I am Elvis, Luke, Donald and Tilda.

I saw the Born Ruffians for free last night.
Fucking amazing.
I don't know what it was, I think the bass drum was mic'd really well, but York St. erupted into curtains of hair stiffening noise. There was like a wall of illuminant, cracking heat inside my chest. So hot in there!
I was turned on and aggressive. And I just wanted to dance.
I fucking danced like Donald O'Connor.

Luke Lalonde's hair inspired me. His hair and his Elvis jig.
To be frank I look like a boy. I have breast smaller than an A cup, no curves, good eyebrows (they're the shit), and I have a passionate heterosexual appreciation for women.
It was short on the sides, long on the top.
Just an idea.

In my efforts to become effeminate I've become more masculine. Between exercising and dressing well, my breasts have shrunk from weight loss and I've adopted a collection of tight fitting pants and doc martins.
I applied to La Senza, Aritzia and Jones of New York.
I got accepted at Laurier Optical.
I've already begun without conscious care, but to look my best I figure I must be clean cut. No floral. I feel more confident when I'm wearing well fitted simple clothes. And short hair.
Tilda Swinton, yes?
Exactly.
She's been an icon of mine for years, but I appreciate her appeal more than ever now-a-days.
Here's a great interview with her from Bust Magazine's music issue.

Take Away for Today:

Tilda Interview from Michael lavine on Vimeo.

Alice's Clockwork

I'm not a very big fan of Alice in Wonderland. I actually don't like it at all. I think it's been overproduced and over conceptualized. The eccentrically whimsical story has lost its innocence. Once that aspect of literature is lost, it's not longer a story.
But, to contradict myself, I stumbled upon this silent film version of Alice on youtube and really enjoyed it. It made me feel the way, I suppose, a story like Alice's should. Mesmerized and a little disturbed. And it's always intriguing to see how the filmmakers of that era gave life to such abstract and challenging ideas.

Take Away for Today:

If I Had A Heart

There are feelings I experience that I can't attach to emotion or feeling. They are an integral part of my being, but are indescribable and unachievable. They come without warning, with certain loyal triggers. They culminate a part of me that is deep beyond my face and my person. It is beyond being human. There's another element to it.



Small wonder the post-natal period proved so fertile. She composes best in that state any new parent will recognise, awake but exhausted, where reality blurs into imagination and ideas flutter in and out. “Half of what the songs are about is the subconscious,” she says, “ideas of things happening. A lot of it is like daydreaming, dreaming when you’re awake, but tired; a lot of stories come from that world. I try to write when I‘m in that state - I’m very bad at remembering later, so I have to do it right away.” - http://feverray.com/biography/

What a beautiful way to say what's always been on the tip of my tong.

Peter told me

i lost a lot growing up.
i lost a lot using fuel, using my legs, abusing my hands. touching things i shouldn't have and lingering too long against a surface. a texture. rubbing it every which way. i don't linger there to tease anyone, i promise. i just want to understand it more, i want to feel it and show it i am one of it. sometimes it reads differently. i am not a public person, i am not an opinionated person. i am soft spoken and lonely. angry, jealous, needy, spoiled and have not learned my lesson. because i haven't really been hurt.
i don't let my cuts heal. i don't tend to them one at a time. i'll cut myself in a different place to distract myself from the pain of the first.
i'm too young. i'm far too young. and don't allow myself to feel the sum of my age. i'm trapped at the fist of puberty. i don't know who i should become now. i have not recessed, i just haven't allowed my character to age. i've grown, i've learnt. but i've learnt as a youth. and the youth that is me will criticize and learn, but never fully experience the indulgences and sophistication of an idea as an adult. i'll never be wise to my own thought or speak with whim. repeat matter-o-factly or conquer an idea. hand over advice because i do not feel the seniority too.
i'm trapped inside a world much smaller than the one chartered.
i will always be a boy. and have fun.
i will always stay young and continue to flee.
be ignorant of men, money, and guns
stubborn to impress, love as freely as a bleed.
walk between worlds, weightless from its tons.
naked and unscathed, not knowing i am free.
pouring sweat into a glass, as i've titled my death cup
i want to grow up
i want to grow up

Take Away for Today: When I Grow Up - Fever Ray
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F-CpE73o2M

it scares me. there's something really familiar about it. i just don't know what.

