black. and. white. parking. lots.

2010-10-21T16:32:00.005-07:00

documenting smells.

daily apartment smells include:

old cigarette smoke.

meaty lasagna.

pine sol floor cleaner.

pasta boiling.

daily bike-riding-through-the-city smells include:

exhaust.

cigarettes.

lavender.

cinnamon.

coffee roasting.

other good things:

freshly grated ginger.

nutmeg.

book pages.

rosemary.

roasted garlic.

toasted almonds.

swiss cheese.

grapefruit.

2010-03-16T21:46:00.003-07:00

this is my beautiful partner and husband and friend.

I am madly in love with him.

2010-03-11T09:47:00.006-08:00

tears of hot white.
music and wool sweaters and too tight pants and an anchor and a birthday and a day at work and a voice i love and a voice i hate and a phonecall unrecieved and a walk away and a flag.

eggs and toast and avocado and no pepper so no sandwich.

locking the door and no goodbye and no i love you and the sound of the key instead and a plan and a brown couch and a pile of books.

loose hairs and too much hair and not enough hair.

rough hands and blood and dirty sheets and a bundle of grey.

getting to work late and no busy days but saturdays and no thanks.

wet wine glasses and old dishclothes and no alcohol and pills and violins in my ear.

2010-02-01T19:13:00.003-08:00

day two. january twelvth.

asparagus, yams and rice. leftover foccacia and christmas truffles.

a failed game of scrabble, an extraordinary game of speed scrabble.

blueberry tea.

in rainbows, ben harper (welcome to the cruel world).

1.13.10.

two months until my twenty-fifth. shit.

day three. photo inquiries, camera comparing, and blog rolling.

we ate rice. rice with black beans, garbanzo, tomato, lime, cilantro. and salt.

we drank orange juice over another game of scrabble. (coax, yule, futon)

but first, we attended a grade seven boys basketball game where we reminisced of younger years. I, the mvp, he, the last chosen.

how romantic to end up together.

dinner music: peter gabriel.

01.14.10.

closed shop at the bakery. chicken curry.

dreamt of a life in photos.

400 chosen. pain au chocolate.

01.15.10.

camera shopping and buying. 50D.

homemade pasta.

house cleaning for guests. reorganized book shelf.

quote of the day. "dude, mall people are weird. Let's find Fuetch (Future Shop) and get the hell out of here" - johannes gerald van bommel van vloten.

music: yo la tengo. mix from Jeremy (JK1) "coyote"

01.16.10.

a walk around the village. toiletries and pizza.

home. soundgarden as a soundtrack to a houseclean.

before dinner at the Mint and a night at the Empress with friends, Johannes and I lay on the couch.

Conversation:

"what colour would you paint the walls of our future house?" - k.

"I don't know, what brand of toilet would you like to have?" -j.

01.17.10.

yep, the Empress was nice, though a bit regal for my liking. overwhelming even.
A mad meeting at Discovery followed with friends of all kinds.

Brittany and Tessa came. (yes!)

after a beautiful dinner accompanied by Patrick Watson, Bowie's "Low" and "Heroes", we got a phone call about an upcoming birth.

Within an hour, our friends were perched on our couch with a cheese and fruit platter, and we were on our way to attend a birth.

01.18.10.

Kaia Willow, born at 12:53 am. beautiful.

she was quiet and pretty, the house peaceful and dim lit.

her head formed during the day as we walked and talked and photographed and ate together with friends downtown.

we returned to the Russell house in the eve, making them beet and yam soup, salad, whilst enjoying a few bottles of wine in celebration of the birth, slowing enjoying rabbit pate, pistachios and goat cheese on a slate tray.

we drank and laughed and watched.

took the city bus home and went right to bed.

01.19.10.

a whole twelve hour sleep later, we woke, spent the morning lounging over breakfast and Daterra, steaming and cosy for our morning, which by now was noon.

we cleaned our our drawers, made love, took a load of clothes to W.I.N., and sat and ate fresh baking from Wildfire.

pain au chocolate, cinnamon bun, lavender shortbread, fig & oat chew, with garlic and cheddar bread to follow for the walk home.

we thrifted, where we found books and books.

He, the Dune series & Mordecai Richler, and I, the updated and expanded 90's edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves, the ultimate female companion.

We were asleep by ten, Johannes by the bedside reading, and I, still exhausted, to Julie & Julia.

(a broken promise).

01.20.10.

After a slow, ungratifying day at the bakery, I had an hour massage, complete with a Shakra reading. (my body was unaligned, she said.)

the ginger essential oil stayed with me as I prepared dinner.

K-os and M.I.A. provided the soundtrack.

Salad, chicken, asparagus and almonds.

we ate and rushed to make a batch of Diane's cookies and drink another French press of Daterra.

no crumbs left.

only a little silt at the bottom of the Bodum.

and now, a bath to TV on the Radio.

I have branches in my bedroom, grey on my bed, orange in the air, and black and white above my head.

2010-01-12T17:11:00.003-08:00

we will be watching no television for one month.
my aim is to document that month with all else we find to do instead.

night number one:

made housemade foccacia bread with fresh rosemary and course sea salt
looked at world atlas - studied gender equality and development index, population statistics, solar systems, temperatures according to season.
took particularly close looks at Central and South America (for coffee locations and sources) as well as South East Asia (ibid) and Canada
began to talk about/plan a trip across Canada for summer, 2010
went through old photos
enjoyed a colourful and delicious dinner, while talking, laughing, and peering over the world's map, eating warm bread and dipping it in oil and vinegar
started a list of letter recipients
fell asleep reading

2009-11-26T20:02:00.000-08:00

these days.

2009-09-30T23:00:00.003-07:00

i have begun to know a lady.

she calls me a bright spirit.

today she kissed my neck.

she is famous.

recently called a genius.

award winning.

a documentary subject.

she hides.

she hides in my cafe.

I serve her tea and give her sweets.

she sits for hours,

marking papers.

maybe she writes the words she later becomes famous for,

right there, in my cafe.

her friend helps her rest.

her husband doesn't.

I imagine her with a library at home.

I imagine her as Sylvia. struggling.

I compared her once, then apologized.

This woman, this lovely woman.

She is filled with words. translation. ability.

She lives on land but is fascinated by the water.

I can see that her mind never stops.

I like the sound of her voice when it comes into the room.

2009-09-22T22:48:00.003-07:00

coffee.

life and times.

number 13 for twenty dollars.

an average of three workers.

underpaid and overworked. guilted, often.

"i don't know why I feel so..."

off the cigarettes.

medical plan. medical bills.

I have to read.

skirts and boots and bare legs and bare hands.

a four pack.

love handles.

sleep and rest and i am tired.

the yellow wallpaper wasn't written for no reason.

2009-03-15T23:33:00.003-07:00

rant time, stream of consciousness style.

photos. i have some, i want to show them because they are of dust. i want people to like them too, but i have to write this paper on mail order brides, a subject i know nothing about and don't want to essentialize, but probably will anyway.

then there is food. i have been trying to eat more healthy. this week i bought chard from the co-op at school. it tasted kinda sweet like they said it would.

i added chick peas, avocado, tomato, red onion, lemon, ginger and tonight, some chicken. as he made his food, different than mine, we watched Freaks and Geeks, the one where Sam loses his towel and streaks through the halls. then Cindy Sanders (that bitch) cheers him on, while Bill and Neil get jealous.

am I ever going to finish school? one of my faithful readers is almost done her fuckin' masters. HER MASTERS! I'm in my third year of my undergrad. what a joke.

at least i declared my major.

i now have a heart shaped glass hanging in my window. it constantly as a rainbow in it. although it's super new-age, it is well intentioned, so it shall stay.

tonight Johannes told me that he can't wait to see me being a mom. I told him i can't wait to see him kiss little Seymour's cheeks, cause they'll likely be a little like mine, except smaller. he'll love that. things have been more than great lately, especially when he took care of me last night, made me eggs and popcorn while i laid on the couch, recovering.

we took a walk in the rain today as well. pesto croissant for me, sticky bun for he.

then we filled our bag with vegetables and milk, and came home to sit in the warm sun.

i almost fell asleep from the warmth.

now it is windy windy and rainy. and beautiful. but vicious.

