yesterday

...all my troubles seemed so far away.

ok, first of all - i know i keep falling back on songs to express myself which sure, is cheesy as all fuck, but it's just the way my brain works. shogenai.

so anyway, yesterday was brilliant. absolutely perfect.

early in the morning, roused by the time zone shift and good old-fashioned xmas morning excitement, i awoke and stoked the fire whispering and slumbering in the fireplace at the foot of my hide-a-bed. i then spent the day as self-designated keeper of the fire. i don't think i'm a pyro, but i love tending to fires. the art of keeping the flames dancing slowly and steadily (no need for the kind of bonfire that may impress but will also make all the guests sweat, ick), without resorting to my father's barbaric kerosene or logs-wrapped-in-paper/firestarter-for-idiots things just really, really appeals to me. so every so often throughout the day, i moseyed over to stick my proverbial hand in the fire and make warmth for my family. nice.

late in the afternoon i sat at my parents' cro-magnon computer conveying thoughts to my silent audience when my sister and family arrived. it was so fucking nice to hear, immediately upon entry, my nephew Jake's voice calling out "where's auntie kaen?" (insert big fucking grin here.) and as a side note, allow me to share how much i just love those two words together, the sweet innocence of "auntie" with the badass funkster "kaen" is pure poetry to me. hm, i wonder if i should start getting people to call me that!? heh.

feeling sore and sated around the carcass-littered table, we talked about.. oh, all kinds of things. the kind of family banter that not once slipped into bitterness or unforgotten trespasses (thank fuck!), but frolicked in anecdotes and memories. my sister was talking about Jake's letter to santa, proudly beaming that he'd included what she wanted. he is, indeed, a very sweet kid - even if he does insist on doing his hair like my dad's (crew cut), poor duckling. ah well, it's sweet i guess that he idolizes his grandfather. (incidentally, my younger nephew Dylan is also great, very sweet and cute). i turned to my mom, "what were my letters to santa like?" "well actually," she replied, "this one time your father had one of your letters published in the bank's newsletter [my dad was a bank manager most of my life]. it spoke about caring for homeless and giving to those less fortunate." i'm so happy i was a sweet kid too. (grin)

later that night, somehow still conscious after the turkey and excitement, my mom and i settled in to watch her all-time favourite movie: gone with the wind. (well, my dad joined too - meaning he snored quietly in his chair as we watched scarlett, rhett and ashley forge their brave new world.) i gotta admit to having a special fondness for that movie myself. surely that's the result of having watched it over 20 times in my life, courtesy of my mom (though i have been known to watch it alone if the opportunity presents itself). but i also love rhett, and scarlett a bit too. it's weird, i can't stand catherine and heathcliff, thinking they're spoiled assholes who deserve everything they get, but there's something about scarlett o'hara that just speaks to deep, secret parts of me. and rhett, well! i remember the first time i did acid. well... acid. having since gotten well and high on proper acid, i'm inclined to think i was sucking on someone's torn textbook but i was 12, whaddya gonna do. what i can say is that we were all high, not on lsd but on the freedom to do anything we wanted under the guise of being high. it was a fun night. at one point, i cornered a friend and made her recite scarlett's responses as i played rhett in one of my favourite scenes of the movie, the proposal scene. i was a weird kid..

and now it's 8:30. my bed's folded, my body showered and dressed and my thoughts recorded. a whole day stretches before me. i think it may involve a bit of boxing day shopping. (i got some cash that i'm desperate to spend on electronics - either a discman or a dvd player, how exciting!) we'll also be going to my dad's colleague's party, that might be interesting. funnily, my mom excitedly told him that "her baby" would be coming. "oh great!" he replied, "my granddaughter will be there too!" "um mark," my mom laughingly responded, "my baby's 30." "oh, well that's ok too." hee hee. and finally my parents live on the bank of a raging mini-river and park that i'm dying to explore. right now, i wish so desperately Bogey the Wonderdawg was still here, he'd love to explore it with me. (oopsies, go away moist eyes!)

for now, as i wait for the parentals to rouse themselves from their cosy slumber, i'm gonna go have some juice and try to remember that hottie i was lapdancing for in my dream last night. YUM! happy boxing day, all!

dedication

well, it's xmas and after a 16-hour, door-to-door journey, i'm here in nanaimo in the cozy, soothing clutches of family indulgence. i could not be happier! : ) i feel calm and ...good. (the tears only sneak up once every other hour now, har har.) and my parents, bless their shiny hearts, bought me Bukowski's book of poems "love is a dog from hell" - i'm ecstatic. i told my mom i got a secret pleasure out of having that title at the top of my xmas wish list. she confided that when my dad heard the title, he said "our poor baby."

ok, enough of the mush.

reading through the book, i stumbled upon a poem i'd like to dedicate to jonathan. he's the guy i was fucking up until a couple of weeks ago. oh, i know he doesn't read my blog and will never know about this dedication. hell, he doesn't even speak to me though he's the one who was cold and ..well, cruel. a little bit anyway. whatever though... it hurts and it's confusing and it's a testament to my exceedingly bad taste in men, but ultimately it suits me fine. he's not the man i thought he was, so i don't feel a real need to have him in my life. but i read this and thought of him, and so i dedicate this to him...

turnabout
by charles bukowski

she drives into the parking lot while
I am leaning up against the fender of my car.
she's drunk and her eyes are wet with tears:
"you son of a bitch. you fucked me when you
didn't want to. you told me to keep phoning
you, you told me to move closer into town,
then you told me to leave you alone."

it's all quite dramatic and I enjoy it.
"sure, well, what do you want?"

"I want to talk to you, I want to go to your
place and talk to you..."

"I'm with somebody now. she's in getting a
sandwich."

"I want to talk to you... it takes a while
to get over things. I need more time."

"sure. wait until she comes out. we're not
inhuman. we'll all have a drink together."

"shit," she says, "oh shit!"

she jumps into her car and drives off.

the other one comes out: "who was that?"

"an ex-friend."




now she's gone and I'm sitting here drunk
and my eyes seem wet with tears.

it's very quiet and I feel like I have a spear
rammed into the center of my gut.

I walk to the bathroom and puke.

mercy, I think. doesn't the human race know anything
about mercy?

feeling the love

on the subway this morning, i stooped over to collect random pages of a newspaper someone had left disembowelled and quartered on the ground. (floor? what do you call that lower surface of a subway?) people looked at me like i was a freak. i tried to shrug it off, quietly wishing it would occur to people more often to do simple things like this - just because it's easy and helpful. had i not, those papers would be torn, soggy and sticking to floors and shoes. nasty business, all said. i sighed, and tried to not focus on the things people aren't doing.

and then this faceless mass of "people" ganged up on me and inundated me with examples of how fabulous they indeed can be.

this morning, i sat reading an email announcing that someone i don't actually know very well - a friend of my sister's i'd met a few times years ago - will be picking me up at 7pm on xmas eve, to drive me from the airport to the ferry - we're talking a 1-2 hour drive. now i'll make it home by 10:30 for sure, instead of the alternative: 12:30 am. sweet!

as i'm typing a gleeful response, a coworker comes by to ask if i feel comfortable leaving a little early tomorrow: she can offer me a ride to the airport. at the risk of sounding juvenile and redundant: sweet! given that she's the hr person, and about as in charge as anyone in our now echoey, desolate offices, i think it'll be ok... oh most frabjous yay!

and then another coworker swings by reception (where i'm lounging today, covering for the already festivating receptionist - i love working reception, talk about stress-free. the phone has rung 5 times today... hee hee). she's delighted to learn that i'm going home for the holidays. as had been expressed already by other coworkers and friends, she was worried about me. as another friend said "this is just the thing you need." you already know what a validation whore i am.. people telling me they're thinking and worried about me is something that just doesn't occur to me, and melts me so. it's nice to feel loved.

oh, and sunday night a fabulous mystery person scrawled this in my infamous notebook: "haven't read the rest but... sometimes the cold brings out the best in people... sometimes." see, they were kind enough to find and return my book when i'd drunkenly left it for dead at the cloak and dagger. too busy flirting with the funky dj and getting alarmingly (and gloriously) pissed with what i suspect is a new friend. i love meeting new people that you connect so instantly with - always a delicious surprise.

yes indeed. some people's god's birthday is 2 sleeps away, and i am feeling the love! : )

happy solstice!

so the idea of solstice is to celebrate and make the world beautiful with your merriment. if we make it happy and fabulous enough, we should be able to lure the sun (who's been more and more scarce until tonight, the longest night of the year) back to grace us with light and warmth.

so go on out there and festivate your little hearts out! i know i will! before wrapping the night up at some fella's solstice shindig, i'll be paganing it up at the Kensington Market Festival of Lights.

have i mentioned how much i love this time of year?
: )

smile

Smile though your heart is aching,
Smile even though it's breaking,
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by,
If you smile through your fear and sorrow,
Smile and maybe tomorrow,
You'll see the sun come shining through for you.

Light up your face with gladness,
Hide ev'ry trace of sadness,
Although a tear may be ever so near,
That's the time
You must keep on trying,
Smile, what's the use of crying,
You'll find that life is still worthwhile,
If you just smile.

(Charlie Chaplin)
___

and there really is so much to smile about.

like yesterday morning on the streetcar, i sat distracting myself with a book until i was roused by the sweet notes of a girl singing oh my darling clementine in what sounded like a scandinavian language. i looked up to see people smiling to themselves, to others, and some transiters actually spoke to each other - happy words about youth and freedom. from end to end, the streetcar seemed to breathe a sigh of contentment. of relief.

as we pulled into the station, the driver took a moment to thank the sweet little girl and her voice - and most people clapped. it was a moment of magic, of beauty. it's a good song! she agreed proudly, and people laughed and smiled as they stood back to let their fellow humans off before them.

and so i smile.

snap

i like it when people use the word "snap" as an exclamation.

