There was something bleak about my night.
As I walked beside a white Volvo under an orange sky,
I was silenced with wonder.
((Finally it rains. a perfect, BC sort of rain.))



And under fluorescent lights, I was asked about grief.
I quickly panicked at my loss of memory,
Then realized that I do not truly know what it looks like.
And how it is felt.

Then I panicked about my lack of loss,
And about all the anticipatory loss that I know must be coming.
It’s really difficult to know that it’s creeping up on me. And that there is no way around it.
A great uncle and a neighbour, that’s all I know.
I have never felt the pain of true loss.
I have never felt the worry of a mother.
A mother giving birth, a mother waiting up at night,
a mother who doesn’t trust the father of her children:

Is this life?

And I just want a cigarette more than anything, ever.
There is satisfaction in restraint, but it is faint.

must. not. smoke.
































(not helping me)

look up:












It feels like rain today.
the windows are closed.
curtains and all.
All there is to look at these days is a brick wall.
(I have to wonder: what is the psychological detriment of looking at a brick wall as opposed to a street lined with trees?)
It's warm inside.
the radiators are creating heat. i can hear it.
my mind is filled with the panic of failure as i work steadily on my paper.
When my mind is here, i put on something with a low beat or a muted trumpet.
it doesn't help that Jericho Beach is sunny and beautiful,
and calling me.

I was thinking about phosphorescence last night.
the faint glow of water in the dark.
weeks spent on the water off the coast of Vancouver.
spent with people who thrive on late night conversation and popcorn made over an open flame.
drinking carbonated water that hints at a floral scent.
listening to music that is soft enough to blend in, but thoughtful enough to want to pay attention to.

the end of winter feels close.

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  looking for something new to love?
  

///

try: window light

and Amon Tobin

///

The future is X rated.

















Much Music now has a show called
"Who to Do...The 20 Sexiest Women in Hollywood."
Although i have only seen a preview, i think i can figure out what this show will entail, and I'm not interested. In fact, I'm upset that a show like this even exists. (and I'm certain it's counterpart is "The 20 Sexiest Men in Hollywood.")
Here's my problem:
Most of the women i know are looking to be respected and loved by men, not to be objectified. Many of the women i see however, mainly in the venue of mass media, show very little respect for themselves in the process of looking for this respect.
(based on insecurity, pressure, etc.)
There seems to be a significant (im)moral message that is being poured into our culture that women and sexuality are synonymous.
And that this is okay.
And that it is legitimate to objectify women this way.

The truth is: it seems as though we are becoming used to looking at the human body for the sake of consumption -
whether male or female -
instead of looking at the human body as beautiful, capable, and intelligently designed.

I'm not blaming this on either men or women, whether it be the case that women are the ones who put themselves in the position to be objectified, and men are the ones doing the objectifying, however... objectification cannot be ignored:


"While objectification calls for men to become observers, it also calls for women to become the observed. Women become objects as men become objectifiers." Women are expected to accept the role of stimulators of men’s visual interest. This visual interest focuses on a two dimensional view of women, one that values the physical characteristics of women while ignoring personal character or any of the inner complexities that are inherent in human beings."

So when a man claims to love a woman, is he talking about love for a two dimentional view of women and the women who pursue this ideal? Or are they speaking of women as they really are?

5 am is a difficult time.
the proletariat class is getting up within the hour.
and i am just beginning my sleep.

the window was open to let air into my room.
and i think i heard steps outside of it.
they were coming from the fire escape.













((alright. my fire escape doesn't look exactly like this.
but it's close.))

it took a long time to fall asleep.
my head was aching.
and my mind was in multiple places.
somewhere between history and power.
it seems as though, for a woman, part of the difficulty in falling asleep is the fear of danger, and the tension that exists in that mindset.
but after a long and thoughtful conversation that evening,
i did fall asleep.
slowly.

"it is amazing how complete is the delusion that
beauty is goodness.
a handsome woman talks nonsense, you listen and hear not nonsense but cleverness.
she says and does horrid things, and you see only charm.
and if a handsome woman does not say stupid or horrid things, you at once persuade yourself that she is wonderfully clever and moral."