Johannes is in bed. i want to be there too.

2009-03-15T23:30:00.004-07:00

fuck fuck fucking shit. i hate school today.

and yesterday.

and the day before.

and tomorrow.

i just needed the internet world to know since I'm all alone, wrapped tightly in a wolf blanket wanting to eat grilled cheese sandwiches.

2009-02-02T23:30:00.003-08:00

oooooooooh the anticipation is growing.

it is time for a CP wedding.

to my despise, i missed Mel's.

so this will be my first.

Bonnie and Caleb. it's time.

the cpcd is finished and lying in my packed red suitcase.

my wool socks are in there too, along with my pearl necklace and black dress.

not only is it a reunion of old pals, it's the joining of two good friends.

what will be said? where will conversation go?

my hopes are high.

2009-01-29T17:28:00.003-08:00

Fuck You Dov Charney. Fuck You.

“Women initiate most domestic violence, yet out of a thousand cases of domestic violence, maybe one is involving a man. And this has made a victim culture out of women.” - Dov Charney

Here are the facts:

1 in 4: The number of women raped and/or physically assaulted by a current or former spouse, cohabiting partner, or dating partner/acquaintance at some time in their lifetime. (for men: 7.6 out of 100)
1.3 Million: The number of women physically assaulted by an intimate partner annually in the United States. (for men: 835,000)
20: The percentage of nonfatal violence against women committed by an intimate partner. (for men: 3)
33: The percentage of female murder victims who were killed by an intimate. (for male murder victims: 4%)
1,247: The number of women killed by an intimate partner in 2000. (for men: 440)
2/3rds: The percentage of women killed by firearms who were killed by an intimate partner.
1,006,970: The number of women stalked annually in the United States.
84: The percent of spouse abuse victims who are female.

I’m not trying to downplay the plight of male victims of domestic violence, or suggest that becase men are victimized less often that their victimization isn’t just as wrong. There is a cultural silence and erasure of male victimization, and that’s a huge problem. But addressing that doesn’t require ignoring — or spitting at — the fact that women experience the vast majority of intimate partner violence, and that we often pay for it with our lives. It doesn’t require implying that women bring domestic violence upon themselves by saying that women “initiate” most of it (What does that even mean? She talked back?).
I wish I could come up with something more adult and biting than “Fuck you, Dov Charney,” but it’s about all I can muster.

-Jill (from Feministe.com)

2009-01-02T00:17:00.003-08:00

i still listen to the cure.

smoke cigarettes.

drink wine.

eat meat.

eat foreign vegetables.

eat Second Slice pizza.

stay up late.

never finish books.

obsess about apologizing and loneliness.

somehow I think i should know better by now.

and part of me cares deeply about altering my choices.

part of me can not be bothered.

there is another part of me, a greater part, however, that aches knowing that i'm not a better person.

a better writer.

activist.

thinker.

reader.

cook.

friend.

organizer.

lover.

photographer.

so i sit. here. in victoria. thinking about what city is next.

some people know what i have in mind.

most do not.

i plan to keep it that way for a bit.

until i am a little more settled in my head.

i have hardly written this year.

that pains me.

looking back always does.

but this is just it.

ihave a bed partner. a friend. a feminist. a book finisher. a cook. a collector.

he has become my life. although i am aware of the kind of response i may receive in response to such a statement,

it. is. okay.

now what i deal with on a daily basis are questions of time, trust, space, response, observation, ability, compatibility, judgement, and peace.

lists kristina. always with the lists.

indeed.

2008-09-06T23:43:00.003-07:00

life consists of these things:

open. count. sell. sample. eat. wait for change. listen. speak. smile. ride bike home. eat. watch. listen. love. sleep.

i just watched EWS by Kubrick and realized that the subject matter is delicate. frightening almost, although I'm interested. i was alone, that changed everything entirely. it's best not to do that, i figure. is the purpose of those temptations curiosity or fluidity?
i suppose i will learn all about it in my upcoming Monday and Thursday classes.

i get jealous a lot. and impatient. i need to work on these things. perhaps i should call it inspiration, rather than jealousy. but maybe that's what it is.

2008-06-18T21:27:00.005-07:00

this is dinner.

I've been making up songs lately. they're not very good. this is probably due to them being stream of consciousness and not very well planned, but i don't think it even matters, because i do it mostly to make Johannes laugh. he almost always does. i like this part of him.

today i got reamed out while i was at work by the principle of a high school in the area in which i live. i took his order wrong and he made me cry.

my eyes got so red that i had to go outside and let the wind take away some of my body temperature. it wasn't a good day. but it's okay, because many reassuring words were spoken to me, plus, my dinner was steaming and ready when i got home from my long day.

(another part of Johannes that i like, he takes care of me. good care, too.)

another thing worth noting is this: i realize that I've changed.

i'm much less serious than i used to be. i like to laugh more now. i LOVE making people laugh, mostly Johannes though, because then he thinks i'm funny AND cute.
These days, i feel better about myself i think. i'm not so concerned with being mysterious, which was my insecurity speaking.
also, i listen to Peter Gabriel with much love in my heart for him.

and, finally, I don't worry about being so 'deep' and 'cool' anymore (well, not ALL the time), i'd rather just be nice.

pour example: this is me.....

but so is this.

2008-06-04T11:47:00.002-07:00

I'm looking for an old camera.

yes, i used to want only the best kind of digital camera with as many unique lenses as possible.

this of course, is for the purpose of shooting crisp, sharp beautiful photos.

(by the way, i know nothing about photography).

now what I want is somehing old. something that can give me the look of an old photograph.

Darkened edges, only focused in the centre, bright, obtuse colors.

This is what the Russian made Lomo offers.

My desire has birthed from looking into Lomography online.

What I found (through blueandbrownbooks - photo credit) is this:

The 10 Golden Rules of Lomography:

1. Take your Lomo everywhere

2. Use it Day or Night

3. It's Part of your Life

4. Shoot from the Hip

5. Get as Close as Possible

6. Don't Think

7. Be Fast

8. Don't try to Control it

9. Be Suprised

10. Ignore all these Rules

I suppose it's the philosophy I like.

"When you buy a Lomo, you're not buying a camera, you're buying a lifelong membership into the Lomographic Society, and this is your tool of membership. When you die, you have to give it back."

2008-06-04T11:00:00.003-07:00

The other day i was walking down Cook Street into the village where i work, and there was a brown cardboard box with the word "FREE" written on it with a black felt pen, in all capital letters...

i promptly crossed the street through the traffic (Johannes always hates it when I do such things) to get to this box, stuffed full of could-be treasures.

when I got to it, i saw that there were many things to be had, most, not so good. not worth crossing the street so dangerously for, anyway.

in the box were computer keyboards, an old mixing bowl, kids toys, and many, many celebrity biographies...from John Lennon to Barry Manilow. needless to say, i left those items in their rightful boxes. i found two items however, both which reminded me of you. one, was a yellow-ocre colored camera bag, broken zipper and strap aside, a great find. it's one of those old leather ones, rectangular in shape. i've been using it for my camera amongst other items people carry around, wallets, sunglasses, scarves, cigarettes. i like it.

next, i saw a book entitled "everything you need to know about Japan". i thought of you, as a new resident of Japan, and i thought to myself, how could this one book possibly tell a resident all they need to know? a book could never tell you all the great little alleyways to smoke in, or restaurants to chat with the owners in, or the videostore to find your favorite movie on vhs, with all the scratches and tracking problems that make for a classic memory?

i hope all is well for you in that new home of yours. i think of you in these little creative moments my mind sometimes conjurs up for me.