"snap, that really hurt!"
"oh snap, i forgot my keys in the car!"
"what in the name of snap are you talking about?"

well ok, i've never heard that last one, but i know i'm going to start using it.

i was thinking about that this morning, waiting for transit. (yea, i'm a pussy - can't cycle in minus 10. sue me.) i thought "holy snap it's cold" and then i giggled. and then i thought of my dad, and how he likes to say "snapping arseholes." and then i took a drag of my cigarette.

i'm a poem

her friend peeks out the back door to see how she's doing.
she's watching the goldfish swim in the neighbour's pond. feathery flakes dance around her, covering the world in magic. her heart cowers in her smoke-engulfed chest, bruised and swollen from its most recent beating. she turns to offer a stoic smile, wondering if it's dark enough to hide her tears.
"this is so romantic," whispers her friend.
"yeah," she murmurs, "i'm a fucking poem."

that certain je ne sais quoi..

what is it about that Montréal accent?

not the francos (though their accent too is spiced with all the good stuff, believe me) - the anglos.

the hint of je ne sais quoi to their words. a hint of something mediterranean, a whisper of heather, a smudge of voodoo. and there's something so sexy about it. sexy and dirty yet sophisticated - like a high class whore's mouth painted with the semen of the United Nations.

i used to have that accent, and i've met two women since leaving montreal who had it. one of whom seduced me but that, sadly, is another story - to be saved for a day when i'm not in a desperate rush. like today. this week. this month. egads! so much festivating, so little time.

...and i couldn't be happier!! : )
mwah mwah, dahlings.

lumber and lugnuts

strange how a single experience can be so different to two different people living it.
or sad.
maybe in this case it's sad...

i have a memory from my childhood that i cherish: renovating with my dad. my dad was a workaholic, an intense and demanding man. although my memory around specific details is non-existant, i do have snippets of moments that could have been irritating, but that i know even then made me laugh. stuff like he'd have this sentence: "all i ask is..." of course, that one thing always changed. "all i ask is for you to have the hammer ready when i need it, that's all i ask... is that so difficult for you to do?" and then 10 minutes later he'd hit you with something like "all i ask is that you stand close by with the plyers - that's all i ask of you." well, you get the point. i even remember calling him on it. oh sure, not right then: that would have earned me some ugliness for sure. but well-timed, perhaps days later at the dinner table, i could poke a little fun and he'd laugh at it too and it would all be good.

those days were glorious for me. waking up early and going to mcdonald's on our way to home depot. the smell of lumber and lugnuts swelling my lungs as the day or weekend's agenda began to take shape before us. home depot wasn't like shopping with mom at the IGA. i would never dream of sitting in the cart or whining for shit. i was an apprentice, not a daughter - and i wore the honour proudly.

i don't remember my brother in these moments though. was he there? or at home - waiting for the horror of our return and his torment to begin. i'm certain he does not remember renovating with my dad as something to fondly, laughingly reminisce about. was it really that he was slower? was it really that he was incompetent? i dunno, maybe in some ways it was. maybe he just wasn't made for the tedium of banging in nails - though ironically he's a labourer now.

i don't know what it was - but he hated it, and my dad hated him for that. which came first? the fatherly disdain or the son's detachment? was my dad harder on my brother, or did i just take his shit better? i mean, i know on the larger scale of things my dad was insanely more brutal with my brother than he would ever be with me. oh i don't know. that's not really what i want to write about now anyway. it just occured to me as i was about to glow and gush over this favourite memory that this is not so for all participants.

yule love it!

well dahlings, i'm ever so sorry for my little houdini act last week. i needed a bit of a break: it's just not healthy to talk about one's self so damned much! but i'm back and oh boy, i bet you're just so darned excited you need to change your panties now don't you...

well anyway, this weekend i suffered the indignity of a mall. yes, it's that blessed time of the year.. don't get me wrong: i'm an absolute yule yahoo. i just lose it for all those deliciously tacky lights. and mulled wine! and all those parties! oh there's just so much to love, and i couldn't love it more. but the shopping part? well... i'm just not the world's biggest consumer.
...in case you hadn't guessed.

but hey, my mom wants a blouse and by golly, a blouse is what she'll get! even if it means going to a mall. ah the mall. it was all so... perfect. disturbing and exactly as stomach-churning as you'd expect it to be. i floated through the muzak and twinkle lights, smirking at the Che Guevare t-shirt rubbing up against the Betty Boop t-shirt and the rhinestone-encrusted Mao Tse Tung lapel pins which could have been ironic were they not so unabashedly, unrepentently devoid of anything but the basest, most superficial tendencies. it was all too much.

and i didn't even find a blouse.

but i was inspired to rent mallrats which i hadn't seen in a while. damn that's a funny movie. oh - and i also rented coffee and cigarettes (Jim Jarmush movie in which funky pairs act out 10ish-minute scenes over coffee and cigarettes. so like, Iggy Pop and Tom Waits do a little thing or Steven Wright and Roberto Benigni or Cate Blanchett and.. well, Cate Blanchett actually. Alfred Molina and that 24-Hour Party People guy's was probably my favourite. damn good stuff.)

shit, i'm running late - so much to do, so little time..

kaen the destroyer

so sometimes i'm not all sugar and spice..

kaen the destroyer, part 1

sometimes i can almost feel it, a sort of gratifying pain as my knuckles sink into someone's flesh and grind up against their cheekbone.

i've only been in one fist fight, back in grade one. i got off the bus where monica had surely been tormenting me. gawd she was a bitch. at least i think so. i don't really remember her, but my mom remembers stuff like her chasing me with a stick and similar good times. i do, however, remember getting off the bus, hurling down my school bag and snarling "ok!" maybe followed by something like "let's fight." she turned around ready to take me on. quick as an adder, my fist connected with her nose sending rivulets of blood and shame oozing from her bitch face.

and that's it. not even a shove or good yelling match since then. so i guess whenever the opportunity for a fight rears its ugly head (not that it ever really happens, but i'm sure if i was looking for it, i'd find opportunities everywhere), i'm just not willing to take the gamble. i mean, i know the theoretical finesse of fighting (for example: turn the rings in or take them off, so as not to bust up my fingers). i know i'm strong, and i know i'm tough. but how can i make sure i can fight, without getting my ass kicked on the off-chance that i can't? too risky.
damn.
guess i'll have to remain a stinkin' pacifist.

kaen the destroyer, part 2

gawd i'm surly this morning. i'm praying for someone to look at me the wrong way so i can go postal, sink my pretty rings into their stupid face. smash their forehead * in with an unexpected head butt and bury my steel toes into their jaw, gut and kidneys as they sink into a bloody, weeping mass on the floor.

only at the asterisk, the streetcar pulled into the subway station, and i got up and stepped back, genuinely smiling and letting others off before me.
i'm so full of shit.
sigh.

blissed out

so last night i found myself meandering up bathurst street completely and utterly blissed out! it was gorgeous and unexpected - i generally only get truly blissed out surrounded by people, stories and music. but i was all alone, bathing in the after-effects of some mightily cool experiences.

i went to see 'no great mischief' at tarragon theatre last night. hell, even the volunteering was fun, causing me to ponder: why's it taken me so fucking long to get my ass over there? i was also impressed by the space, coming up with clever sets perfectly suited to it just begging for a story. i knew one of the staff too, so that was cool - nice to walk into a new space and see a familiar face. hell, i guess that's only cool cuz it's still so new for that kinda shit to be happening to me in toronto.

and the show.. wow. i found it took a little while for it to really grab me - trying though i was to give a shit. and then suddenly, hooowee i did. great acting, brilliant storytelling and the music! that was the best surprise! they even sang "mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver" - a classic franco folk song giving me those deep-down nostalgia waves from la belle province. incredible. i could not possibly recommend it more.

after the show, i decided to walk up bathurst, smoke a wee joint, and check out this neighborhood i'd never ventured into before. and then right on the corner of bathurst and dupont was this great little diner. a long speckled grey counter lined the length of the tiny space behind which stood weathered old greek men. still others littered the fixed seats racing alongside the counter, mingled with cool young hipsters. i couldn't resist. i went in, ordered a grilled cheese sammich, wrote a bit and got talked up by some old smoothies. purrrrfect.

and then just walking the few blocks to the subway station, just setting one foot ahead of the other, glancing around, just that was so delightful. the people were friendly, pretty much all smiling at me, some saying hi. a coupla fellas invited me for a drink, which i sadly had to decline: gotta get my beauty rest you know! heh. so yea, a spectacular soiree as far as i'm concerned.

la la la-la.
: )

love poem to me

well, i figured nobody else is gonna fucking get around to it,
i may as well...
*grin*

the lady i love
smokes a joint so lingeringly,
profoundly,
that the act is laced
with the scent of sacred.

the lady i love
will lovingly finger the filter
as she sinks into her stories,
interrupting herself mid-tangent
to sigh
and thank you for the pot,
and lovingly hand
the mummy finger back to you.

the lady i love
likes to breathe deep
her own personal agni's sweet prayers,
so deep, she will have to close
her lascivious-lashed lids
while her world becomes painted black
for a second,
sometimes two.

the lady i love
is a compassionate diva,
floating on treasures,
the perfume of the west.