-Leo Tolstoy (( The Kreutzer Sonata ))

For my friend with the beautiful hair and mad style, who creates and appreciates the art that she finds all around her...and who thrives on folk music, the Beatles, a & c, Aslan, and a good concert...
thank you for making dinner with high heels on.
you are stellar.

the Gord Downie has moved.


(((down the stairs)))

and is tenatively taking on the new name of the

twice as big. twice as nice. but with half the view. pictures to follow.

a tribute. atribute.
(to a broken collarbone.)

this is for my kickass friend Laura who participates in the, apparantly, quite dangerous sport of Judo. her courage has given her two broken collar bones in the last year. she still carries her head high. and that's what i love about her.

like a distinct day i can remember in November,
the air sparkled today.

in light of a highly influential book: 1984

Take a good look around the pop culture scene to see all the references there are to this book.
They are numerous and not difficult to find.
Subterranean Homesick Alien by Radiohead for example:

The breath of the morning/ I keep forgetting
The smell of the warm summer air
I live in a town / Where you can't smell a thing
You watch your feet / For cracks in the pavement
Up above Aliens hover / Making home movies
For the folks back home
Of all these weird creatures / Who lock up their spirits
Drill holes in themselves / And live for their secrets

It is time for the Weather Project to be revealed:

This is an installation piece that was displayed in 2003 at the Tate Modern in London.

Putting together a collection of mirrors, lights, and humidifiers inducing haze in the atmosphere, Icelandic artist Ólafur Elíasson managed to create an atmosphere of the sun, generating a seminal experience for all that viewed his project.

Only by sitting under the emphatic light of the bright sun myself do I realize that one can only comprehend how much depth this piece holds in the context of art that is experiential, where art is not only viewed and appreciated, but also experienced physically and intellectually.

Art is surely in progression, as it continues to astonish its viewers.

/// sounds like a case of the Mondays ///













alright.
today is Monday.
Why is it that when an unfortunate event occurs,
it seems to feel the worst on a Monday?
Probably because it's the furthest day away from what we all aim for. Friday night.
Monday is the day that never ends.
It is the day when the light never fades...

Frustrations were overwhelming today.
And in a moment of agitation, I wanted a Djarum.

Fucking school.
And fucking professors, who give an arbitrary mark to a paper a student spent hours on.
Much of this frustration is rooted in the fact that countless philosophy classes have been spent recently discussing the ineffability of language… yet when a paper is written, using this language we’ve all agreed is subjective , a professor can still so easily dole out a mark.
A mark which means nothing to her.
How does she know what I mean?
How does she know I know what I mean?
How can such subjective work even be graded?

how I wish i could be somewhere with a couple of good friends, in line in some big city, just waiting to see a good show.
instead, i'm still stuck in Monday.



At least
Phillip Seymour Hoffman won.

what is it that allows idealists to somehow enforce their ideas on others ~
imprinting them in such a way that doesn't allow for another opinion?
I suppose we all do this…it’s not only idealists.
why does everything seem to point to the fact that people are much more pompous than they would ever allow themselves to be /// and in their idealistic theories…they allude to the fact that their ideas are nothing simple, but are in fact profound and fantastic.
It’s fascinating how incredibly easy it can be to see through the bullshit.
((it can be very evident in speech, and more evident in action.))


and where do these idealistic theories hit the ground?
someone told me recently that all relationships are in constant negotiation.
it is this becoming the I-Thou kind of relationship that is what is to be attained for a perfect and idealistic relationship.
have we forgotten emotions? don't they have a part in all of these idealist theories? A big part?
My pragmatic ideology plays too big a role in this instance.
these theories seem to turn on us before we even get a chance to develop them.
perhaps if we could have the concepts of altruism and the I-Thou ideal of a relationship on our minds consistently and we could be in an unchanged state...our lives would work in an idealistic world.
otherwise these theories are incomplete, and in their incompleteness, inconsistent.
They are fabricated as self help and are too idealistic for a pragmatist.
something is flawed.
can we love ourselves completely?
something always throws us off.
our motives for self-love are skewed.
Are our ideas altogether distorted?

oh, the detriment of introspection.