2008-05-30T23:39:00.006-07:00

although it has been made in a place fraught with human rights disasters, i have grown to love and protect the new piece of orange fabric and lightweight posts we've recently acquired called the 'marmot limelight', likely due to it's name and intense glow. it will be our travelling companion this summer whilst traveling to Denmark to visit the Roskilde Music Festival, in the city of the same name.

the entire reason for mentioning all of this was to discuss how interesting it is, the idea of having this tiny piece of space that is private enough yet big enough to consider a home when in a foreign place.

that is what i love about het kamperen.

2008-05-19T22:41:00.008-07:00

amongst a type-written letter to European relatives of another generation, and a listen of Cat Power's 'Jukebox', I am mindful of recent events to which deserve photographic documentation.

i've lost inspiration.
bail.

2008-04-08T19:43:00.010-07:00

my first habit experience is greeted by brick walls, a magazine board, white chalk on green.
everything is a fit, aesthetically.

I am wearing Huntington Bay, and a reference to Rocky Horror Picture Show is made. we do not know it, and subsequently, the reference is lost on us.
The most beautiful London Fogs we have ever had are being made and presented to us with pictures in the foam. the creamiest. we agree on this.

it all sounds and looks good until i realize that this place makes me realize that i don't know what i want. with an obelisk tattooed on the neck of a mutely dressed man and a yellow flower in my pocket, I recognize that although this place is everything that i want and think looks good, it's alienating and significantly intimidating.

but the record spinning and the low buzz of conversation allows me to somehow, find comfort.

tears for fears.

2008-04-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

there was this one night that i couldn't sleep.

it happens a lot i think. but just when you think you can't stand it anymore, you're gone.

music music.

Besides my lovers new mixes...I've been listening to the crusades of Longshanks. he spun for four hours that i wished to hear the other night. we couldn't find him. he was on the balcony but there were no stairs.

instead we were waited on at an exclusive event. mandatory dress code. the guest list. our friends took care of us. gave us their whiskey and ice cold water bottles. we spoke of children, family fights, and outfit choices. hers had to be stichted together last minute...but she looked good.

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

what I really wanted to write was about my night: late and conscious.

rejection and praise. comfort and a series of bad dreams. missing the old touch. falling asleep at peace. no more thinking about laundry and poor listening skills. (i don't always listen either.) lights. lamps. the night falling too late these days. more dinner ideas. more, and better music, or more of the music i love.

more creativity and a space for it. no more fucking comparisons and judgement. counting more minutes on the machine. or stop counting altogether. better handwriting. more money. (or just less worry.) the desire for good things, not harm. having friends around. more laughter.

all of him, all the time.

no more television, less internet. more people in my life to give me compassion, no more guilt. happy parents. no more misunderstandings. dirt. cleanliness. equal standards.

more conversation, less self-loathing. more black and white. new colours. more patience. more true love for myself. for G-d. black. green. gold. the good things. more of them.

barbeques and wine. less summer and shame. more autumn and comfort.

more surprises. no more ruining the earth. more idealism. making it work. less models and more reality. chipped fingernails and dry skin. oily faces and cellulite.

better, purer, more consistency in relationships. more music. for free. more resources that will not run out. better cooking skills and foot that won't expire.

fairness. mutual love. faith in more than myself and him. reading faster and more. safer cities.

2008-04-02T19:35:00.004-07:00

have you ever gotten sex advice from your parents?

preeeeeeeety funny.

2008-03-19T15:11:00.005-07:00

i've turned another year over.

most memorable gifts:

the cure. disintegration

hipster haiku. siobhan adcock

a new bicycle. purple

simone de Beauvoir. les belles images

treasure map. ditch money

a few haiku's are necessary at this point:

...

i only kissed you

because i saw the playlists

on your damn iPod

.....

extra-small sweater

reveals a complete lack of

muscle tone, or fat

.......

when i said i've 'shown'

at that gallery, i meant

'shown up for work there'

...

fuck your SUV

my vespa gets good mileage

you're a dinosaur!

.....

write on my tombstone:

'never bought a greatest hits

compilation disc'

....

chan marshall, you fox

where do you get your lip gloss?

you're always glinty

gone, gone are the days

when we spoke derisively

of nine-to-five jobs

.....

my fantasy bar:

the jukebox is all b-sides

all emo, all night

wait, it's four a.m.

is that too late for me to

get into your pants?

.....

sometimes i worry

i'll be the only grandma

with no bicep tat

the end.

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

the rain poured against our windows today.

he's eating his hockey stick chocolate while playing, i sit in his leopard blue pants and grey vest while we comment on the Talking Heads playing behind us.

Lucky Bar, you're so cool and friendly. why can't i enjoy you for more than twenty minutes?

........

the lastest issue of Sports Illustrated is out.

competition ensues everytime we go to buy our vegetables.

look another way.

...

write. write more. smoke, no. don't.

the ymca lives closeby.

maarten registered us, and now we're headed to Bommel to find his roots.

that and visit Roskilde. i can't even pronounce it.

at least it's not Norsk.

2008-03-01T15:42:00.000-08:00

the Zeps are back in the top five for sure.

2008-02-03T16:45:00.000-08:00

i think i might be depressed again.

(this time, i can't blame it on hormone fluxuation)

not that my life isn't happy, but what often makes me depressed is the bigger things. the things that make life not make sense.

I guess what i'm talking about is the future.

i know that everyone, especially university students, ask themselves this question, at least every semester, if not every week, or every hour.

i realize that what i'm feeling right now is one of those moments when i just want to bask in my loneliness, or my homesickness, or my confusion, or my sadness, so just bear with me.

this is it:

School is hard for me, and that makes me kind of hate it.

i love listening, i love watching my professors talk, i love watching people listening, i love hearing their responses. But school itself, i do not enjoy. i don't appreciate the institution. i loathe the paper writing and the arbitrarily marked papers and grades that are handed out. and i hate having to feel like i must do well to have a real future, or success. Mostly, it's really just that i know i will be a disappointment to people if i give up on it all.

what i'm good at does not equal school. it equals conversation, looking, searching, asking, and capturing by way of the camera. can i justify my life by pursuing these things?

2008-02-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

release.

after a long awaited listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, my partner in the other room builds a cd for friends, friends who are now unloading their vehicle from the ferry.

the cd is beautiful, in the finest sense of the word.
starting on a pop-sounding note: he adds cold war kids, belle and sebastian and loney, dear to the mix. it moves then, to a different sound: the cinematic orchestra, low, and radiohead.

as i hear the noise pour into the room in which i sit, i get completely desperate for a smoke.

so i pull him outside with me, the door a crack open so we can still hear the music.

we hold one another outside as we wait for our friends to arrive.

and we smoke one glorious cigarette.

it's the closest to romance we can come to, naturally.

then we return to our suite and share the deepest kiss i've had in weeks.

what a seminal way to begin a friday night.

onsdag, the weather aside.

2008-01-16T20:16:00.000-08:00

As the sound of my favorite Cat Power record fills the room, I think about your reply.

The fireplace that was hand-delivered to our suite, here on the top floor of this old house we live in, it shines with the glow of pretend flames, while heating the room ever so slightly. I can hear my husbands fingers gingerly turning the pages of the dictionary beside me, as he discovers the words in the dictionary that begin with Q, but have no U to follow.
It's interesting, living with someone who's thoughts you get to follow so precisely and consistently. And someone who's thoughts often characterize yours, yet with a slight tinge of confidence in his voice, yet not in mine.

Today began with the struggle to wake up, as is most mornings, although this morning, it was easier than most. I had a dream about my grandmother dying last night. She was sitting on her chair, closed her eyes, and her soul just drifted away. In my dream, my mother only told me 3 days later, with which news i greeted with anger. When i awoke this morning, i promptly phoned her to make sure that when such a tragedy did arise in the family, that i would not be the last to know.
We left the house after a timely lunch. Leftovers and a peanut butter slathered piece of pumpernickel bread.