shock and awe

well look, i wasn't really all that concerned with what the results were actually going to be. i mean, he didn't win last time and that didn't stop him, right? but it truly is mind boggling! other than big business fat cats and abortionist-killers, who the hell would actually make a conscious decision to give him a job, and the president's one at that!?
weird.

but more intriguing yet is that.. well look, i'm no specialist in this shit, and i don't at all know how long it's been going on like this. but i do know that for sure 2 elections in a row have yielded very opposite, and very nearly tied results. what does that say of the great (supposedly) united nation of states?? do i smell civil unrest? impending civil war?? is that how this new rome will fall? it's a horrific idea, and yet perfect: how else is the world's most famously self-obsessed nation supposed to die!?

and do you think the world will mourn? hell no. they'll marvel, maybe. they'll discuss it in bistros. and they'll get over it, sucking on american marrow as they lemming their way to the beat of a new drummer.
stupid humans.

tuesday morning

she sits on the streetcar, lazily entertaining herself with a plethora of mismatched distractions. she's wearing a long black dress with a skirt that flares down to ankles hidden in steel-toed garrison boots. the skirt hints of grits and banjos, and yet somehow also gothic misery. like what you'd expect to see on the love child of Margo Timmins and Marilyn Manson. the forest green velvet cardigan further confuses the matter.

her fingers are smothered in silver - large important rings virtually screaming out their stories. this one is from Campbell River - she'd been seeking out a proper pentagram ring for months when it revealed itself in a tacky souvenir shop of all places. this one's from Vegas - all glitzed up like a stoned showgirl. that one's from Montreal - got it for 2 bucks. 9 rings shinily vying for attention.

her pretty, girlie earrings dangle and sway to the streetcar's rocking, benevolently sharing the ears with neon teal headphones that are pumping rocking classics into her brain. she bought the walkman decades ago, after saving up enough Canadian Tire throwbacks to deliver her to musical freedom. she prefers her discman, and yet the walkman gives her an opportunity to revisit dusty memories. today it's Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin. yesterday was Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man. she smirks lightly, trying to imagine how she'll feel and what she'll settle on tomorrow morning. the guilty pleasure mornings are often the funnest, as she smiles darkly from behind her curls and tries to resist singing along with Megadeth or George Michael: "Be good to yourself / Cuz nobody else / Has the power to make you happy!"

anyway, her discman died its sad death last month, sputtering out its last few songs like a soldier trying to sound deep and meaningful on a bloody battlefield. it was gruelling, beautiful and heart-breaking.

in her lap lies a half-complete purse that her fingers are currently dancing around. she's knitting a bag big enough for her Kenyan embroidered writing folder. the yarn is soft and multi-coloured as it coils itself into fanciful knots on the hippie sticks. wooden needles or nothing, man. sometimes she likes to pretend she's a peasant. yet she is the uber-modern woman inadventently dodging description. is she hippie? goth? rocker? woman? child? vixen? well, she's smiling. i guess that's good enough for me.

another night in paradise

in this dark room bathed in smoke and smiles, the pimply asphalt looks like marble: glistening, cold. it swallows the stories we gleefully tell and won't remember tomorrow. i've broken a nail, and the exposed flesh has become raw and unavoidable. i stand and smile smartly, secretly and keenly aware of a part of my being that i generally just... take for granted.

in the other room, a reveller is bursting to flames on the bongos and the eager throng sings along to dusty favourites. i'm drinking it all in, blissed out and thinking about earlier this afternoon, walking along the lakeshore. the goddess of energy has been busy whipping up the atoms in a frenzy of fall. bright sharp colours. a cornucopia of primaries watched over by stern greys and benevolent blues. a crayola landscape lulling me, lulling me.
and soon winter will come, hush hush, to take me to dreams.

it's a nice night.

sniffle sniffle

hello dahlings, how are you on this pre-halloween friday? i'm peeking in ever so quickly to let all y'all know that i haven't run off to las vegas with my new lover! heh. i've been laid to waste by the god of Flu. i've been sick. and i don't mean like how the cool kids are saying it, i mean sick. you know, capital S, capital ICK.
sigh.
that's me, feeling like a rock star. and when i say rock star, i mean keith richards. on a bad day.

send me sweet ecchinacea thoughts, ducklings.
honey dreams and lemon zest wishes.

oh actually, since i'm here anyway, i have to tell you about sick day #1. (i've taken two days off work, and today's gonna be shorter than martin.) i decided to treat myself to a movie, so went to see i [heart] huckabees. existential playfulness, a deep thinker's matinee dream.. i liked it, a lot. without getting into it, the main character hires "existential detectives..." and then i went and rented some movies, and for gawd knows what reason, settled on anna karenina (ah, good ol' tolstoy) and hamlet. HOLY EXISTENTIALISM BATMAN! phew! not for the faint of heart...

anyway, that's my cue. have a very glorious, very fabulous halloween. don't do anything i wouldn't do... (heh)

shh

be vewy,
vewy
quiet.





kaen is hiding under her blanket with a flashlight and comic books, trying to turn her burdened soul into an adventure. sometimes this happens. it all crashes onto her heart unannounced, unwarranted, unavoidable. it happens every so often, so suddenly. in those moments, it's like she can hear the creaking of a thousand broken hearts echoing around every corner. she can feel the hollowness that strangers' eyes secretly sink in. a pit in her heart, a fist clenched around her oesophagus, squeezing the joi de vivre right out of her.

take two bottles of wine and call me in the morning.

ode to my new red hand warmers

roses are red
and so are my new red hand warmers.
neither mitten nor glove
they bespeak of love -
of hybrid unity
and half-breed impunity.
shine shine into the dark night
brave red hybrid warmers of delight!

today is the first day of blah blah blah...

nobody believes me when i say i'm shy. i'm so constantly, energetically reaching out with every bit of courage or kindness or wisdom i've collected or earned that it never occurs to anyone how strenuous it all is. like how even when i get drunk or high enough to lubricate it all, my brain grates against everything i see. the complimentary whys, the abusive why nots... it's always a strenuous journey, a challenging quest.

throw into that mix my memory. i've never had a good memory. if it wasn't for journals, photos, and the tireless retelling of childhood events, it would all be little more than a psychedelic smudge on my synapses. well, i suppose it wouldn't all disappear. but i'd hate to think what i would remember, for the scraps of memory i do have appear to be quite fickle. like, i can't remember the name (maybe it's jane?) or anything really about that girl, my best friend back in grade 3. and yet i can remember cass winthrop from another world (my mom's soap opera de choix). the brain is a nasty little trickster... sigh. so then, i've never had long-term memory. and my short-term memory has always been victim of unavoidable obstacles: one part "well, i'll forget anyway so what's the point," one part trying to take too much in and getting it all jumbled and one part narcotic. i don't have a fighting chance!

that said, somehow i've been insanely blessed to meet people. remember names. make meaningful connections. artists, world-changers, free-thinkers, soul-touchers and smile-spreaders. and gawd bless every fucking one of them - here, back in vancouver and in all the countless places i've lived in or visited - so many places, faces, important moments and gratifying connections.

so the other night i was musing about these connections, and i got to thinking about one of my new friends here in the big smoke - a painter. adrift on a rambly haze, i imagined her as warhol and me like.. oh i don't know, lou reed i guess (though i'm kind enough to not amplify my singing and choose instead to dance with words rather than flounder in lyrics). i imagined this friend and i forging a brave new little artistic world, completely unaware of the grandeur or vastness of experience that awaits us and the world we'll give our art to. it was a sweet dream. wonder if it'll happen? bah, i don't need no warhol-success. but getting my plays made and running my own theatre one day could be nice...
i wonder, i wonder

oh i don't know. well, i guess i do know that i've been given a great gift - the ability to write, to convey thoughts and ideas in a way that people understand. and i think i'm pretty good too. oh sure, whether i'm like, world-famous, life-altering, prize-winning-great remains to be seen. but even if "good" is good as i ever get, i feel so fucking lucky to be truly, effortlessly good at something i actually love. almost makes me wish i had a big bad Someone i could thank. instead, i guess i'll just do my best to make the most of it.

i think one way to do that is to endeavour to do a little more musing, and a little less mapping. it's too easy to regurgitate all i've done or been doing. but i haven't been doing nearly enough contemplating, philosophising, riddle-riding. sure i do that in my plays, but that doesn't mean i can just hide here in my blog and be as trivial as reality tv. well... not all of the time anyway. so i'll make a concerted effort to reinfuse a little more of that hmmming.

