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)
Friday, October 29, 2004
Thursday, October 21, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
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!
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!
Monday, October 18, 2004
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!)
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!)
Friday, October 15, 2004
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)
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)
Thursday, October 14, 2004
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...
"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
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
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
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...
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...
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, October 08, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
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!!)
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!!)
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