cardboard boxes instead of under my pillows like children’s stories. I have pieces of paper torn between magazines and books and beds across countries. I take screen shots of your messages in case I lose them. Who are you anyway? I make up a man from many men, because there’s no man for me. Acupuncture has inadvertently made me stop smoking. The thought images compound when I try to ‘clear’ my mind, laying on my back unable to move as the needles will tug at my wrist muscles with a sensation that my hands could rip off my arms at any moment. So I avoid that. That used to be smoking. Sitting smoking scribing. But the notebooks are sealed up now, the Mexican cigarette boxes fallen behind my clothes, and there’s nothing to write about.

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Birthday, oh scorpio woman, you wounded brightness…

November 13th, 2013 § 1 comment § permalink

It’s my birthday on November 16.

This birthday—nothing makes sense, smashed to bits, devastated, whatever — but there will be a party! There’s always a #dancecats party with me around.

Maybe I don’t deserve an uncomplicated life listening to J Dilla with a husband collaborator academic artist, children, cats & matching bicycles. Or maybe it’s because those who want me I’ve outlived? That’s probably why I haven’t written anything interesting in this blog other than academic updates in so long. But am I doing a clever job covering up the pain? does it seem like I’m getting shit done? Because I don’t feel it at all. But maybe you read my memory project and read things like this:

Longing for our fumbling fingers the first time our hands met each other.

.

Mexico, te extraño mucho de menos. Muestra señales de vida, querida.

.

Fatal error: Allowed memory size of 103809024 bytes exhausted (tried to allocate 261900 bytes) in /nfs/c02/h08/mnt/20797/domains/raisecain.net/html/ndxzstudio/common.php on line 304

.

I watch him sleep between the layers of white bed sheets and trace the world on his exposed shoulders down to his left arm up to mine. It is all I can do as goodbye.

.

He walks in with a careful step. His hug envelopes me completely. First it’s the ribs, then the arms, then the face. “My M—, oh, you need some energy.”
His girlfriend nods in agreement.
I can feel his fingers over my emaciated flesh as they push between my ribs.
“You look sickly, I am worried.”
I think I should be but I’m not. I stand proud with bags holding up my eyes.

.

I stood still in the rain waiting for him. A wounded brightness among his doubt.

Affections turned into experiences.

But, for real, are you out there G-d? Can I just have some peace? A little bit? Like even for a year or two? Just slow & steady happiness? I was putting in so much effort. Why did no one warn me that it was in all the wrong ways? I’m learning, I’m learning, I scream, but I’m reminded I’ve outlived the efforts.

I’m the most productive when in love and having sex all the time. Everything comes easy. I don’t need much sleep. I wake up happy & ready. My mind is sharp & my eyes are clear.

Since I can’t have what I really want, bring me poems. I just want poetry, poems, poems, never ending poetry for my birthday. I want Erica Jong, Anne Sexton, Warsan Shire, Wislawa Szymborska, George Eliot Clark, Mary Oliver, Czesław Miłosz, Rumi, Hafiz, Adrienne Rich, Anne Boyer, Margaret Atwood, Sara Teasdale, Keats, Saul Williams, Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath, Sanyu Kisaka, Sharon Olds, bell hooks, new poets, new poems, your poems, your words … give me the words of all the pain and desire in the world and let me live.

PS. This is my work lately…

(Why) do we care about sharpness and quality? (2013)

Self-portrait (2011/2013)

Save for Web “0” quality, 15 times.

JPG | 10.73K | 3 sec @56.6Kbps

“time is relative”

June 21st, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Why is saving someone so appealing? Saving someone is like opening their life to a life you imagine is full of everything, full of you, full of nous. But saving someone means you can’t hold onto them. That’s not how it works.

You know that moment when you meet someone and then all of your time opens up? How does that happen? What was the time full of before? As easy as time comes, when that someone leaves, time also punishes you with gaping holes that you can’t seem to fill with anything that works. Everything you do is just a distraction, a physical distraction to the scenes in your mind, replaying moments, finding new moments to remember, to torture you with.

The honesty sheath has come back in my life. Things brought back from previous summers overjoy and sadden me. The intertextuality of all of my summers exponentially bifurcating. Every year is more sentimental than the next, having more summer memories to work into the new summer’s narrative(s). It makes me dizzy.