Final Fantasy

Rollerskate home, cook a big pot of pepper soup and bake a strawberry rhubarb pie. Then I’m going to put on Felt’s “The Splendour Of Fear” and watch the sun go down from the roof of my house. Then I’ll play my violin until my baby comes home.

says Owen Pallet.
I told my friend I wish people always spoke like that. She replies, "if everyone did, then we wouldn't have people like Owen, and the fantasy wouldn't exist."
wise woman.
There is a modesty and eloquence in a person who chooses to live a frank and mild life. The amateur and muse who flirts with culture, but who is on better accord with themselves. Occasions are not essential, and they are alien to schedule. Nothing requires anniversary, why repeat the past.
I get lost in my head much too often. Forgive me, I'm a Pisces. It hurts me as much as it entertains me. My placebo reality.
So my friends are beginning to get their acceptance letters for university. They're growing up fast, becoming actual adults and holding firm to the steady relationship with their ripened selves. I'm in a state of retrogress. I keep saying goodbye to patterns I find in my personality and starting binge romantic relationships with new characteristics.
Today I dressed up and biked to the market. Bought some coffee and flowers for mama.
I was in France.
I went to the apothecary and bought essence of lavender/vanilla/honey/rosewood.
I'm going to being to create my own perfume.
I'm beginning to realize that my imagination is only as vague as how aggressively choose to embrace it. I'm gung ho. I accept that I wish and fantasize more than I act. I have a trunk of persona's to pick from, a well of out-fits, and a pocket size portion of patience. I used to fear change, but as I've grown I see that my old pants don't fit as well as these new ones do. So I choose to live in my disillusioned world and choose to actually act on my impulses rather than cope with the idea of doing it. I'm not too fond or good at coping. With every new activity I take up I achieve a new piece of wisdom for my arsenal.

Individuation is giving up. There's too much to discover about yourself to be fully self aware. I think its impossible. And that's OK.
When there's an end in sight then the work you do is to achieve that one goal.
When you have no end, no goal, your work becomes your life. it is not a necessity but a series of choices. and your live life to fulfill every moment, to find consistent happiness. Live simply. You don't push or try, because you simply realize that you must exist. one shouldn't be consumed with writing a story.
Fuck you Jung.
I make my own archetypes. I live them.

take away for today:

http://www.howietsui.com/

an amazing illustrator/animator/artists
i have the privilege of seeing some of his new work this fall during the International Animation Festival.

Kitchens, Pool Rooms, Bathrooms, and Home.

I sit in the round with my friends.
Each glazed with a dewed morning gloss. A shell of dampened white glue. A translucent peelable haze that will flake as the day moves. They are transcendent, they are invincible, they are in love. They are shirtless, pantless, hairy, unshowered, sober, hungover, pale as the season. They are guiltless and impulsive. Patient and eagar to evolve into the next day with the history of the last. There's no shame in hook-ups, fucks, passing out, or reclusing. The next morning is limbo and vacant.
A shitless portapoty of opportunity.
Regardless of what the world wants to believe, we believe that we can only believe in each other. What others believe about us is never fully true, or perhaps we're never truly honest with ourselves. Perhaps we're ever changing. What others want is to believe we are real and we are right.
We are right because we've found our house. Our roof is our arms, our laughter, our screams. It is happenstances hiccup that led us to this community, but it is a community more unabashed, ever forgiving and wondrous than the one that held me in and out of the womb.
We're every fake, faux-pas, and quintessence.
We acknowledge that.
We've all absolutely fucked up to be in this position right now, but for what its worth, at this moment, all the wrong choices we've made are alright.
The door is open, a new folk walks in to an energy that is bitter as licorice, electric as pop rocks and wise as black coffee with cream.
We do not seek to change but to learn from each new person that comes into our lives. They help us second guess ourselves. A pair of new eyes to a habitat that may have routined itself.
So we sit in the round, and she unfolds a wad of post-it notes.
'Holy shit someone wrote a novel.' says a friend.
The lovers are chain smoking in the far right corner, a few are fiddling with laces and zippers, all are enjoying caffeine's detoxificating alchemy.
She crinkles the paper. Their ears are smart to the mornings sharp sounds. They cross their legs, stretch their legs, and listen.
She speaks what she's written.
They listen.
She finishes.
They smile, and politely nod and enjoy what they've heard. Without a moment they continue their previous occupations.
She smiles and folds her paper up.
No she doesn't need a critic, or glory, or respect. She needs a group of people who will just listen. She doesn't need decency, or someone to learn something to discover something about themselves.
A couple pair of ears, or one, to lend themselves once in a while is a gift in itself.
What great friends I have.