We bundled up and took our bikes downtown. As we passed the storefront windows, I liked how I looked. My grey pants and black jacket were complimented by my old blue book back, holding my laptop, Foucault textbook and a Sylvia Plath novel I brought along, just in case I need some escape. It only took us a few minutes to ride to the middle of the city, the place visitors come when they don't know of all the little nooks that fill the city...the places only people who live here know of. The little video stores and bakeries that fill the Cook Street Village we now know so well.
We arrived at our destination, the corporate Starbucks, the place we've been going to study since we were given a card, with dollars that could be spent only there...I plugged in my computer, and began my reading on Intersexed infants, and the process that follows their birth...reconstructive surgery of ambiguous genitalia, and reassignment of gender in some cases.
I love this kind of reading. It's fascinating because it's about sex, but not sexual. I love reading about how much gender is such a complex construction of our social system.
Johannes read his book patiently in a chair more comfortable than my own. He's on the second book of Lord of the Rings. He loves that kind of escapist writing, if only I wasn't so busy reading for school, I'd love to do some of it myself.

After my reading was complete, we quickly escaped the busyness of the Starbucks environment, where every surrounding conversation is not only distracting, but uninteresting, to people like myself, who always hopes I'll overhear a conversation that fits my most keen interests...someone I can find to be friends with, based on simply overhearing them speaking to someone else.
A few items of home and sexual intimacy were required to be purchased, so we stopped by a local retailer to acquire such items, then took our bikes back home.
After arriving at home, it was realized that a movie, Kinsey, one of the most fascinating movies I've seen, had to be returned. We again, got dressed for the cold bike ride, two shirts, two sweaters, jacket, scarf, and Norwegian-grandmother knit black and white gloves...We set out again.The ride down our street is comforting, a slow decline, making the ride a simple one for such a novice rider like myself.
I slipped the movie through the Return slot, closed the door, and looked at the sky. It was that time of night just before the final bit of yellow from the sky is enveloped in the clouds...

I suggested a ride to continue our day, a ride to the ocean that's just at the South tip of Cook St. There's a beautiful bed and breakfast on the corner, and I always love seeing the sign that swings in the wind, and is lit by a lightbulb, shining at it from below, casting one of those shadows that ends up on a Christmas card that my mother would love.
We rode on the street, the way you are supposed to when you live in the city...and when we arrived at the end of the bike path, we stopped for a few quick minutes at the end of the pier, just long enough to take a few drags of a cigarette. The sun had reached it final stages of setting, and I saw a boat in the distance that looked like an elephant, fit with a decadent robe of jewels and color.

Johannes kissed my neck and we stood there, overlooking the water as lovers do, and laughed at our conveniently typically romantic moment.
When our moment ended, as the chills worked their way up the sleeves of our jackets and down the back of our spines, we rode home again, with Johannes' bike chain clicking the whole way. He gave me the better bike, the black one, the one that fits me better, the one who's seat I can reach.
We walked our bikes the last few minutes. The ride home is a little tougher than the way there, for when a decline on the way there, it must mean an incline on the way back.

We arrived back in our suite with pink cheeks and noses.
I felt pretty, and put on a pot of water for dinner.

2007-06-20T22:29:00.000-07:00

there's this person that has been added to my life.
his name is Johannes Gerald van Bommel van Vloten.
and soon we'll share a last name.

2007-06-19T23:49:00.000-07:00

lane change.

a slow down of cigarettes.

days in the city, spent in conversation over sidewalk vendor masterpieces.

names.
calculations.
obligation.

new ideas birthed but poorly explained.
Brown's Social House.
a new view of the city.

photos taken while riding in the car.
a camera out the window to capture the Turner sky.

2007-03-12T00:56:00.000-07:00

Tonight it's in the swaying of trees and the sheets of rain that I find my understanding.

There has been a declaration of truth.

And where vulnerability is even just touched upon, exponential growth has occured.

This is a kind of love that is perhaps misunderstood, but when questioned is found to be profoundly beautiful: realized only to those who are close: close in conversation.

How sweet it is to know love.

And to know it confidently.

2007-03-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

Today in the news:

International Women's Day.

Car accident, killing three.
Fashionable Drink mixes.
and Concert announcements upon Concert announcements:

TV on the Radio: March 24th at the Commodore Ballroom

You Say Party! We Say Die! : March 26th at Richards on Richards

Mew: April 3rd at Richards on Richards

Great Lake Swimmers: April 5th at Richards on Richards

Whitey: April 9th at the Media Club

Appleseed Cast: April 10th at Richards on Richards

Trans Am: April 24th at Richards on Richards

Damien Rice: April 24th at the Centre for Performing Arts

Coachella Music Festival:

featuring Bjork, Interpol, Brazillian Girls, the Arcade Fire, Explosions in the Sky, Of Montreal, Andrew Bird, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, the Decemberists, and Rage Against the Machine:

April 27 - 29th in Indio, California

LCD Soundsystem: May 3rd at the Commodore Ballroom

!!! : May 4th at Richards on Richards

Explosions in the Sky: May 5th at the Croatian Cultural Centre

Sasquatch Music Festival:

featuring Bjork, the Arcade Fire, Neko Case, MIA, The Hold Steady, Grizzly Bear, Mirah, Viva Voce, The Thermals: May 27-28th at the Gorge, Washington

Annnd... Neon Bible has been released.

If you don't have it already, it's high time to pick it up.

It's anthemic, orchestral and just beautiful.

CBC3 has even honored them by making March 6th Arcade Fire Day...

2007-01-31T01:06:00.000-08:00

There is permutation ahead.
Perhaps in the form of clarity. Or photographs.
Maybe on the branches that adorn my chest.

Montreal.
Language.
Brian Eno.

...

What is the image in our head when we talk about the essence of femininity?

Does it have anything to do with motherhood or a woman's biological advantages or limitations?
And what about masculinity?

What's the picture?

...
Beside me lies a book for young women that I was given once.

It discusses why "boys are so weird".
Why is this kind of thought being passed on to daughters everywhere across the Conservative Christian map?
Why is the reinforcing of gender seemingly helpful in the acquisition of a partner?

Is this photo difficult?

Why is androgyny so unfulfilling?

2007-01-20T11:42:00.000-08:00

I found it again.
My community is manifested in the eyes and words of these people.
The group that meets downtown on Friday nights for highlights and song choices.
It's just a little place that caught our eye one day,
close to the core of this city of ours.
And the beautiful part is that it is a communal project.
The sort of project that involves white wine,
imported beer, Norwegian gloves and box sets.

This is the very best kind of community.
The kind that has a common understanding of what a city like this entails.
A group that knows how discovering a place to make a niche is essential to finding contentment in a place you've grown up in.
A place with connotations and challenges within.
To be a twenty-something in a city such as this is only made worthwhile when we learn each others values and take on their understanding on nights like this.

2007-01-19T19:19:00.000-08:00

Morning Theft:

No longer a student or the roommate of an artist, my community has escaped me. The terrible and sudden kind of escape, the one that comes without warning.

The days are spent making meals for unappreciative government employees, and the evenings find their meaning only in conversation and sleep.
Tomorrow, a much needed drive in a car where almost everything cosmetic is damaged.
I will make it, as long as the radio tuner is functioning, and the rain is kept at a distance.
A lack of contrast in the sky and repetition of a new Buckley song, I figured it was time to once again step into my own head.

2006-12-26T02:37:00.000-08:00

2006. It looks just like the sun.

Beauty has breathed upon me.

By the witness of the great seven swans, a red light and the openness that a backyard gathering can bring, I have recognized a kind of beauty i have not previously found.

Mutuality and an ordination song...the sweetest taste is on my mouth.

upwards march.