(wish me luck!)

i *LOVE* last night...

last night i went to Schiphol 2, by arraymusic. arraymusic does "new music" - and i don't mean just, like, creating original works. new music is a special breed of music that fucks it all up more than jazz ever did. even the freaky jazz. often called "honk and squawk," it challenges classical definitions of music, reinventing the way we savour sounds. it never really appealed to me much, but the ticket was free. reading the program notes, i prepared myself for an onslaught of the senses as i witnessed the musicians waging war on composition.

but this was no war.

there was no conquering, no resisting. they savoured musical energy with wisdom and fraternal familiarity. they really were transforming time, clasping it their souls and crafting it into chaos. home.

the first piece, assume sometimes by Michael Oesterle, was all tempestuous, frenetic, sweeping dyschord. a single moment of instant wisdom repeated, repeated - never monotonous, never redundant. the way these people understand rhythm is overwhelmingly impressive. it was followed by Scott Wilson's Netori, which played into the crevices and slid into the depths of everything i know to be true, and exclaimed it out loud in a mathematical poetry of sounds. the third piece and final performance of the first act (ABCDE by Maarten Altena) blasted life into my lazy lungs; the strings' bows sliding against my firework nerves as the percussionists slid their fingers in, under my heart, and tapped its back - gently. insistently. in my fingertips, i could almost feel the piano man crushing or caressing the angel moans of his whore. ..or was it the whore moans of his angel? they're both so damned beguiling.

intermission was marked by the soft electronic tone shepherding us back into the auditorium. bing. bing. bing. bing. bing. bing... it seemed to me it could, at least, have been syncopated. although - is that even possible with a single sound? i guess not. well... it could've at least been asymetrical.

the evening's fourth performance (soccer by Scott Godin) seemed to grapple with time. wrestling it - or no wait, being wrestled down by it. alert, probing and delinquently deferential. crash. bang. siss boom bah. the final offering, Triple Concerto by Peter Adriaansz, was tittilating - a tongue darting purposefully across my flesh. like a train charging deep, deep into the west on a dark, cold night. charging, onward. and yet then: a lament. wildflowers crushed in its wind as it charged on, relentlessly. it was like being high on speed and reading a Jackson Pollock painting like braille.

hunh - and here i thought i didn't like new music! in fact, i've avoided the threatening "honk and squawk" of new music since i tried, tried, and failed to be able to appreciate it, years ago. i don't know if i've changed, or if there was something in their work that just spoke to me. something i could understand, or relate to. wherever the truth may be, all i know is i liked it. i reeeeeeally fucking liked it.


and then...
oh and then....
beautiful sleepless night alight on hot kisses and penetrating gazes. beauty beauty intense yes yes yesness.
mmmmm

last night was a great fucking night.
(la la la-laaa)

been there, donne that

the other night i met some people. in a sparsely-populated room, i sat and listened to two proud fathers shouting across the hollow room to each other. it was breeder-fest 2004, man. they shouted about first steps, first words, first teeth.
"oh well mine..."
"yes and mine..."
"sure and mine..."
mine mine mine.
oof.
all i could do was think these poor kids need a holiday and they're not even 1 yet! or maybe they're dirty little over-achievers: republicans and entrepreneurs. either way, i wanted to find them and get them high, tell them it's ok to relax, sit back and enjoy it all.

although i guess it's probably inappropriate to get infants high.
pity, that whole lung rot and brain cell bursting thing.

i had to ask myself what the fuck i was doing there. once again, i was the outsider looking in, still happier in my own little world than theirs. but hell i was there, so i went and found myself a conversation. within a few random words, i was unanimously outvoted on the validity or merit of free verse (poetry). i shrugged, shut down and let them blessedly change the conversation. i bet they would have argued ignorance, and i would have agreed; of course a big part of why i find Donne pretty and (yawn) quaint is because i only see his words superficially. i don't understand or try hard enough to fully grasp the metaphysical wisdom in his writing. but then surely i could use the same argument: it is without doubt that they look upon free verse as trite because they're failing to see beyond the surface into the radical wisdom or sweeping beauty therein.

pf, free verse like tennis without a net. oh yea? take that! and that! and that!

furthermore, i don't expect them to like free verse. but to say all free verse is "like playing tennis without a net" is just as ignorant as someone saying Donne sucks. i don't like Donne, but that doesn't mean i don't respect his work.

i think that's a wisdom i've earned. an example: there was a time when i thought abstract art and jazz were pretentious: purposefully convoluted to condescend and ostracize. and i hated both. and then eventually, i just sort of got it. i let down my barriers and pre-conceived notions and saw jazz or surreal or abstract art for what it was (rather than in contrast to something i already knew) and i grew to not only appreciate it, but love it. in fact, in a few months i'll be getting a tattoo of miró's art on my arm - an ode to being allowed to change one's mind and to grow.

i ended up running out of there as soon as i could. my last half hour had been drowned in mental screams of "you don't have to be anywhere you don't want to be!", my pores clenched in a panic for freedom. kind of a bit melodramatic, really, but it's how i felt...

star-studded frivolity

and pure silliness. that's what this post is dedicated to.
oh, and 100% retarded star-fucking.

so i went to a play last night, opening night of Daniel MacIvor's play "Cul-de-sac" playing at the buddies in bad times theatre. check it out if you can, it is - as all things i've seen him do - thought-provoking, deeply hilarious, entertaining and just in general really fucking amazing.

so anyway, before the play, Valerie Buhagiar walked up to me and asked me the time. she's the crazy chick from roadkill and highway 61: pivotal movies of my adolescence, which taught me that canadian cinema can be so, so much more than the standard (at that time anyway) cbc-sappy-historical-family-movies, or road to avonlea (which hey, introduced the mass populace to sarah polley, so i guess it wasn't all bad). a journey into canadiana which eventually brought me to callum keith rennie.
sigh. i wish he'd been asking me what time it was...

after the play, i shuffled down the theatre steps beside Mark McKinney. if you don't know the name, or kids in the hall, then i pity you. and he, surely, would crush your head. in addition to being hilarious, he's actually pretty damned hot.

so hey, kinda cool. i mean, who cares really, but still.
next thing you know, i'll be going to the opera with David Thewlis...
heh

no to columbus, yes to friends!

sometimes, being an adult can be truly wonderful. sometimes, as so painfully well pointed out in Being John Malkovich "consciousness is a terrible curse. i think, i feel, i suffer." but sometimes you find yourself in a good pain from a full belly, with friends and acquaintances surrounding a naked carcass of roast beast, talking shit, sipping wine, feeling alive.
thanksgiving can be good for that.
as a kid or young adult, thanksgiving can be a purveyor of stress, tight lipped conversations rife with passive-aggressive demands for gravy. but now that i'm hundreds and hundreds of miles away from a family whose matriarch alone i keep any meaningful contact with, it's good. it's soooo good.
so good, i had to do it twice!

saturday night, i went to a friend's to join her and friends for the first feast of the weekend.

on sunday, matt and angela (dear friends, former flatmates - well, matt had actually been my lover too) invited me to share the HUGE FUCKING turkey they'd bought. having a table, it made sense to do it chez moi. one call here, another there, and before you know it, every last chair in my place was filled.

same salacious and satisfying story as saturday: people connecting, consuming, chatting, sharing. things in common, things to discuss, things to just sit back and contemplate. and food, such food. we even had 4 pies for 8 people! too hilarious... quote of the weekend actually pertains to that, from angela: "pumpkin pie is the carrot cake of pies."

all in all, it was a great fucking way to spend a weekend. happy thanksgiving indeed! despite the colonial history, despite the continued racism against our first nations brothers and sisters, despite thanksgiving seeming to be a celebration of that hypocrisy and cruelty, i chose to embrace it as an opportunity to gather, feast and be merry with some of the people i've been lucky enough to meet in my newest home.
i think that's ok...

flavour of my month: David Thewlis

David Thewlis

oh, david thewlis.
(mmmmmm)

i discovered him when i was a wee 20-something-year-old, spilling his um... heart in naked. sadly, i can't remember a damned thing about the movie other than the blurriest of memory-snapshots, so i can't say whether or not i recommend it. (note to self: see it again.) oh no wait, there's actually a possibility i saw him in total eclipse first. he played paul verlaine, back in a time when i used to like poets (inside joke, don't worry). i remember thinking the movie was ok, and i remember my poet lover / rimbaud worshipper hating it. who knows? all i know is that since that first time (whichever fucking movie it was), i haven't been able to stop thinking about david thewlis and that dirty little mouth of his. that tilt to his top lip makes me fucking insane, for reasons i can't begin to comprehend.

his status as flavour of my month happened yesterday. yesterday i slowly, so slowly puttered around my wee flat, gathering an incredibly impressive array (and number) of empty bottles. (i ended up hosting an impromptu thanksgiving feast. fear not ducklings, a thorough update will follow as soon as my schedule's less mental.) one thing i love to do while puttering is watching shit movies - you know, the kinds you don't really need to pay "that" much attention to. yesterday's selection was restoration, an incredibly "meh" movie (to put it politely) in which mr. thewlis looks HOLY FUCK SO FUCKING GOOD in a far-too-secondary role. i was inspired, and slid in a movie i know and love well, and, of course, completely recommend. if you're into quiet, difficult love stories that is. or african music. or bertolucci. or all of the above: they're all gratified in this movie. the movie's besieged.

and oh that mouth...

if you end up seeing it, there's a part where he's composing a piece (he plays a pianist). his unrequiting muse enters and as he gazes intently at her, his music bursts to life, from a sweet melody to the racing, pacing quiver coursing through his heart. she begins to hear it, to hear him. she starts to fall. he notices. he's thrilled, he's aflame. he's fucking hot. dear god, get me some water.

oh, and sure, he's smart and talented, yea yea that too. and really, i truly respect his range. it's impressive! he's been in some truly riveting films. i'm not all about the lip.
(yes i am)

first person to put him in touch with me gets a prize.

most momentous

last night was a night of large moments. deep, impressive moments. moments i shan't soon forget. and for me, that's really saying something.
oh, and a few silly snapshots that i'll have to share. like this one:

silly snapshot one

i'm at the dentist for my bi-decade check-up, filling in the unending medical history questionnaire. questions are asked about if i am or have ever been on a diet. yep. why, it asks? um... to lose weight!? instead i respond "to fit into societal norms of beauty." that and other such responses earned an enthusiastic response from both the hygienist and dentist. i wonder what kind of uptight clientele they must have. she says people usually aren't so open (which begs the question, why the fuck would you lie on a medical history questionnaire? what would you possibly have to gain?). he said "i can tell from your answers that you're an interesting person." jesus, these people must have gruelling jobs.