take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/acorntrail

a very talented young man I had the pleasure of collaborating with the other weekend.

Vegabond shoes

Some news.
I went to NYC this past weekend and auditioned for Juilliard.
Didn't get a call back.
Not bothered.
What an incredible experience. I have never met a more colourful, humble, and generous collection of students and faculty members. Going to the audition has given me much more respect for the school and their alumni. And for New York
My good friend offered me something to think about. She goes "If Juilliard wasn't in New York, would you still go?"
Quite frankly. I wouldn't.
The prestige and schooling that Juilliard would offer excites me, absolutely. But its that city that is the neon wig to the artists brain. It lurches with opportunity and equally so with the ability to burn you. But its the risk, and the luck that someone in that city might trust me with their script. Then by god, why not chase it. There's a point where you can be safe and smart, and then there's the necessity too need to be ruthless and courageous. Knowledge is important and so is skill, but if your not in a position and a place where luck can actually approach you, then your lost. Good training is the foundation, and then a profound understanding of the business is what lures chance. You need to know how to get there, you need to be at the lip of exposing yourself to a city that could be very dangerous but also grant you invaluable exposure and experience.
I have many more auditions to come. We'll see what happens.

Now I could bore you with what I ate, but i'm sure any sensible person has had cupcakes at magnolias. Instead, here's a new collection of fashion from complexgeometries. I was reaquainted with the designer when I stumbled into a small store in some god knows where location when my good friend (and Juilliard student) decided to take me on a tour of the city.

Take away for Today: http://www.complexgeometries.com/ And he's Canadian!

i wish i had money.

Merlot and Dr. Pepper

So I didn't get a synthesizer.
Bummer, but I went to Steve's today to check out the sales for this generous day that is boxing, day and wasn't surprised. They cost more then Elizabeth's ass.
Maybe I'll just get a keyboard.
But, I got an ipod from the family. I've already lost a few. A pattern is occurring.
Went down to the market, all the best stores were locked. Got into a few, gave up and bought a burrito. The ultimate give-up.
That's been christmas. Mixed with a bit of redundant parties, some 20-some great aunts, and the best sweet potatoes freedom can afford and Christmas is just as glamorous as New York City's'.

Side note, Merlot and Dr. Pepper. Aces.

I was scared, for so long because I felt like that immaculate, uncensored, honest feeling of this season had outgrown me. When you're family doesn't laugh at everything you say because what you say isn't innocent, because they know you aren't oblivious, because they treat you like an adult because you are one. It really is the worst, when the people you thought loved you the most were so gentle and courteous because you were young, you were fragile. You're a young adult now you've basically been to Vietnam, Germany, and Iraq- your treated as a veteran. You know life sucks, they know it too, you mutually fall upon a silent agreement that talking for the sake of talking won't propel any of your conversations. So they ask,

"How's your acting going?"

"Good, really good. Doing the best I can."

"Oh of course, don't forget us when you're famous."

Clever.

And every single one of them means it differently when they say it. So it never dries.

And in the midst of those redundant parties with the great aunts and uncles, and my Merlot and Dr. pepper my little cousin grabs my arm and pulls me into the other room, and tells me to play with her.

"Play what?"

"Play!"

And I knew what she meant. And I told her we were in the jungle and we were hunting for treasure. And we had ballgowns on, and we had puppies, and the treasure would take us to Disney Land. And that lasted a good 30 seconds. Not surprisingly.

So now we're playing house. She's my dog, I'm her lovable owner.

And I'm watching her crawling on the ground and I'm looking out into the other room at the great aunts and uncles and I'm thinking.

