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.