moment one

you ever have one of those moments when you realize that someone you take for granted is actually a genius? like say someone you work with everyday. you talk about weather, you marvel over the office renovations together, you talk a fair bit of shit. that kinda thing. and then she invites all the colleagues to her art opening. well, that's what happened to me last night, exactly. nicole is a supremely cool coworker. she's also a brilliant, and i don't mean that lightly, a brilliant visual artist. she's doing a show with an okay artist (in my humble opinion) at the open studio in the 401 richmond building (richmond / spadina). her art is clever, deceptively simple and yet so swirlingly enthralling. captivating. yep, she's the shit. "i can never look at you the same!!" i gushingly marveled. she smiled beamingly as if *i* were the one who had given *her* the gift. silly, beautiful creator of magnificent art. yay, nicole.

silly snapshot two

i have a bit of time to kill before having to report to the theatre, so i ride around a bit, listening to pulp fiction (still revisiting the old cassettes), and then settle for a quick smoke on a park bench. mmm, lovely. a large (as in muscle-bound) intense man comes and sits beside me ignoring the 3 empty benches in our proximity. um, ok buddy sure whatever. i continue to casually smoke. he offers me some of his what-looks-like-a-cigarette-but-i-guess-is-actually-a-joint. (allow me to clarify, there are no words involved in this exchange - he merely extends his hand and enticingly waves the joint under my nose.) i politely decline. and that's it. he doesn't say anything else, until i get up to leave. he says this: "boyfriend?" wtf!? "do you mean do i have a boyfriend!?" i ask. there is some chitchat ending with me politely declining. "boyfriend?" is the newest winner for worst pick-up line. shit, not even a verb.

moment two

saw a play by darren o'donnell, called pppeeeaaaccceee. actually, the first time i volunteered at that theatre was to see this same piece, in its earliest stages. i have always been desperately impressed by his work; i'm sure being in love with his brain had something to do with that. anyway, last night that magic mirror ball shattered. it's not so much that i didn't like that play as that i just didn't love it. it was... ok. ish. and so for the first time in the several times i've seen his work, darren o'donnell was not perfect and it proved to be the final axe in the flailing bits of a silly crush i'd quietly harboured for a few years. i still think he's a genius, but he no longer glows golden in my aura's eye. he'd surely be relieved, if he knew me enough to give a shit.

moment three

ok, this is silly, and most of you will not be able to appreciate this one. but friends in vancouver who've tracked my tireless attempts and experimentation will surely appreciate the momentousness of this. last night (ahem, drumroll please) i finished not one, but two full, complete bottles of beer. that's right kids, kaen is well on her way to becoming the beer drinker she has for so long secretly desired to be. started off with a corona (upon the fabulous-fella-who-was-purchasing-it-for-me's suggestion), and then tried a keith's. didn't even gag! and i quite liked that beer buzz - although it threw me for a bit of a loop. "whew!" and "wowee," i was actually overheard saying. oh, fabulous whole new world, how gleefully shall i sink into thee... heh.

beauty times two

tuesday night
40 on 40

tonight, i cried.
and incase you want to make any assumptions about validity, they were on the chaste heels of a full day filled not with any device. nary a sip, naught the faintest hint of a toke.
purity. verifyably me.

i sat in a darkened theatre, supposed peers littering all peripherals (and others too), and i watched. i watched them. 40 shorts on 40 ontario artists. 40 people living. 40 people making art, digging into my eyes or ears, jiggling things about. and when the everythingness of it all gripped too tightly to hold social conventions, thick globules of saline intensity meandered down my cheek.

note to self: create more.

***
wednesday
toronto symphony orchestra

again, the tears found me.
i didn't have a fighting chance!
it was all so much, so impressive, so intense, so beautiful.
there's the music, that's the obvious one.
but also the building. the master craftsmen, the engineers, the carpenters, all that work. the amount of detailed and meticulous attention to that space, designed solely for the ultimate listening experience. it was so fucking gorgeous.

Beethoven's violin concerto was light, frisky, with dark and desperate undercurrents. written in haste for a friend, it is rumoured that it was completed a mere half hour before its premiere. the performers had to read it, it is said, while the ink was still drying. he dedicated it to a childhood friend. for Beethoven, who often dedicated his work to high rollers and potential patrons, this was no small gesture. i imagined him as a young boy, fleeing from his abusive father at the dark bits, and when the violins again started dancing, i could see him rejoicing in the solace and comfort his friend brought him. oh those light parts, those bouncy parts. and yet always that undercurrent. always the father waiting at home, threatening to crush the frivolity. but in the end, the frivolity won out. thank fuck! she exclaims with a big grin.

Tchaikovsky's 6th Symphony is the one that really got me, right there... presented in 4 movements, the symphony starts passionately, intensely, fiercely. as you may remember, this was his last piece before committing suicide. he was in love with one of the elites. a man. this was about 8 steps beyond being frowned upon. in the first movement, i could taste his tears, hear his rage, feel his frustration. as my heart swelled, swelled, hot thick tears raced in rivulets down my cheeks. the 2nd and 3rd movements were light, pretty. i think he was thinking about his lover. sweeping strings, high soaring hopes. at the end of the 3rd, i swear i could hear him shouting "I HAD LOVE, AND *THAT* IS MY VICTORY!!" it was so rousing the audience got confused, and started clapping instead of indulging in the usual between-movement-ass-shuffle (really, it's amazing. in that space with perfect acoustics, you can hear hundreds of asses shifting in anticipation of the next movement, it's a little silly actually). but then the 4th started. slow, sweet, mournful notes taking us to the darkest corner of his heart, where the secrets are hidden. and oh god, the painful beauty tucked therein.

next time pms strikes and the tears need their safe haven, a trusted outlet, i'll know better than to race to the video store for a chick flick. i'll turn instead to the big Tchai.

art.
what a gift.

no, *you* kiss *my* dream...

The other day, my brother insulted and then boldly challenged me: what have I done and learned this summer, in what he insists is my reefer-riddled haze? Here is the (slightly edited) answer I never sent him. (Oh, and to contextualize the title, his name's Dream and his email is "kissmydream.")

This summer, I moved into my own apartment in a supremely funky neighborhood. I've gotten a job I love and feel proud about, with an organization that gives money to artists so they can go about making the world more amazing.

I've cycled through the rough and zigzagged streets of my new city – an activity that is not only good for me, but good for the planet. And in this city, I’ve learned and grown and met a range of people, some of whom have become dear friends.

I also dealt with some intense shit, including the death of my best friend (beloved shaggy being who brought joy and smile to all who met him), and the almost-simultaneous disintegration of 2 simultaneous relationships (as in lovers; it's a strange story, but allow me to qualify that all participants were fully informed at all times).

I finished a full-length play, wrote a one-act and am currently working on two more (one of each). I also found a director, the inimitably incandescent Lisa, and we've been working on or have submitted proposals and applications to theatres and festivals.

I read novels, philosophical masterpieces by Camus, Welles, Vonnegut, Wilde, Robbins, and Bukowski. And a bit of trash too…

And oh, I've had some fun too... I marched with the NDP in the dyke parade (and the next day I got fully decked out with the rowdily rambunctious Jaene for the pride parade); I've watched the sun rise from my delinquently delicious friend Angela's rooftop patio; I've travelled to Montreal with the lasciviously luscious Leanne (who visited me for a glorious 2 weeks); I felt the lakewind in my hair as I toked and talked away on a pot-friendly cruise; I've talked shit on countless patios with world travellers and random smiley people; I've played spin the bottle with cute young belgian boys; I've been twirled and tossed around at the CNE (fair, ya know, with rides and carneys...); I've danced on the streets with my beautiful bosom-buddy Alana to her husband/my friend's reggae-jazz band; I've talked shit and played redneck-scrabble with the marvelously magnanimous Ken (who visited me for a fabulous week); I've gone camping with fellow freaks, musicians and experience-savourers; I've mingled with morris dancers at the renaissance festival with my fabulously funky friend Jeff the bassoon player. And I've laughed. A lot.

And what have I learned?

I continue to learn respect, compassion, understanding. I continue to learn about humans, how despite their insecurities that make them mean, they can be generous and forgiving and sometimes even understanding. How despite their judgments which more often than not signal an internal unrest, they can be open and trusting.

I continue to learn that despite pain that can grip your heart and cause your eyes to spill tears for days on end, there is beauty in the world.

And I continue to learn to love myself. To accept myself. To value myself. To recognize all that is good about me instead of festering in all that can be improved about me. And I continue to learn, slowly so slowly, to trust again, to love again, to see the beauty in people and to find, cherish and/or help them shine with their hidden qualities.

And I continue to learn that though I daily strive to love myself, to create beauty and thank myself and the world for it, a few mean words from someone I love can still punch gaping holes into my frail, doggedly-earned self-esteem and leave me crying, sad and confused by man’s inhumanity to man.

And I continue to learn that I have the right to protect myself from people who have, do or will hurt me. Like you.