2006-10-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

Top Five Words: [dedicated to a lover]

Aesthetic:
~ Having a sense of the beautiful; characterized by a love of beauty.
~ Pertaining to, involving, or concerned with pure emotion and sensation as opposed to pure intellectuality.
~ A philosophical theory or idea of what is aesthetically valid at a given time and place: the clean lines, bare surfaces, and sense of space that bespeak the machine-age aesthetic.
~ Characterized by a heightened sensitivity to beauty.

Anecdote:
~ A short account of a particular incident or event of an interesting or amusing nature, often biographical.

Lover:
~ A person who loves, especially a person who has or shows a warm and general affectionate regard for others.

Paradigm:
~ A set of assumptions, concepts, values, and practices that constitutes a way of viewing reality for the community that shares them, especially in an intellectual discipline.

Peace:
~ A state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations
~ Cessation of or freedom from any strife or dissension.
~ Freedom of the mind from annoyance, distraction, anxiety, an obsession, etc.; tranquillity; serenity.
~ Silence; stillness

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

2006-09-30T01:35:00.000-07:00

Although there are far more interesting things to read about and write about than the weather,
I am going to talk about it.
Because I love talking about it.

Heading Eastbound on the TransCanada Highway tonight,
I see that the fog has come.
And I recognize September because of it.
This season we call Autumn is always marked by it.
It brings me to the roads, to the fields, and into my own head.

Amongst my struggles with gender and the future, passivity and altruism,
I find rest in this gray haze that settles itself over the Fraser Valley.
Late at night.
On the long ride home.

2006-09-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

It's lonely around this little city these days.
No one to call up for drinks, go for drives around town late at night.
"A cup of coffee and a little conversation."
music.
movies.
mindlessness.

The things us kids fill our time with these days.
I always tell my parents when they critique my amount of c.d. purchases...
"I have nothing else to keep me sane.
It's a safer thrill than drugs, and cheaper than counseling. "

There are a couple of events coming up:
October Fifth: Kascade plays at Caprice.
October Seventh: You Say Party We Say Die plays at Richards on Richards.
October Fourteenth: Sufjan Stevens plays at St. Andrews Wesley Church.
All in Vancouver. All worth the trip.

.. . .. . ........... . ..
According to the looking-glass self theory by Charles Horton Cooley, our self is formulated in response to our perceptions of the reactions of others towards us.
So, we imagine how we look to others, according to attractiveness, friendliness, and intelligence.
We imagine how others judge us.
We develop a self feeling, such as pride or shame, as a result of our perceptions of these evaluations.

How then, does a negative self concept arise out of positive social interation and consistent positive feedback from peers?

Somehow the disapproval of character, self inflicted or otherwise, creeps in. Takes over.

Is self esteem innate? Or socialized?

2006-09-12T20:31:00.000-07:00

I go to sleep most nights with the most obscene panic.
Questions and the desire for a cigarette.

After a frightening conversation I was given a picture.
If only I had the hands to paint.

[it is dark. the image and atmosphere.]

It is this:
God exists in my life as a tension that stands over my head.
Tied at one end is logic and understanding.
The other side is held up by childhood teaching and past interpretation.
And in the middle lies romanticism and the concept of an aesthetic Christ.

In the moments that are quiet: either peaceful or anxious.
God rests.
Just above me.

What is it that I see in music and old cars, landmass and hands?
I wish there were something substantial, something understandable to hold onto.

Angles and perspective. light through tires.
muted light on car windows.
This is time taken. Not a moment contrived.
Something happens to me on nights like this.
Even if I force myself to wonder if maybe all of this is man made,
God can not be denied.

I crave for these moments to be tangible.
Sweet, but filled with depth of understanding.
They ought to be fashioned as something bare but beautiful.
But I won't let the sweetness of it get in the way of sincerity.

It's in the marsh. In the songs.
In the misery of this not working.
The panic it brings to think that maybe I got it wrong.

I've somehow lost familiarity. The tone of your voice.
I wish I had a place where we could bump into each other.
Somewhere across town.
Somewhere I'd find you reading and drinking a cup of coffee.
Early in the morning. By chance.

Hair clean and only the window light.
Unpretty but happy.

I am ill with the notion of finality.

The scent still exists.

But patience is beautiful.

2006-08-25T00:12:00.000-07:00

Incense rising out of the sunroof.
Common interpretations of beauty.
An explanation of a new affection.
The story not done justice.

Two-step around the room.

Relentlessly melancholy.
Just as I would choose it to be.
I'm seeing that character strengths can disguise themselves easily as flaws.
And that we are lazy with the ones we love most.

I keep looking for imperfections, but only as a way to figure things out.
There is nothing unlivable, certainly.

As the song says...

this is the sound of settling.

2006-08-24T23:44:00.000-07:00

This is the other perspective.

Appreciators of music.
And talk of a self imposed exile.
Out of what?
Music from the hair metal era and a drink suggestion. Three takers.
We shared a round and a few smokes in a dingy back lounge.
Nelson Avenue: Vancouver.
Cloves and the potential of misery.
We all wore shoes sewn by the same third world factory.
Dying plants and anxiety were on my mind that day.

And it was this day that the idea of an apple on the forearm was explained to me.
More prominant however, was the song playing in a record store somewhere on West 4th.

2006-08-17T16:50:00.000-07:00

My eyes have brightened.
Light has spoken to me through the rising of the moon with the backdrop of paper thin trees in Banff.
More loudly, it has spoken through the great Aurora Borealis.

One meeting.
In just a few days, he was exchanging the telephone for a menthol cigarette.
The same package that was later released into the prairie wind.
It was an embrace behind a tour van, like a well kept secret.
Then a hand to send me away.

It was a kind of moment that has been refined through the night sky at Deer Lake Park, where words were laid emphatically in the air as if they were written with the thought of another.
He plays the song I waited for with the prelude:
"Let's take this ship in. "
I lit a smoke.
The Amsterdam kind.
White, with a trace of vanilla.
I breath deeply and exhale into the dark.

Just the other day I lost track of it.
I just wanted to be sure of him.
When the orange moon hung low in the sky,
I saw something running away.
It returned quickly in the coming of the rain and the perspective it brings with it.

Music should be about developing a relationship with an idea or with the skies.

2006-08-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

I'm back in that old place again,
Watching the smoke rise, exhaling towards the screen in front of me.
Once again, I'm in that beloved city, the one I called home for one short year.
In one short day I am romanced in a park, bumping into people who wander the streets, challenging the rules of a members only pub...

Nostalgia comforts me. Downtown seduces me.
One Great City they call it.
Or simply The City, to whom it isn't home.

Billy Holiday, along with a beat created in this very place:
that is my soundtrack tonight.

Then there's that old church down the street, the one with red brick and stained glass. The one that forced me to think, doubt, and see beauty.

And my precious friend:
who taught me to choose character above beauty.
Love of light and Christ.

All of this, along with Portage Avenue, are the things that make this city seminal.

2006-07-31T00:25:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-26T15:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-19T20:45:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-13T01:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-12T17:07:00.000-07:00

"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?

2006-07-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

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.

... . . .....

2006-07-02T02:45:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-07-01T02:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-26T01:41:00.000-07:00

beauty has once again captured me.

I have visitors from the Scandinavian sector currently occupying my bed. This includes two dear cousins whom I rarely see. Although they both subscribe to many of the pop icons I can't bring myself to support, it's been compelling meeting them through adult eyes.

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

Just before the television was laid to rest for the night, a documentary came on the screen of my most beloved band: Radiohead. My understanding came back tonight of why I began with Kid A, and after taking a good look through their entire discography, why I have stopped with Amnesiac. It belongs in the mind of late night thinkers, to act solely as a soundtrack to unformulated ideas.

It just begs a listen.

:.....:::::::::::: :: : :: :: :::::::.... ....................