They treat her like a princess. I know where she is right now, fuck it's the best feeling in the world when people fuss over you and give you just what you asked for. You get your synthesizer. She's only 6 but she will remember every single Christmas. Because everyone is here, because this is the only time she will get what she wants. She's forever away from having to make choices, having to suck it up and grow up.
And I want to leave her because I'm bored but I can't, because I have to give this to her, I have to let her play. No one else will, and I guarantee she will remember this Christmas for the rest of her life, because I gave her what she wanted. When you're young it's never the gifts you remember or when you're older, miss, but it's just when you're given more love then you will ever feel for the rest of your life. People can't help but love you when they know you don't know better.

That feeling will never leave her.

So I saw her, and I saw that point in my life in Aunt Dorothy's basement, and I surrounded by relatives I didn't know and didn't really care for but who loved me effortlessly. And I felt it all again. I think there's a lot you can let go of. Memories that will always leave you. These ones don't. Don't hunt them down and ring them dry. Just feel the wave when it hits you, for however many seconds that is.

Take away for Today:
Leah Hennessey and Max Lakner
http://babymanque.com/index.html

Man oh man.

sitting in the office.
i am. an intern.
freaks and keaners in and out. one guy has a necklace with winston churchill on it.
i need it.
xmas shopping done. bought a few unnecessary presents for people i wanted to cozy up to. and a few gifts for old reliable friends and confidants. even if our archieve of secrets is outdated.
i bought the office folk a new coffee pot. the old one smells like ass. it was needed. less of a gift and more of a I'm-worried-about-you-not-seeing-your-kids-graduate shpeel.
ben's coming in a bit. we're busing home. maybe get some caffeine.

(SMILE)


havn't had coffee all day and i feel like i'm going to start perspiring anger. it looks like tabasco sauce in my mind. if you needed a visual. smells like Lone Star restaurant.
but. i like being addicted to it. it's a mutual courtesy we both have. my body needs it to survive and it needs me to boast about it.
but black. black coffee. too much glam in a coffee is awful. my coffee is unshaven.
christmas break is here. i'm ready for the celebration. i'm ready to see family. and i'm ready to relax. something I haven't done in a while.
but have earned a new respect for.

take care everyone.
love.
SJ

"...and what her mind melts."

woke up at a party.
friend walks in the room and goes "shit someone wrote a novel"
he's holding a pile of post it notes.
here's what was written that night. in the raw. unedited. bear with the spelling.
i bet you feel special:

So she sat in the kitchen, Drinking black coffee, unsatisfied with the high. Caffine could stimulate her text, but not her libido. She was brilliant when she was drunk. Mindless in her reverse. Numb with diaologue. No one cares when your drunk. It's assumed your thoughts are manicured. Blanched with liquor - that ignites inhibition, honesty, and jealousy. So she relies on her pen to relieve herself in the midst of angst. Coffee and cigarettes a companion before the caloused hand of sober personel. People can only give you so much of what you already have. Problems you already had and have no time for. It's not nice to unsurface that old black and white childrens novel. You have wisdom thats too arrogent to enlighten and friends to stubborn to accept the voice of reason. Reasonably speaking - reason depends on the person. Coffee and cigarettes. Two of the greatest kicks you will ever be introduced to. You can feel sex in your thighs, man you can feel cigarettes in your calves. What 3:52 in the morning. Fuck steve. I'm smoking in the house. Everyone's asleep and she's drinking coffee and having the best damn cigarette she's ever had. Jessies neck is out, chen's being a friend, Liza ad Dodson are fucking and she's content. Lonliness is as asset. It teaches you to be realistic with yourself. Forces you to embrace shit and your own bullshit. Bordum can lead to great things for an artist. Take me. Had friends who worshipped the bible and played truth or dare at birthday parties. Now she's fucking every week, addicted to caffine, and drinks brandy to relieve emotional instability.
But thats the cost of beauty.
Fuck.
Dropped the cigarette in the noodles. What the fuck. Can't even flick a fucking ash and its in the noodle sauce. Fuck it it taste fine.
The sound of hot ash hitting a wet surface.
Ace.
5:59
4:00
Perfect.
Even. Even numbers fuck me up. What wants to be even. Being fair is bullshit. Why not fondle rucass. Being even has never taught anyone anything. The joy of winning, the mediocrity of falling just short. Never created war, never introduced democracy, or flaws in communism. Games, gambling, drinking, anorexia, divorce. Being even is the end all be all of history.
Being even to others will never introduce humour. We all fight to be more interesting that others, to impress. If we're all even then we're stationary. Everyone might as well be friends. Again, bullshit.
Smoke in the eye.
Balls.
Blinking it out. Gone. Thank Christ.
Stabs the cig in a wet plate.
Hisses.
Cat ticks behind her against the tiles.
And she wishes she had someone to come out and watch her. Someone who cared about her. Who understood and got her art. dillusional art. Who she could play demure to but really by super fucking flattered they showed up and started a conversation dispite sleep sickness at 4:07AM. She wishes that person was reckless and impulsive. A night and morning person. Had a taste for everything. Respected their parents but found away around guidelines.
And she's at a loss.
She doesn't wish she was prettier, she just wishes she had less pimples. She doesn't wish she was skinnier, she just wishes she had a better metabolism. She just wishes, fuck, a guy or girl could read her mind and share her electricity for life. Pessimism is old and 90s and Nirvana. She just wants to live the best life she can and won't let a bad moment or money or disbelief inhibit her from running as fast as she can. High. Down a street. Covered with trees. Alone. Dodging. Hitting branches. Getting scarred. Acknowledging the blood. Making her self better. Learning. Moving on. Craddling every moment as a chance experience. Pure oxygen.
No. No one will ever understand that.
Ever.
It's too real.
And we're 17 and we live in disney. And we're trying to find ourselves and we live in a fog of opportunity and personalities and no one knows what belongs to whom. But She does.
She's found hers. And she's lonely. Because the ones she loves will only find it in another few years. And she'll have to live alone that much longer. Perhaps a change of scene will spark a new title of bodies. Who may know her, and what her mind melts. But who knows.
No one knows how to chase what they love.
She will chase it until she is blue in the face. Until she is crucified.
Know what you love, love what you do and do it for the rest of your life. That's real. That's adolesence. Not trying to escape your house and find yourself. You've already found yourself, the next step is embracing it.

-**********
4:19
Dec/2009

take away for today:
www.brettisagirl.com
awesome artist. my favourite is togetherness. i bought a few prints for my friends this xmas.

A Mantra

he's on the phone as i type. fiddling with his guitar. i'm hunched over cradling the phone between my left shoulder and ear. i tried speaker phone but its harder to hear the movement on the line and he's on speaker phone as well so the quality is less than spectacular.
i shouldn't have poured an entire cup of tea. i'll never finish it. its unrealistic. i eat fast. i digest fast. i focus on eating when i eat. i drink slow. drinks are special. food sits there. your aware that it is now apart of you or rather than your absorbing its beneficial nuances. liquids, are ghosts. your aware of its presence and warmth (or chill) as it reacts on your pallet and down towards the core. but it is without body. it is substance without matter. although science tells us otherwise, the only place we feel the drink is when it punches you later in the bladder. you don't know what you've gained from it until the doctor checks your blood later. Be it good or bad. I enjoy the moment. I enjoy the pace. I become aware of what's around me when i drink. It's eased tempo allows me to take the time to enjoy whatever is in front of me and not beyond me. Things i'd miss if i was eating, because eating is a race to satisfy.
i live fast. i react fast. i am fast in wit and fast in processing.
i exist slow. i love slow. i grow slow.
quite honestly
i'd rather drink.

Take away for today: www.cr8apes.com
DJ mixes posted. Fun for parties. Or alone time.

Suck on THIS Entrepreneurship '09!

There's a lot of immaturity in trying to be mature.