40 ways to sunday

well frankly, i can't think of a damned thing to say. i've been in a quiet mood these days. not sullen but perhaps a bit sombre. not that many tears though, although now that it's cooled down i am thinking about Bogey the Wonderdawg a fair bit. thinking about the relief he surely would have felt at the lowering temperatures, or how nice and warm his fuzzy body would be against mine under the fluffy covers as the cool wind slips in through the window.
sigh. my first fall without the Wonderdawg...

i've also been continuing my love-fest with solitude. it's the little things that are so nice. like friday night i went to the ROM (royal ontario museum) - did you know it's free on friday nights? and sure, i guess it could have been nice to have the oohing and ahhing in stereo with a friend, but then you can't do what you want. you can't spend 8 minutes staring down the stuffed cobra (which i did - i actually spent most of my rom-time with the stuffed snakes strangely, since i neither loathe nor love them), or leave the documentary on master shuckers early. no, ok, that probably wouldn't have been a problem. the challenge would likely have been getting a friend to sit through a half-hour of documenting oyster shucking in the first place. yes, you heard me right. oyster shucking, master shuckers and world competitions. who knew? well, now i do... i was particularly impressed when one of the canadian master shuckers started dry humping the judge in his excitement after winning second place. yep - we're a classy bunch up here...

on saturday i also glided at my mellow-times-eight pace, slinking out of the abode in the early afternoon, grabbing breakfast at the first place that caught my eye (i have an attraction to places that would scare most conscious beings and seeing as how i live in parkdale, i have a plethora of infested rat holes to choose from oh yay!! ..um, i'm being sincere), and checking out the alternative art fair. some of it was ok, some of it really sucked, like REALLY SUCKED, but some of it was really splendiferous. or cool. or both. that was all part of my exceedingly mellow (while listening to Tricky no less) meander up queen street - although i guess since queen runs east/west, i should say "over" rather than "up." meh. the plan was to walk from roncesvalles to parliament, and i would have made it too had i not noticed a friend of mine playing at the rex. sucked in again for some jazz and cider, what's a girl to do. so what was at parliament? a play of course. after which i spent entirely too much money in my brief flirtation with king east drinking holes, little swank pits of preppie goo. i spent $12 on a cider. one fucking cider, twelve fucking dollars!! ugh.

so then i wisely said fuck this shit, and headed to the green room in the annex, where i plunked my ass down with a pitcher of sangria, a pen, some paper and thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. see, i woke up saturday morning with a new idea for a play, and instead of being disciplined and finishing at least the first draft of the one already underway, i sunk my teeth into this new idea - it's really exciting and unlike the last two i've written/am writing (which have been one acts), this one's a full play (with 2 acts, yea baby). so now i have two plays on the go. it's probably funny to watch me work, with two heaps of loose leaf papers (actually, i bought one of those school kid homework books for this newest play), my fancy notebook at the ready and my pen scratching away in one pile until oh! i race over to the other pile of papers and then pause, hm, to peruse the notebook of random thoughts. whew! a whirlwind of words. (oh, and yes: i write in longhand. i'm so old school.... it's either that or carry a laptop around since inspiration tends to find me in pubs, with a pint at my side, which uh... no. even if i could afford one.) two boys tried to break into my little bubble of words and solitude, one kinda creepy and slimy, the other rather yummy actually. but at the end of the night, it's my papers, books and brain who got to share the cab ride home with me. heh, who am i kidding... i can't afford no stinkin' cab.

sunday i emerged from kaenlandia to properly socialize, joining the luscious Alana in the studio as Tabarruk laid down some seriously funky tracks. that was fucking brilliant actually. we laughed, talked, feasted, giggled, listened and hugs, mmmm there were hugs too! nice way to spend a sunday. that's two sundays in a row. what's that expression? 40 ways to sunday. i think the number's irrelevant actually, it could be 100, it could be 6. means chaotic. hell, i don't care what it's like, so long as i make it to sunday, laughing with Alana the Lovely, and the whole fabulous lot of them. yay for "tabarruk sundays"!!

and that's it, i'm off like a prom dress. (see, us canadians have class class class, and nothin' but!!)

woody woody woody woody

(sung to the tune of "kelly, kelly, kelly, kelly," from woody on cheers.)

so last night, woody harrelson showed up at the theatre (he's directing this torrid tale told by beautiful people). and it was so perfectly set up, too!

we, the volunteers, were sitting around talking shit. no - not quite shit... fluff. talking fluff, and the girl from the play crashed into the space. the foh-guy (front of house manager) smiled "she'd like to buy a coke," she giggled. she's so... what is it.. there's an unmistakable sexiness there, just peeking out from the folds of her cotton-candy glee.

foh-guy asks if woody will be coming to the closing, on saturday. "oh yea, in fact he's already in town - he called me." ker-plissshht, she tears into her cola. "he said he was going to come to a show without telling us, see what we've been up to while the cat was away.." she giggles and bobs away. she's pretty. i saw her recently, in a movie with callum keith rennie. boy, i wish he'd been the one buying the coke.. alas. she was also in ginger snaps, but somehow i never did get around to seeing that one...

so then, as if on cue, the stage manager emerges from another door. she walks over to foh-guy "woody will be coming tonight, after 8 of course." "no problem" he suavely replies, but you can feel the giddiness, it has instantly surged through us all. even me, yes deep down i am an unabashed star fucker. there is a moment of excited laughter and then eyes fall on me. i'd been trying to ditch early, but i decide to stick around.. there's a talk-back after the show, and i joke about saying "wow man, kingpin changed my life, really opened my eyes!" everyone laughs.

but there's no fucking way i'm seeing the show again. i guess it's not that bad, but... well anyway. so at curtain, i toss on my hoodie, grab my book and a cigarette and sit in the courtyard to pollute my lungs and set my mind free. mmmm, scribble scribble. the silence is briefly interrupted: a car pulls right into the courtyard and wispy curtains of pot smoke hang off emerging woody, clinging to him like phantasmal groupies. he's shorter than foh-guy, i note with a shrug.

at intermission, i realize he's with those guys, those drunk guys. two had arrived, soaked in drunkenness, oozing rowdiness, ensuring me a third would be coming. "big, handsome guy." "right, no problem," i assure them, and watch the boys race to the bar. don't want to waste any precious drinking time. i recognize the third when he arrives, partially because he's big, and yes he is handsome. but mostly cuz he looks like he's ready for a party, not a play. "ah: big handsome guy... yea, go ahead" i say when he steps in. he beams, "you just made my day!" the first drunk guy comes over "see?" he asks me playfully. "yep," i reply, "he's exactly as you described him." there are smiles, but blessedly the bar beckons. and they're off.

at the end of intermission, foh-guy peeks out to see if anyone remains in the courtyard, and whispers conspiratorially "somebody's smoking weed!"

..you think?
(i hope i did in fact resist rolling my eyes)

seconds later the posse enters, only just in time for the second act. unfortunately they are delayed by a giddy girl asking for an autograph, so they actually end up stumbling into their seats after the play has started. one of the babboons is sniffling, another is doing the cocaine-gum-rub. woody sneaks in a bottle of heinekken. anyone else and i'd think what assholes. ok.. i think they're assholes anyway.

after the show, woody et al. rush out so i decide to not linger for the talk back. i'm tempted to stay and ask the sex-in-the-city hottie (jason something, i keep saying alexander, but i know that's wrong) why he wanted to do theatre, since he doesn't seem to have a talent for it at all. i think better of it, not wanting to be shived in the parking lot by the hordes of girls who have come just to drool at his feet. instead i shuffle over to my bike, ready the walkman (i'm currently revisiting old tapes - last night was william s. burroughs, spare ass annie), the lighter, the joint, turn on the flickering red light and prepare to flee. the badasses are still there, talking shit and blocking the pathway, so that i have to creep past them to exit. i wonder what it was that caught woody's eye. the flower-laden basket? the joint dangling from my lips? my devastating good looks? "hello" he says as i inch by. i hesitate..

i want to tell him to smack his lead upside the head, and help him find a way of expressing mania, panic and loss of control in a way other than raising his voice an octave and slurring his script at break-neck speed, thereby killing any merits of the dialogue which i have a sneaking suspicion is actually quite good.

i want to tell him "you should direct my play next" and might have had i had a script handy, why the fuck not.

instead i toss a glance back as i keep walking. "hello.." and i pedal off, lighting my joint. i can feel them watching me ride off into the sunset.

i wonder though, should i have stuck around, tried to engage the monkeys in conversation? why? it's not like i'm fabulously blown away by his directorial skills. and while natural born killers blew my mind, it's not like he's really what i'd call a distinguished actor. and yet that smile. what a great fucking smile and i gotta saying - having that woody smile flashed at me felt pretty nice. mmm, nice nice woody smile...

fabulous, fabulous, fabulous

i had the best fucking weekend, on the heels of a lovely, loungey thursday night (trivia, entertainment, blah blah blahing with matt). friday brought me to the buddies in bad times theatre (my first but very definitely not last time there) to see snowman, which i really really liked. most of all, i loved the playwright's style (he being Greg MacArthur) - i could recognize his accent you might say. mmm, nice brain yum.

saturday afternoon i went to see another play with a colleague. in addition to it being the first time i saw a soulpepper production, it was - i realized with a laugh - also my first time seeing hamlet live. although i know snippets of the play by heart, i'd only ever known it from books and movies! well, it was every bit as spectacular as it should be. although Albert Schulz's hamlet was a little more passionate than i might have wanted (or as lisa said "oh, he was a mel-gibson-hamlet" as opposed, i guess, to the melancholy-ethan-hawke-hamlet i seem to prefer), it was still amazing - quite the actor that one. and i appreciated some of the clever ways of delivering lines - always impressive when something that you've seen countless times can be fresh. although i hate using the word fresh when talking about theatre, it sounds flaky in a snooty way. and speaking of snooty, after the play my colleague and i sat on a chi-chi patio on the waterfront talking about decidedly unsnooty stuff - really interesting stuff actually. gawd i love when that shit happens. truly interesting stuff... yea!