My brother and I have recently been discussing how each person, in their own way, is a bit off, emotionally or psychologically.
When I say this, I mean those people who tell stories for longer than is reasonable at social gatherings, not realizing the disinterest of their gracious listeners...those ones that laugh incessantly at any kind of joke, not understanding the obnoxious laugh they own and put others through each time a humorous story is told...those that are irrational when making decisions and rely strictly on emotional energy...those that change their state of mind unexpectantly in an argument and can't employ logic to get them to a rational place once again.

These are the small things that often keep me up, puzzled by human behavior. When I grasp these inconsistencies in mannerisms, I often see them in myself.

[those little things that make us all strange and make others wonder]

2006-06-23T01:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes giving up has an explanation attatched to it.

Here is one now:

Although there are moments when an idea seems unique, or a person or object is captured in just the right light at just the right angle,

my confidence falls completely apart when I see this kind of beauty.

2006-06-18T18:01:00.000-07:00

my answer is music.

Lately, this means A Northern Chorus, Bjork, Ben Harper, Thom Yorke, and Wilco. There's something about laying flat in a dark room with the window open, letting in enough wind to cool and sooth the most delicate and trying of emotions.

But when is it that a song becomes a part of you?

when the words are known?
when the song links you to a memory of significance?
when it becomes the soundtrack to a particular moment?

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

While sitting in an office building this week, in amongst the desks I noticed that no one looks at paper and books anymore. Everything we learn and everything we seem to produce is online. onscreen. And I think it is making us all sick with too much information.

[like this example right here]

2006-06-16T01:26:00.000-07:00

The Commodore Ballroom:

disappointed professionals hold up their cellular phones to capture the music.

my friend has fallen for the one with the high cheekbones,

and I, for the blue lights.

Shiny faces and chiming guitars make the night.

......... .

I came to this realization that i don't appreciate stories.
maybe because they give me an unrealistic view of life.
relationships in particular.

I have to drown out the cars with music.
The thing about feeling down is that people want to fix you.
They take on your mess and your ideas.
They want you to be healthy.
be complete.
remove particular patterns.
but I don't know what this looks like.
or how it ought to look.
sometimes i think i'd rather smoke my djarums and die young.

[ just another james dean ]

I've thought about being a recluse.
a writer. a painter.
that or a deaf mute, like Holden suggested.

.... . .. ..................................................................... .
Let me ask my readers this:
what is it that gets you through the day?
keeps you sane?
allows you to feel peace?

2006-06-12T21:52:00.000-07:00

Have faith, dear one. You will see greatness.

There are a lot of things a lot of people tell me, or try to tell me.
advice that is.

Advice I don't want to hear, advice I'm not ready to hear.
But tonight I could stomach it, appreciate it even.
And that made it just a precious night.

2006-06-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

Amsterdam.

People here sit facing the canals but have their eyes closed towards the sun. The smell of marijuana wafts down every street -
coffee shops take a different kind of business than the name suggests.
And when night comes, the girls are out and the tourists open their eyes wide to the Red Light District.
I'm ill as I walk past the young boys and businessmen peering into the windows. One man enters, the curtain closes.
The lack of sobriety in this place shows by the sheer volume of the visitor’s voices.
Lives seemingly empty and cheapened by this nightlife.

Below me sits a woman with heavy black eyeliner, cheap jewels, polished nails and a colored scarf with white dots.
A full pack of cigarettes is her meal.

Winston Kingdom.

Dress. Ostinato. Labasheeda. 05.26

We are the trees.

I was told I had a pretty voice.
Although he was surely drunk, it was somehow pleasant.
This place has lost a bit of its charm.
Perhaps it’s because the last visit was flawless and unable to be matched.
I saw a darker side of this place, and through a different set of eyes.
As well, having a protective elder along somehow taints the process of light easy travelling and creativity.
Although the company is nice and the drinks are free.

White wine and black cigarettes.

2006-05-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

Cheated by the opposite of love.

Water hangs from an outside chain link fence.
And I decided to be happy. content perhaps.
There’s been an unwillingness in my previous life.

Oslo. the hometown of the king.
And I sleep in a house of close by friends.
Cobblestone streets and a cappuccino.

I'm young. That’s what they keep telling me.
Although I hate to hear it.
"And these children that you spit on as they try to change their worlds are immune to your consultations. They’re quite aware of what they're going through." Bowie. Changes.

Even the pages turning seems loud tonight.
Searching my bag. one. and i panic.

a clove in Sweden.
a still night.
Just the sound of gravel and the door closing.
a tap dripping. a generator. a hair out of place.
ocd? only when I’m alone and it's this unrighteous loneliness.
a bed made with hospital corners and the smell of clean hair.

We took a drive around town in the rain.
Nothing was open to entertain us.
We listened to the radio for a while.
after too much discussion, we turned on Guns n' Roses and read the signs to lead us back to our beds.
a decision was made.
there is too much bread and cheese in this country.

... . . .. .......................... . . . .
lights in all the windows. illuminating small rooms.
and rows upon rows of paper trees.
........ . . ... . . .. ............... .......................................

The toxic smell of a perfume gallery.
White wine and waves.
Men in black rimmed glasses buying cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes.

Copenhagen.
The part of town where a strip joint is the norm and sex is being sold on the street.
Yet a pub is found where fashionable young women smoke cigarettes and apply lipstick at the table with a small compact mirror.
People are lining up now.
Two people are wearing yellow and waving towards the levee.
A man sits alone at a table in the smoking section, inhaling deeply and drinking a beer.

Now it's a small town of families and seniors in Germany.
The wind. and a song entitled twenty three.
A public phone in which a calling card is inserted.
No answer. not even a machine to speak to.
Finally the sun is out and a white ribbon flies.
The map is bent and my shoes are wearing thin.

Sarah harmer and travel. the two go well together.
East Germany is then reached.
There's something about being cold and hearing a native Russian say, "If we stick together we'll be strong" that makes the otherwise silence comfortable.

Eastblock. Where the women serve the men without question and it’s two rooms maximum.

I can't help but think that all things kitsch, including kitten wall hangings, embroidered lampshades, and lace curtains make anyone an unfit host.
I feel ungrateful and perhaps poorly received.
I was wrong. I often am.
She was a smoker, and he, an alcoholic.
I can see it in his cheeks.
Although the streets are quiet here, it smells altogether of plush lilac trees while cigarette smoke and urine waft through the streets.
The clock pounds beside me.
The wood is thin and poorly painted.
I see my grandmother in an old photograph.
I love the way the chest rises and falls while one sleeps.

Queen on the Autobonn.
A place where one sixty is no big deal.
The forests have clean grounds on the way to Berlin.

I wish I could step inside the forest as in a story.

I start to shake after a few drags.
Involuntarily.
I’m thinking about the way I see things.
And I think it’s in the way I look at scenes.
As if what I see is already a photograph in my mind before the picture is even taken.
Perhaps this is where my ideal of the beautiful comes in.
In photographs, unless the ugly is the object to be captured, it is cropped out.
Therefore, nothing unworthy of a picture should be gazed at longer than is needed to figure out how to take it out graciously.

It’s windy here in Berlin.
And the rain comes erratically. And without notice.
The relationships I desire are unreachable.
It’s time to get inside. It’s cold and he’s already asleep.
He tells me love gives us a higher tolerance for things. For people.
But I can’t speak with someone who’s half asleep.

Helmut Newton’s photo gallery exhibited all kinds of women, but the shadows and lights fashioned them fit to be looked at in a different way than those caught up in fluorescent lighting and teased hair.
Perhaps it’s the colour in general that sets the wrong atmosphere.

Next: a tribute to Amsterdam.

cause vs. time

2006-05-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

vancouver concert update:

Xavier Rudd. June 2nd. Malkin Bowl. $29.50
Bright Eyes. June 4th. Malkin Bowl. $28.50
Foo Fighters Acoustic Tour. July 10th. Orpheum Theatre. Sold Out.
Sam Roberts + Broken Social Scene + The Stills. July 25th. Deer Lake Park. $36.50
David Gray. August 14th. Deer Lake Park. $45

I need a date for a couple of these.
Particularly the fourth.
Any takers?