I should spend my time emailing people back that aren’t part of school or work, but people that I leave behind because they’re not “time sensitive” but want to talk to more than anything. I’ve been in Montreal for almost a year. I am lonely. I wish I was able to do “regular” things like going to a bar to have a beer or going for coffee or hanging out at someone’s house while everyone smokes and dies. Because that is what people I meet invite me to do, but I can’t, I just can’t. Those situations just create larger gaping holes in my/the container, but the kind that promote a dull ache everywhere. I want to spend my time listening to jungle, outside on a bike, in a lake, in bushes, with animals, in secret deep wells in the city, hiding in books someone is reading out loud to me!

Hi! Do you know my dear friend Barry (Boxcutter) released an album under the name The Host? You should listen to it, it’s good for moments like these. It fills you up softly.

I started belly dancing classes last week. Move, move, move. The instructor is this glowing blonde woman named Inka, and I get lost in staring at her and her full and energetic movements. She moves without having to move. She reminds me of that Miranda July quote I posted before, “I could not make a move without making love.

my plane back to nowhere.

August 30th, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink

I am stuffing your mouth
with your promises
and watching you vomit them
out upon my face.”

Anne Sexton wrote that. I’ve blogggged it before. It’s one of the most perfect pieces of words brought together I have ever read so here it is again & again. Amsterdam and its constant downpours are almost over, a few more days until I have to go back to Toronto, and then I fly home (??), fly back to my city where I have no place to live, no potential roommates and the second year of my MA to start/finish. I have no home in Toronto, just memories. Where am I going? Maybe having no place to go opens me up to go anywhere, to have the potential for everything.

The shot of the tree was in France and the plane is from when I visited Shiphol. Now I am here in Jordaan in the centre of Amsterdam. Everything can change in the split of a second, just like that. Words can shatter whole worlds, whole conceptions of knowledge, of what is and what isn’t. Words can do it all but they canot solely repair the damage they are able to do. No, much more than that needs to happen.

Maybe the sun will come out again before I go? Do you know I don’t want to go back, I don’t miss anything in Toronto anymore. I want to stay here, everything makes sense here, my life makes sense here. I am alone a lot and sometimes with some people that maybe will be my friends, they are sweet to me. I have a suitcase, ok I brought two of them, my camera, my Wacom and my laptop. People move across oceans for so many reasons, I have already moved, why do I have to return?  Amsterdam has been so good to me, has nourished me, frustrated me, nearly killed me, but has taught me to give to it too. I love you Amsterdam, I love all you have done for me this summer.

Yen

March 3rd, 2009 § 0 comments § permalink

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.

Thanks a lot buddy!

Fucking people

January 15th, 2009 § 0 comments § permalink

I shouldn’t let coke-head mother fucking spineless lying assholes get to me, but I can’t fucking stand it when people talk shit about people I love, especially the one that I love the most. It is in those moments, my fervent loyalty goes overboard.


I feel sick to my stomach thinking about how a close friend that showed me they cared for me greatly & would be there for me (as i have been nothing but there for them through everything) has totally switched gears to be loyal to someone who has done nothing but talk shit about me & also not be supportive of them either. guh.

People are so fickle and have no backbone sometimes…
maybe i shouldn’t be so upset, maybe i should just remind myself of how weak this friend is, if they are able to do all that. but unlike them, i hold onto friendships and my own feelings zealously..

Funny enough the person I am talking about at the beginning of this post, is the same person I am referencing in the second part. However, the second part I wrote a while ago. But shitty people usually stay shitty.

I just need to cut all ties with those who aren’t everything to me & won’y stick up for me or him when needed. Why bother with anything less?

I have a feeling…

December 25th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink

he is with someone else. I have had this feeling for a while now, but I think he cares for someone else. I wouldn’t mind this so much if he was honest about it. I have been with others. But he insists, always, that he can never be with anyone but me (even if he has done his share of going back on that), he still insists. We have not talked in a few days. We didn’t end with anything finite on the phone, other than him being upset over something again. I wrote him a long email, baring myself to him, and txt’d him that I even wrote him an email. I have not heard from him since. I know he has been online. I know nothing has happened to him, other than maybe his heart.

Five years eh? I hate relationships. I always have. It’s always up and down I’ve noticed. My entries go from ‘so in love’ to ‘why doesn’t he notice me?’ I’ve been told it’s his Asberger’s. Maybe it is. Maybe I could accept it, if he just co-operated. I am a woman with needs. I am not laid back. I am not one to take it easy. That is who I am. I am all of me, all the time.

Summer Bark (on my hands)

October 1st, 2008 § 2 comments § permalink

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.”

Sophie Calle + My Used Tampons + Endings

August 18th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink

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.

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