saturday night i went to lisa and mark's for games and more interesting words, thoughts, ideas. it wasn't all great though: i got my ass kicked at scrabble. : ( but oh the interesting words tossed about in that lazily-lit living room... after the games and brain massaging, i moseyed a few blocks over to lee's palace/dance cave, but never actually made it in. just stood around outside smoking and talking with strangers. i'm tempted to think it's weird, going to a bar but never making it in, but ... meh. (shrug)

and then sunday! did i mention it was beautiful this weekend? oh, well it was. anyway, started the day off in queen's park for a little word on the street (although i guess technically it's word in the park now. again, i am left shrugging...) saw a couple of amusing readings, subscribed to an indie mag - nice. then rolled over to the distillery to sit and catch up with alana while jason and Tabarruk filled our eardrums and souls with their stylish vibes. mmm. in the sun with a good friend, great music: an exceptional way to spend an afternoon.

and then last night, i huffed and puffed up an endless slope, all the way up to the yellow griffin (a pub from my old 'hood) for a free comedy night in which lisa was performing. she's so fucking hilarious, i'm glad i finally got to see her perform. i usually laugh when she just speaks and she always hesitates.. "why are you laughing?" "i don't know lisa, you're just fucking hilarious!" the gto's (hope i'm remembering that right) were great too. so was lisa's friend, what was his name? he was hot...

and now it's monday - a whole new week of adventures and discoveries awaits...

fabulous 49er

robbing thoughts from yesterday, yestermonth from the infamous scribble book...
___

vasectomating
reflectomating
as my head sways along to the jerky streetcar's swan song

i wear my numb eyelids lightly,
hoping i look like marilyn monroe
but probably looking like a half-assed narcoleptic

and thinking about him, stupid him:
my fabulous 49er...

tucked away under your helmet
dusted with golden dreams
and the blood of a thousand shattered hearts
(most of them yours)

remember never days,
stolen nights, hidden afternoons
and that booty call
– who was more surprised,
the horny youngster
or the acquiescing old man?

exceptional, inconceivable, delicious
oh the fabulous fucking we’ve shared
but now a toast;
red wine in golden goblets for my 49er,
always and nevermore,
fitful flailing friendship for the friendless…

like finding nemo, only better

i've been found!
the generous purveyor of the comment to the last post is the finder.
i am the gleeful findee.
big deal, you say? well as a matter of fact, it sort of is.

i've been on the move since before i started speaking. a quick count (meaning surely i've forgotten one or two) reveals that in my 30 years of existence, i have lived in 35 homes in 9 cities (11 if you count port arthur, fort william and the reserve of glorious thunder bay as separate - i've lived in 'em all). 25 of those since leaving the homestead at 19. 18? 18. whatever.

my first "big move" happened when i was 13. we moved from ritzy, wealthy, anglo beaconsfield (on the beautiful island of montreal) to working class, down-home-cooking, franco south shore (of same island). i kept in touch with no one. 3 years later, we moved to thunder bay. i don't wanna talk about it. suffice it to say i disappeared again. well, i kept in touch with one girl who proceeded to lose her fucking sense of reality and perspective. i don't wanna talk about it. let's just say that connection died suddenly, rapidly, and irrevocably. she broke my heart. blech whatever. same story with all the other cities. oh sure, a few half-assed attempts, the odd letter, the random awkward phone call, but basically, i just evaporated from friends' and family's lives.

it is only this last time, when i moved to toronto, that i've managed to maintain some sort of connection - thanks to email. but even that's been a bit tenuous...

i'm not sure exactly why i keep disappearing. you'd think that as a writer it would be easy for me to maintain contact, but it isn't. it's likely this whole unsure-of-myself shit has something to do with it. perhaps i'd pick up the pen and paper and think ah fuck, they won't remember me. they don't care. i'm gone, gone. out of sight, out of mind.

but then, someone i haven't seen nor spoken to in ..how long has it been Colin? found me! (and as a side note, i'd love to know how. i did a google search on my name, and while it filled me with a desire to travel to thailand, and taught me more about anime gaming than i ever thought i'd know, i couldn't find me, lil ol' me...) when Miranda told me he'd found me, i found myself lounging somewhere between perplexed (for reasons just mentioned) and content. content as in breathe deeply, relax, soak it in baby - like a spring sunbeam.

i'm trying to put my finger on it...
i think it's just that knowing i can be found makes me feel less lost.

k-a-e-n

here's a drunken scrawl written late late one night, riding home after a strangers' party... (on a side note, i was so drunk i had to write most of this with one eye closed cuz the double vision was too challenging. ah, the memories)

so many empty conversations tonight. wearing the bright tight smile as they energetically tell me about something i'd forget about instantly. how many times did i spell my name tonight? how many hollow smiles, waiting for the appropriate pause in conversation so i can make an excuse as ridiculous as their attempts just to get the fuck out of there.

it's like.. before a first meeting with someone, you should consider this: in my case, as an example, i've been on this planet 30 years. i've lived a range of beautiful, tragic, funny, poignant, silly and meaningful experiences that have brought me wisdom, deep and trite. i have perhaps 5 minutes to impart some of that wisdom - something, anything meaningful. and the best they can come up with is "how do you spell your name"??

i'm outta here.

morose

what is it about a man pushing past his mid-life with downturned head and downcast eyes that breaks my heart so? nobody in particular, just a general thing: if i see a man in his 50s, late 40s who seems.... alone. quiet, shy, plain, ever so delicately sad.... it just grips my heart. i want to reach out and hold him, to love him, to make it all better.
and yet how is their sadness or loneliness more pertinent than mine?
and what's with the ridiculous leap of logic?
i mean what, so a plain man in his 50s looking beaten into submission has likely never been loved, but a shiny girl smiling away tears and fears is filled with fulfillement?
ridiculous.
for all i know he's known love more deep, more beautiful, more rewarding than anything i may ever experience.

maybe it's just the clouds. or the fatigue.
or maybe i'm just a tiny bit lonely, despite my gruelling unwillingness (just now?) to invite anyone in...

meh

they're not mine, but they're good

words from a book i'm reading:
Red Dyed Hair, by Kostas Mourselas

Louis' one great weakness was events. He lusted after events.
"Kostas, my boy, dream up something. Don't let time pass while you just sit there. Get on the phone, meet people, go out onto the streets, knock on doors. You never know, maybe you'll flush out a hare. Sit on your rear end and you start to go under; you start to think about the vanity of life, about death, you dry up. Better take a nap then... But if you're not asleep, put your tongue to work, your feet, your hands, your brains."



(although sometimes philosophising on the vanity of life can be good too...)

summer yet sizzles

silly students, thinking the seasons revolve around them!! there's a whole (well, mostly whole) month of summer left ya know. 21st, equinox, all that stuff? and yet people talking like summer's over... well it ain't, i say. and man, what a gorgeous summer weekend this was! wow.

saturday i hung out with my visiting friend ken - mellow, a few drinks, some brunch, lotsa chit chat. highlight of the day was perusing a box of crappy, dusty cd's outside one of the antique shops and finding "Boogazm" by the Look People - a cd i have been semi-dilligently hunting down since it was stolen from me 7 years ago. small-time canadian funk band; i could not have been happier. a fellow chatting with the antique owner became curious by my glee and concured that (although he didn't know the band, he knew the lead guy) it was indeed a killer catch, and how could he have missed it? nyah nyah.

sunday i woke up at 5:30 am!!! it was very weird seeing the sunrise from the other side of the coin, shall we say. i volunteered all damned day at the dragon boat festival and what a great day it was! the morning was a little on the ho-hum side, but in the afternoon i got moved to "held start" duty. if you've never seen a dragon boat race (i hadn't, hence my desire to volunteer: after years of contemplating and flaking on the event, i figured this was the only way i would actually go) a dragon boat is, like, a long thin canoe that sits up to 20 rowers, a person sitting at the front facing them with a big drum between hir legs, roaring them on and someone standing behing them, steering them, often also roaring them on. at the start line, they have their ornate tails held until the start gun sounds: and they're off!

so i spent the afternoon enjoying the sun and breeze, bobbing away on this little dinghy/raft thing, laying back to drink it in or sitting up to hold pretty boats. and the occasional giggle with a yummy oarsperson. it was lovely, lovely, lovely. oh, and a moment of excitement too! the races were "paused" while we waited for a cruiser to emerge from its den in the marina to the big blue lake. it decided to head up sort of the middle of the track, right up my lane. i shouted over to the fella on the dinghy to my right "wow, it's kind of intimidating!" being charged by this big fucking yacht. and it kept charging. 30 feet. 20 feet. 10 feet! holy fuck, should i like.. jump? what the..? i sat there ready to plunge into the lake as it charged, charged toward me. at the last minute it angled to my left, oh so narrowly missing my raft (i could have reached out to touch it, oh for a set of keys just then) and scooting along. the organizers yelled "you trying to kill somebody!??" as the boaters laughed away but i gotta tell you, i had to laugh too. i didn't know them big boats could manoeuvre so delicately, precisely and tightly. very impressive indeed. even if they are fucking burnout yuppies who get their jollies out of frightening volunteers. (rolling my eyes)

and voila, here we are on a beautiful monday morning. as you can tell, an extraordinarily busy day... well anyway, i wasn't feeling clever enough for anything vaguely poetic, so hopefully the standard-style journal entry will sate you.

draggin' the days

good morning, happy thursday, blah blah blah.