2006-05-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

ethical smother.

2006-05-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

Do you remember?
It is a feeling that is two-dimensional.

It's the feeling of an empty room.
an unwashed floor.
a headache.
a moment that is almost quiet.
but not quiet enough.

malleable maybe.
yet caught up in ashes
on a busy street corner and hiding from loved ones.

i've stopped thinking for the night.
the seventeenth of may has almost passed.

yet in retrospect...

2006-05-14T13:09:00.000-07:00

It's official:

The mullet is back.
Canada continues to be at least one year behind Europe in fashion.
Believe me.
It started with men wearing pink.
Now they are all sporting mullets.
You heard it here first.

In other news:

I want to live at h&m.

2006-05-12T20:41:00.000-07:00

I've been told that it's a bigger crime to hold back.

the conversation is real and i ought not judge:
the naivety of parents regarding their children.

my latest experience makes me think that everyone is a bit insincere. this idea comes from the small amount of self interestedness that is evident in every human psyche.
and perhaps things will never be good enough.

closing my eyes makes me panic as we take off.
the tires sound like a heartbeat as they skim the concrete surface of the airstrip.
We're flying East. towards Winnipeg.
i prayed for a touchdown.
there is a hand on a leg beside me.
eyes looking out from above glasses.
a bump on a forehead and gum in his mouth.
he has a beer while i watch. just one: Heineken.

The next day i see the precision of Deutschland.
the seamless roads. the control of speed.
Germans drink mineral water before bed.

on my way through Denmark I saw the sea on each side and white blades creating energy.
I waited in line while looking through a dirty windshield,
and on the boat to Scandinavia, sea salt on my skin.
All i hear is the white noise of muted Norwegian.
the people here look healthy.
light hair. fair skin. eyes like weather. cheeks the color of rose.

red wine. bad movies.
yellow peppers at twelve dollars/kg.
the most expensive vegetable ever eaten. and it didn't even taste good.
a five hour shift in fluorescent lighting.

led zeppelin and dirty sheets.
cat power and ironed pillow cases.
flawless curtains.

rich Nowegian wood.

if Dark Side of the Moon was already frightening,
listen to it going through a tunnel that goes on for ten kilometres and feels like a death trap.
the speed is too fast, and the mountains too much for my eyes.

finally, a sincere moment between the two of them.
now, beside a fjord somewhere on the coast of Jektaviak and on the way to Førde -
I see a moment between them.
There is a man fishing nearby. but it looks as if he could be dancing.
Jeff Tweedy is on the stereo. and i can hear hands clapping.

Jesus etc.

it's a time where not even a cigarette is necessary.
nothing must change.
if they are disturbed, this moment will be over.
maybe i should allow myself to be content for once.

2006-05-02T00:16:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you what I see as the epitome of Abbotsford:

a woman with perfectly polished acrylic nails text messaging on a cellular telephone while driving a shiny grey Audi.
a man in work jeans and a collared shirt driving through Tim Hortons getting the three dollar special in his forty thousand dollar truck.
both with multiple World Vision children smiling sweetly from underneath a fridge magnet.

It's in all of us. We just fail to see it.

(At my extreme, my thoughts turn to equate these two machines.)

2006-04-30T02:17:00.000-07:00

..... . .. . ............ . .. ................... . . .. ............. . .. . ........ .. ..
i suppose i expected it to be effortless.
expectation vs. hope. like we talked about.

a windy night spent on the pier adorned me with a fierce cold and a parking ticket.
and an inability to drive to Seattle to see Lichtenstein and a good friend.

i haven't smoked in a few days.
my throat has become raw from inhaling too deeply.
but i can't help it.
it's not sufficient to just keep it in my mouth.

appreciation has become a catchphrase around here lately.
it seems so unnatural to think about life as a list of benefits and pitfalls. a chart to climb.

tonight as i passed the street lights,
the mirrors lying beside me on the cushioned seat were shining on the ceiling.
ambiance even in the car.
unexpectedly.

i worry about intention.
and about decency and poise.

"Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs."
- Nick Hornby
..... . .. . ............ . .. ................... . . .. ............. . ..

2006-04-30T01:36:00.000-07:00

This post needs to be read.
by everybody.
It kiiiiiiiind of made me want to give up my blogging career.
as i will never achieve such depth of thought and richness of character.

as i have learned in this passing year, everything you've ever needed or wanted to hear is all up there in that beautiful head of hers.

kid. i love you. and your hair.

2006-04-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

It was dusk
as I touched the ground in Saskatoon.
An unplanned visit made me realize that the world prides itself in furthering stereotypes.

(gustav klimt)

This time I didn't pray for rain.
but I can now smell it in the pavement.
I must be home.
a bookshelf full of my own possessions.
drawers full of old clothes.
sleeping off the ground.
feet hitting carpet as I wake.
the green walls.
a room with a known past.
and the telephone ringing.

I can remember a slight touch of the back.
and lights in the distance.
anxiety.
The same song now as then.

2006-04-14T19:25:00.000-07:00

.... ... .. . .. ...put your hands on the wheel... .
let the golden age begin... .. ............. . ..

I was thinking today about the way romance is portrayed in the media.

Road trips to all the greatest locations and with the most fantastic soundtracks... depression that is somehow healed through a lover's words... a fantastic sort of idealized youth that is characterized by wealth and beauty...
Does all of this give us a false sense of hope of what could be?

Of what really exists?

Does love really take these perfect forms...
In reality, do the long time lovers always end up together in the end, like they do in film and song?

Perhaps disappointment comes in the fact that I have no face to put in my own situation, no long time love to dream of...instead, I have a more abstract notion of that perfect love.

And I'm stubborn and unwilling to give up the idea up that it does exist, somehow, in some way.

this ideal love.

2006-04-12T22:33:00.000-07:00

Even as it is silent...
the park outside is flooded from the downpour, and the apartment smells of stale cigarettes and dried limes.

why is the world beautiful?
and how are the things of the world to be enjoyed?

2006-04-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

Do you see the resemblance?

(my mother)
I realize, it might be a bit generous to compare my mom to the likes of Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe,
but I think she's a beautiful lady.
And if you watch the classic 1959 Doris Day film "Pillowtalk" with my mother in mind, you will see that the resemblance is mystifying.

2006-04-09T23:23:00.000-07:00

"It's like the mist is what's pretty you know? All the gold and silver.
Too bad it can't stay like that all the time."

"Nothing gold can stay."

- the outsiders. 1983.

2006-04-09T15:44:00.000-07:00

Sadly, Winnipeg will not be my home for the summer.
It's back to Abbotsford for me as of mid-April.
The better part of May will be spent in Europe,
where i will be driving with my father to the likes of Amsterdam, Bergen, Bonn, Drammen, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Holsbybrunn, Kristiansand, and Oslo.

In other news, I wanted to officially announce the beauty that is waiting for me when i get home.
(This is what happens when you live surrounded by a father, brothers, and brothers friends, all of who are fascinated with cars.
A love of them yourself.)

The car I've been waiting for my whole life. I'm pretty sure that even if I had something like a million dollars to spend on a car, I'd make sure I had a 1981 Volvo.
He's a beauty,
and his name is Sherman.

2006-04-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

too many music posts lately?
Sorry, but I'm not sorry.

a question posed to me recently by my roommate:
"can you think of a song in which there's a seemingly insignificant little piece, like a small lyric or guitar movement or something, that literally makes the song for you? As in, you probably wouldn't care about the song if it weren't for that little moment."

here was my answer:
"i once was lost but now I'm found, was blind, but now i see"

'Metal Heart' by Cat Power, has a moment, right near the middle of the song where it comes to a very subtle climax, but it just makes the song for me. It's definitely worth a listen.

Any songs come to mind?