There's an abandoned farm about a 10 minute bike from my house. It's stationed on an old, swervy, no side-walk road across from my high school. By abandoned I intend to mean owned by land relaters hoping to make a new suburban jungle and is visited by one of the later owners family members occasionally. To make sure no one is throwing parties on the property. I've only been there twice but I feel like it's mine. Mine and my friends. It's quiet and precious. And while it's lonely abused atmosphere may make a a good haunted facade, it feels safe. I don't feel like there are dead bodies, lingering spirits or bad imprints. I feel like I need to explore. Do crazy shit. A place to have your first kiss and get felt up. I want to read mark zusack there. play baseball. run through the generous property. It's the cliche of the childhood theme "nothing lasts". I know it will be gone eventually, and i won't be devastated but i will cry. I don't know why yet but i will genuinely be moved by some currently-incomprehensible emotion. It's the loss of a life long dream. The need I've always craved for adventure and danger and discovery.
I feel like the freedom we gain there has a price. Something will happen and we'll pay for being too happy. Happiness is a sin. We lose sight of the immediately pertaining issues and reality when we drown in bliss for those moments. So very few of them. It's where we only speak about dreams, about others, about ourselves like no one can hear us. It's all very selfish and immature, but one can't go on living awaiting the day when the mechanics a line and you're sudden an adult. common sense no longer beneath you. There's a lot of immaturity in trying to be mature. We deny ourselves of experience and learning. The powerful surge of adrenaline in the face of danger. We suppress inspiration if our common sense calls it impossible, unattainable and incomprehensible. What the hell have we created when our children are forgetting to be children? Fear adventure because they may be scolded for improperly using their time? Ignore adventure because it's useless? Life might as well be abandoned. If the worry comes from one's physical and emotional health being at stake then they might as well be dead. We're always under an attack. And it's that prodding that makes us say "EN GARDE!". Forces us to be courageous and innovative. confident and imaginative. It's the fun that we have and the risks we take as kids that dictate the open-minded adults we become. I've seen the people who don't. My business teacher. Bad posture, doesn't look people in the eye, his attempts at hiding his lack of self-confidence makes him look self-absorbed. Clearly watched CBC news and played pong, masturbated to Lisa from weird science and ate white bread and butter sandwiches.

Take away for today: If you can get your hands on it before it leaves the shelves
UK's LOVE magazine sent Starworks’ Greg, their Senior Fashion Editor Francesca Burns, photographer Bruce Weber and designer Alexander Wang around the globe to find extraordinary talent and personalities under 21. Great read. Awesome articles. Cover's no names, to notable bloggers such a julia frakes and tavi, to more celebrity status performers.
http://www.thelovemagazine.co.uk/

Never give, Undone

Wow
I haven't written in a couple of months. Though I don't feel guilty.
I've been a busy fucker.
I'm struggling to get over vocal fatigue. I'm slowly teaching myself to rest. Which is difficult. I'm not truly happy until I have my hands full. I panic when I'm unoccupied, when I have time to relax. Not necessarily time to myself, I have time to waste. But time to sit down, watch re-runs, do nothing. I like crafts, but only when I'm bored. I like biking, but only when I'm bored.
Things to satisfy my stigma to swell the vacancy the that exists in my day.
I will push my body. I want to be physically and intellectually swollen. I want to have discovered something colourful. Within myself or outside. Exhaust all protein.
My subconscious and my libido work in a kinship. I lust for most things. People, food, adventure. I lust for self-understanding, and self-admiration.
I'm far to critical of myself. But perhaps that's the only way one can grow. One should always dislike something about what they've done. One should search for the flaws in their work. That is when we begin to seek improvement. We become more involved in what we do. We lust for critical respect. People who pride their work will never become more than what they are. Those is see the imperfections in the makeup will always grow, be humble, and continue to impress others.
Self doubt will flower excellence.

take away for today: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scotchsofa/page1/
someone who knows how to have fun. doesn't take herself too seriously. grows with every moment of her life.
sees a mistake as a masterpiece.
we need more people like this lady.

Circle in the Square

writing is a lot like drifting
to be truly poetic is to drift out of mind and write without conscious care.
drifting is a lot like winning.
been in so deep. so inescapable. so you give up the fight when all they want is just that. skin leverage.
when what you're worried for has ended you gain peace. when what they are united for has ended, they lose sight of why they enjoyed the others company to begin with. in hindsight they may note the persons distasteful qualities, and in return noting the same mirrored in themselves.
so drifting seems a way to outsmart. to belong senselessly to a strict meditation that belongs to a lifestyle and a character that exists just beyond the machines living room space, its banquets, its movement and its circles. To exist as the rectangle that encompasses the circle, at some points nearer to the circumferences, at some points untouchable is a fine way to mind ones own self. It's the distance I enjoy, but the homecoming I distance myself for.
Maybe I drift to test love. But I suppose I do it mostly to run into people tenting around the perimeter of the rectangle. When searching for isolation, it's nice to find camaraderie.

take away for today: www.margaretdurow.com, http://www.flickr.com/photos/margaretdurow/page1/
beautiful. like a voyeur ghost.