last night i went to an irish pub to listen to some fiddlers make the strings and lassies dance - fabulous. tucked in with the leek pie and cider were laughs and interesting conversations with a coworker, fred. and then it happened. out of nowhere she (yes, fred's a she) asked me if i know finney.
finney?
yea, finney. mahones...?

weird.

i'd felt like this once before. high on ecstasy in tokyo, dancing in a corner of a wee speakeasy a bartender walked by and said "you're not at luvafair." luvafair happens to be the name of the club i regularly thrashed about in, back in vancouver. quick head shake: where am i again!? time/space warp man, whoa. heh.

that's how that question felt.

finney sings for this band that i guess still exists - every now and then. i don't actually know finney, but i have met him several times. in three different provinces.

i first saw the mahones play at the republik in calgary. the friend i was driving with from thunder bay (NOT where i'm "from" incidentally, merely somewhere i was subjected to for a few adolescent years) to vancouver was a celtic punk afficianado. he knew - no, he loved the mahones so we made sure our drive ushered us into calgary the night before they played. that's the first time i met the mahones, lingering casually behind as he gushed all over them. (ick)

a few days later, we pulled into vancouver, again one day ahead of the mahones. whom we of course went to see. again, he did the post-show shimmy, oozing compliments all over them. again, i stood a few paces back, the reluctant but patient friend.

three days later, after they'd been and returned from whistler... you guessed it. we went to see them again. this time they kidnapped us, dragging us back to someone's place after the show for drinks, stories, laughs, improvised music: good times.

a little over a year later, i found myself back in thunder bay. i don't wanna talk about it. what is pertinent is that one night, i steered myself to crocks and rolls for some good old fashioned celtic punk. that's right kids, the mahones were in town. to my utter shock and stupefaction (is that a word?), he remembered not only me and my unique little name, but also my friend (still back in vancouver, lucky bastard) and his humdrum little personality. how sweet.

i thought this would be the last time. i was wrong!

about 3 years later, back in vancouver, imagine my delighted surprise when i saw a poster: the mahones were playing at richard's on richards (or dick's on dicks if that titillates you)! how could i not go!? by then i was a woman steeped in my own scandalous sexuality. tight little body with appropriately devastating curves squeezed into pvc pants. the poor lolling-tongued boys couldn't even begin to recognize me. nothing a little nudge in the right direction didn't cure (to my impressed amusement) and they even remembered my geek friend from those days of yonder. considering how many people these fellas meet over inumerable drinks, i still feel a little awed. really, that's fucking impressive! we shared a few drinks and talked a bit of shit up the street at the railway club. that was about 5 years ago (?), and that's the last time i saw them.

or am i wrong again?
i have to say, the thought of seeing them in yet another city does amuse me...

guilty quickie

Well two weeks have fled by, racing in terror from the advancing autumn. Leanne has come and now gone. Two weeks of laughter, stories, dreams, games, dancing, music, savouring. savouring. mmm
Highlights?
Montreal was statuesque and lurid as ever, gawd bless it.
The Rex has become a home away from home, fellow freaks and world travellers and music, such music. Kevin Quain, must remember that name - astral projection of Tom Waits: a beautiful way to end any day, start any night.
Long slow evenings of sipped scotch and backgammon.
Watching the sun rise from Angela's rooftop deck, the phallic tower a charcoal finger rubbing against the pale colours of dawn, after a night of hard liquor and soft smooches. I love girl kisses, they're so ...smooth. moist. that small pause, gasp of breath, sucking each second's pleasure, the lascivious lunge, hungry yet gentle. mmm.
And now, alone again - talking to myself and dancing nekkid in my glorious flat, sprawling out on the bed, or being loud or quiet whenever I want! And resting, recuperating, dreaming like Coleridge, laying in Wordsworth's words: "When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude."

luscious leanne...

oh joy oh glee! i've been blessed with a luscious little red-headed girl freshly arrived from the wild west, keeping me company and making me smile for a few weeks' visit.

mmm, luscious leanne. cherished friend and lusty playmate visiting this new home of mine for the first time: welcome to toronto! and tomorrow we'll be piling into a rented wagon with lisa the fabulous, and driving off to my home sweet home, montreal (although by now i feel like my roots are planted in vancouver soil). that's a helluva lot more exciting than thinking about smoldering flames. blech. don't even know the point, it's not like i'm fantasizing about connecting or "getting back together" (although to say getting back together might suggest we ever were together when in fact it's more like he was a bemused witness to my passion and love.)

today started off gray, hazy, but i didn't mind: it kinda suited my brain. fried green tomatoes indeed. i was so out of it, trapped in fuzzlandia, that i went into the shop to purchase my morning's sustenance, laboriously but dutifully paid the lovely lady, even alert enough to give a penny (ensuring 45 rather than the pesky 44 cents change), tucked the change back in its cozy little home, and stumbled out. about three steps out the door, i started to laugh, and walked back in to see the lovely lady with my breakfast of joy in a bag, waiting for me to take it home to my stomach.
heh. i been dazed and confused for so long it's not true...

but it was a well-earned morning, last night was fucking brilliant: mellow and perfect. leanne and i grabbed dinner at squirrely's. (on queen w of bathurst, if you've never been, go. stellar décor and death-defying sicilian bruschetta (feta, artichoke, something else) and all in all fabulous ambiance) we sat on red leopard shag and reminisced and daydreamed over a miniature feast and a large thirst.

then we moseyed over to the done right inn, a block or so west, to meet angela and her friends who were making music on the very lush, very fertile, very cosy back patio. we shared lazy stories and getting-to-know-you-hooha over a pint slowly sipped and then raced through another pint (literally, we were putting frank the tank and his funnel to shame!) to be able to get to the liquor store on time. we tumbled into a cab and told the cabbie of our urgent mission. he was hilarious! he glanced at the clock, dramatically exclaimed "9 minutes, we can make it!!" and man, it was like pedal to the metal and tearing through amber lights: very exciting. we made it in 4 minutes, yay fun cabbie!

and then it was over to angela's soon-to-be-someone-else's very cool loft, up the rickety ladder to the skylight out of which you can climb to the rooftop patio. it was perfect! spy challenges, theatrical musings, and a lot of talking shit. what a purrfect night...

unseasonal weather

there's a chill in the air these days, toronto's shivering instead of sweating. and i gotta tell you - despite the whinging and boohooing i have to dodge left and right, i love it. i'd like to think of myself as an all-season lover, the ultimate weather hippie embracing all seasons tenderly, lovingly. but my heart is secretly crying out "autumn, you know i love you best" and spring, summer and winter are biting their quivering lips, pretending not to care. sweet autumn, i love her so much i've beckoned her early to come play with me on these fine august days. heat-lovers be damned. take your smug muggy mugs (too much?) and fuck off. give me the chill, the bite, the fresh cool air.

not like last week, last month or next week. that toronto heat, when the day flares up, igniting itself on its misdirected energy. it's wayward and fiery and licks your pores til they are spent, exhausted and weeping. it's almost like a self-generated mechanism, the cycle of the city: the pollution gives birth to the smog that will taunt the sticky cling to cleanse us, squeezing the angsty pimples of pollution from our sickly cells, making us young and pure again until we are spreading our arms wide and falling into the excitement and movement.
perhaps.
but that doesn't take away from the fact that those muggy toronto days make me feel like i've eaten a bucket of kentucky fried chicken (amazing how i can't for the life of me remember when i last ate the stuff, but i can still recall that grimy post-feast feel, sluggish and greasy. ick.) clad in humidity, toronto is like a dirty old man pawing me lasciviously, leaving a film on my flesh that smears like cheap, moist mascara when i try to brush it off.

...and people are lamenting the loss of that? egads. people are weird.

sloppy sky kiss

rainy day
splish splish
sky bowing low to greet us
give us a sloppy kiss
mmm

thoughts of vancouver swirling through my brain. standing in the rain, early early in my vancouver experience, the first time getting high on fine western weed. emerging from the smoky theatre, i stumbled and soared through the gritty backstreets of the downtown eastside-ish, just south of the hurly burly, but north yet of the shabby chic soon-to-be designed artist lofts. i stood under the dribbling sky on what some call the original skid row (for the skidding logs so much before this new skittish population) and watched the bus lumber toward me, slowly bobbing its lazy head up and down. and i could hear its voice, like an old doddering man, plodding through anecdote after anecdote, bobbing his head in appreciation of his archaic humour. it was a nice bus, nice bus.
that theatre's closed now. sad. i've seen too many theatricides, a thousand shakespearean tragedies shaking their fists at imperialists.

oh. the. compulsion.

don't want to work...
don't want to think...
don't want to email...

oh! i know! i'll post something stupid and senseless in my silly new blog cuz it's here and hungry,
this recently seduced virgin-no-more,
hungry to be pumped full of random thoughts,
hungry for some vanity,
some exhibitionism,
spreading her new blog legs
to let nobody in particular
read nothing in particular.

oh the futility of it all
how whimsical

la la la-la

(still it's somehow better than working or doing real writing.
oh joy, oh slack, oh shirking of responsibility)

la. la. la...

blog virgin no more

well i'm not really keen on the blog scene, but a friend has a blog and i wanted to post, and was tired of posting anonymously. but just to make this half-hearted first entry not completely irritating or pointless (unlikely, especially given that it's a blog which puts the less in pointless) i'll share my latest drunken revelation:

the duty of a writer (that's what i am, incidentally) is to throw one's self out, savour all the recycled memories and gripping revelations - to go to every depth and height and transcribe the soaring or the horror - but then to caricaturize it just enough to make all the wisdom pallatable.