2006-04-06T00:17:00.000-07:00

In the words of George:

"The Flaming Lips are not only a fantastic band, but versatile: they are perfect for listening to at two in the afternoon while sitting in the park, or at two in the morning when you are having trouble sleeping."

2006-04-05T18:42:00.000-07:00

With school coming to a close and music on my mind:
Here are some of the concerts that will be making there way to Vancouver this summer.

Matthew Good Solo Acoustic
April 20/21 - Vancouver East Cultural Centre ($29.50)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs April 27 -
The Orpheum ($32.50)
Death Cab for Cutie/Franz Ferdinand April 28 - Pacific Coliseum ($35-45)
Sigur Ros May 3 - Benaroya Hall - Seattle ($35 US dollars)
Jeff Martin (of the Tea Party) May 6 - Commodore Ballroom ($26.50)
The Strokes May 17 - Plaza of Nations ($37.50)
Cowboy Junkies May 18 - River Rock Show Theatre ($37.50)
Mogwai May 24 - Commodore Ballroom ($24)
The New Amsterdams May 24 - Richards on Richards ($12)
Constantines May 25 - Richards on Richards ($17.50)
Ben Harper May 28 - Deer Lake Park ($45)
Xavier Rudd June 2 - Malkin Bowl ($29.50)
Vancouver Jazz Festival June 23-July 2 - Centre for Performing Arts
Vancouver Folk Festival July 14 - 16 - Jericho Beach Park
(Day Pass $60 Weekend Pass $100)

and...the highlight of all festival concerts...
Coachella Music Festival
in Indio, California
April 29th and 30th
(Day Pass $85 Two Day Pass $165 US dollars)

Including : Massive Attack, Madonna, Mogwai, Wolf Parade, The Dears, Daft Punk, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Sigur Ros, Metric, Cat Power, Franz Ferdinand, Damien Marley, TV on the Radio, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Animal Collective, Imogen Heap, and My Morning Jacket.

The reality of it is...
I can't attend 90% of these shows.
And no, I don't want to talk about it.

2006-04-01T23:24:00.000-08:00

i'm beginning to see a bit of a pattern here:
ridiculous amounts of people in fantastic bands.

the hidden cameras

broken social scene

stars

arcade fire

belle orchestre

you say party! we say die!

and most notably, The Polyphonic Spree.

These performances include combinations of any number of people,
with anywhere from five to fifteen people on stage at a time.
(as well as the sharing of band members for live shows and album recordings.)

we seem to have reached a musical revolution.

2006-04-01T15:53:00.000-08:00

"music is my boyfriend"

Breakdowns seem to happen more frequently this time of year.
There is a putrid smell coming from the bottom floor.
Stale cigarettes.
(One of the good reasons not to smoke)
The only people, unfamiliar to you, who greet you in a given day are the ones taking cans out of the garbage, the ones who quite possibly, have the least to smile about.
Hearing the phone ring makes you realize the things you want and the things you don’t want the most.
Interesting how the sound of ringing can be so poignant.

Falling asleep on the couch is never a good thing.
Waking up, realizing the night is half over, and you’ve slept uncomfortably the entire time. Not good.
Drinking a bottle of wine by yourself, on the other hand, is.
Procrastination…well, I’m an expert. Evidently.

2006-03-30T21:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-29T16:06:00.000-08:00

must. not. smoke.

(not helping me)

2006-03-27T14:39:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-26T00:16:00.000-08:00

looking for something new to love?

///
try: window light
and Amon Tobin
///

2006-03-24T18:31:00.000-08:00

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?

2006-03-23T12:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-21T23:49:00.000-08:00

"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 ))

2006-03-19T23:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-16T20:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-14T10:30:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-13T09:41:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-10T14:20:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-08T18:17:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-06T15:19:00.000-08:00

/// 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.

2006-03-05T15:33:00.000-08:00

2006-03-01T15:09:00.000-08:00

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.

tonight on the agenda:

2006-02-23T09:07:00.000-08:00

10pm at the Royal Albert.

2006-02-15T10:43:00.000-08:00

hopelessly mediocre albums:

Alanis Morissette: Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie - as opposed to Jagged Little Pill

Ben Harper: Diamonds on the Inside - as opposed to Welcome to the Cruel World among others

Beck: Sea Change - as opposed to Guero, Odelay, Midnite Vultures

Coldplay: X&Y - as opposed to Parachutes in particular but also A Rush of Blood to the Head

The Flaming Lips: Transmissions from the Satellite Heart - as opposed to Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Soft Bulletin

Incubus: Fungus Amongus - as opposed to Make Yourself, Morning View

Led Zeppelin: Presence (with the exception of Tea for One) - as opposed to everything else in their discography

Powderfinger: Vulture Street - as opposed to Odyssey Number Five

Radiohead: Pablo Honey (even on a good day, this album pretty much only has Creep to redeem it.) - as opposed to everything else in their discography

The Verve: Urban Hymns - as opposed to, well, nothing.

okay. there it is.
this not a definitive list by any means.
i realize that i am probably missing a few things.
and please forgive me if i've offended anyone.
I'm not saying these albums are terrible by any means, and there are surely a few good tracks on all of them. Tracks that could in fact redeem the album if given a closer listen perhaps.
This list was mostly inspired by The Verve album.
The others, i just threw together.
Any thoughts?

2006-02-14T09:47:00.000-08:00

why must our speech reflect our powerlessness?

a decision needs to be made today: a decision to be too distracted by beauty rather than panic about the romantic love that doesn't exist. because it will.

this is for the focus of beauty, not love.

am i fooling myself with naivety?

Art, not Love. Art.

2006-02-14T04:53:00.000-08:00

you'll have to forgive me.
this is going to be an ugly one.

instead of talking the typical "bitter-single-person-on-valentine's-day" talk, i decided to talk about art.
then this day can somehow be redeemed as beautiful.
can it be though?

my question is: Why is Valentine's Day garb so tacky?
i could not fine one attractive piece of art to display here that fit my standard of aesthetics ...

are my standards too high?
or would you be satisfied with looking at something like this, especially something that is self-proclaimingly beautiful?

kill me.
the shape of the heart is awful. there's nothing more to say about it.
I'm sorry.
Do i sound bitter, or is my contempt justified?

unexpected volks.

2006-02-12T23:44:00.000-08:00

these are beginning to become somewhat less clandestine than perhaps i'm even comfortable with.
but somehow, the need to make these words public seems important.
and after cranberry juice and a clove,
something has become apparent.

i had an unexpected telephone call tonight.
from someone i talk to very seldom.
but this individual is precious to me. someone i will know forever.
we discussed parents. similar problems. long nights. valentines day.
all these things we met on.
if i wasn't relying on MTS i'm sure our conversation could have lasted much longer.
this was a rare evening indeed.
when our moods and opinions coincided.
but how valuable this conversation was to me.
we discussed not the need for nicotine, but for the ambience created when inhaling it.
i think we are alike more than i think.

here's a little part of this person.
although there is more to him than this.
i'm certain of it.

-stamp-

2006-02-11T12:13:00.000-08:00

particularly lonely.
listening to highly lyrical songs.
smoking a cigarette whose smoke is blue.
here for nine days.
alone.
i could not leave this apartment.
is the independance worth this?

I'm not really getting a lot out of this cigarette -
most of it is spent on watching the smoke through the lens of my camera.

it's two in the afternoon and i should be reading about art.
instead i'm watching it.
experiencing it.
can philosophy be experienced this way?
What would Danto say?
art must be transfigured.
but some art just is.
it doesn't need transfiguration.
some art can just drone on.
that's all you can expect of it.

the smell of insense has worn off.
i think i'm immune to it.

i don't do things right.
i don't take vitamins.
i don't eat very healthy.
my favorite food is cheese.
i think it shows.
i don't drink enough water.
but when i do, it's with two ice cubes.

[i stamp out my cigarette and get back to work.]