Although no new comments were made, all of our eyes fell upon the unsurprising truth of the beauty spoken of by the fire that lit the sky.
It was dusk.
A yellow ocre sky, just near the mountains.
Beautiful British Columbia.

And a white fire finale.
.. . . .................... . .......... . . ...................

A late night shower, intoxicated.
Photographs of War.
Beautiful shadows cast by trees, even then.

Another night of questions.
Too many, she told me.

As it turns out: Cigarettes are sublime.

A final song to remind me of India and it's architechture.

Five full hours of outdoor music.

Rhythmic, experimental, noisy and lyrical.

Marijuana and garbage everywhere.

He must be in bed with a stranger.

He looks that way.

A crowd with strange motivation.

Penny Lane and a thousand digital flashes.

The experience gone wrong.

Natural and perfect.
A little unsettlingly perfect.
I watch as unflinched affection is pursued under a chestnut tree.
Broad branches, heavy leaves.

This place has created a cycle of rebirth that I fall into year after year. Each time I reach this setting I come to a place of introspection, a time to re-evaluate. I fear that no progress is made in my cycle of years.
Do I come here happier and more content, or more unsettled?
They'll read about this later I suppose.

There's a light coming through the trees.
The kind that movies portray as heavenly.

There's an older man here with scrunched up socks and pastel shorts.
He's dancing to the rhythm.
And there is another.
He has soft hands and holds a child.
She disagrees.








He is beautiful but speaks slow.
Her still, athletic body sways.
His body is still dirty from the evening past.
A hungover yet engaging spirit.
Her, always natural.
Another one, lean and with sharp features, ill from the event.
Red and green. tired from the heat.

an aesthetically pleasing festival of folk.

A slight moon hits the air above a dangerously smog-filled city. The drive home is made beautiful by the environmental damage.

. . .. . . ..

aesthetics over pollution.

. . .. .............. . ..

I know a few that would disagree.

Tonight it was sex on the beach.
I was grateful for the bench that made the view a little more blemished. The sight was uninvited and thankfully escapable.
On the drive, steam slides over the glow of greenhouse lights on my favorite strip of road in the West.
Yet the road is made dangerous by my fatigue.

She's a girl that's upset with
the world and it's circumstances -
but mostly herself.

She's not a girl who misses much.

Green lights and a first gear that doesn't work.
Talk of discontent.
Who are we to speak as if we know?

They still have one hour to drive and a border to cross.
Will the conversation be further pursued?






... . .. . ..... ..

To speak with people late at night is what makes living worthwhile.

"After silence that which comes nearest to expressing

the inexpressible is music."

- Aldous Huxley

..... . .. . . .

Radiohead has recieved a lot of hype from over here. By over here I mean my world of musical likes and dislikes. Now, my disclaimer goes as follows: by no means does this reflect on Radiohead as a whole, but perhaps solely on their frontman and his drug induced mind.


After picking up The Eraser yesterday, Thom Yorke's new solo album, I gave it a listen on the drive to Harrison lake to go for a walk in the dark with a friend.
The duration of the drive was enjoyable, peaceful, and filled with laughter and the sounds of some fascinating electronic music, and the above mentioned album.
At a point on our drive home, my friend pointed out that although Thom Yorke is a genius, this music could have been done on a laptop in mere hours. How much this friend knows about the music production business, I'm unsure, but I think a good point was made.
It's just not as compelling as OK Computer, or the Bends, let's say.
The depth that a band brings to an album as a whole is unmatched by even the most interesting sounds a computer can produce.

A small piece of additional information:

Wolf Parade.
August 20th.
Commodore Ballroom.
Twenty eight dollars.

Enough said. Anyone interested?

For anyone who knows me:

...... ............ . . . ............... .. . ............................

......... . ............... ........... .. ................... . ...

A good friend who has been in the process of learning the German language and who goes by her middle name, the same one whose hair is dynamite and whose eyes are the color of the sea...
She gave this to me.

... . . .....

Why does power corrupt?
Is it impossible to imagine the world as a place where decisions can be made without threatening consequences?
Perhaps the lack of satisfaction comes in realizing life is altogether, not as seminal and full of good things as we suppose it ought to be.
The choices that we are told exist are not always available as expected.

Why do we make idols of our bodies?
And why must we be so closed off when discussing issues of importance,
the things that make us vulnerable?

Late nights.
Humming.
And the reflection on a lamp shade.

If you were to be embodied as a tree, what form would you take?

Je ne sais quoi.











I don't know what.
an indescribable quality. a certain something.
an essence. a spark.

Can words like this ever be sincere?



















Explain this to me.