Favours

An old short story I found. I think i wrote it last year. It made me laughing finding it again.
Enjoy.
-S.Jones


Marla bit into her turkey burger.
She was watching her weight.
She asked for light mayo and no onions, because onions clung to your breath and your fingers. Your toung and your fingers were always in a gambling position to be asked to do favours. Marla wanted to do favours. She had a shopping list in her front pocket. She poked it and watched the stiff fabric pop like a bottle cap. Shopping for grocery's were not a favour. She was not doing herself a favour. She was doing her wife a favor.
Marla, loved Rachel. Rachel was in a constant passionate heat for Marla. Marla felt a need to wade submissive towards Rachel's blistering horomones. For all she knew she was gender split and fucking impregnated her. Which wouldn't be bad. Just really weird. Like there are things you can laugh about and be happy dispite the situation, definately not one of them. Her walls were probabaly rough with callas from a lack of arousal before Rachel lit a candle stick and inserted the waxy base. Rachel had an obsession with fire. Marla first made love to Rachel infront of a fire place. Earlier on she thought this cliche, she now realized she was feeding Rachel's fetish. Which made her happy.
She was once asked in a 'would you rather game' if you would rather never have someone please you or never be able to please someone else.
She was unable to muster a honest answer. or a wholesome answer. but the question itself was debatable. an answer she felt more opinionated to say.
really, Marla was unhappy.
Marla was bisexual. Marla wanted to try something new.
Marla wanted to do favours.
Inexpensive. 10 minutes or less. Simple and efficient.
Like the burger drive through.
Marla was done her burger. She moved onto her fries.
She balanced one between the pouch of her lips and her finger tip.
She slid it in. Swallowed it. Whole.
Marla looked out her window. Kevin was putting out the flower and garden sales area in the parking lot of Rona. Kevin watered his flowers and and took photos of his cats in seasonal costumes. Kevin carried a costco card, a debit card, an emergency diabetes card, and a pepsi card in his wallet.
Kevin needed a favour.

take away for today - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_miHFxG1yuQ&feature=channel_page
this is who they have sex too.
looks a bit like jesus. but jesus probably grooves better.

Be Afraid

I have a close friend. Who has healed more wounds for me than she will ever know. And has exposed me to myself, without fear. But sometimes I am afraid for her. She follows a wave which has an luxuriously peaceful high and then a tragic low. In her deepest hollows I suppose there isn't much to say. I would like to hear and sort out her matters for her, but I am not her mother, and I am not her conscience. To be at conflict with ones own psyche is a confrontation that must be met. Without exterior characters trying to build ones own character. One can only find peace when they are able to find realism in their own issues and second guess their own opinions. When you create a smarter, more intelligent self beyond bones and skin and blood.
I love her. I don't think I've ever loved anyone else more than her. She is striking and captivating and inspiring and truly unscathed by culture. She patriotic of her own domain. She is lost in an era years beyond the one she was born in. One with class and dignity and chivalry and experiment. She is a never ending cycle of occasion, with a persona that never settles in one suit for too long. She is challenging and mocking and curious. She is morning noon and night and the time in between does not exist because she doesn't have the time for it. She breaths sweet simple one line melodies. Absolutely the most impossibly lost person I've ever met. But in that lack of, she is perfect. To her I say, if you're cutting with a knife the gentlest gesture you can give beaten by the bat end. Whether you return the strike with a counter blow means a few fist full of apprehentions hugging your curves. Both ends have bitter endings, both ends are open ended. Will he decide to cut you or force you. Every white limbo has a corner, but the colour spills often just a few paces from where you began to feel watched. Running makes you more obvious and walking is an easier target. So is standing. So you're fucked. The best thing to do now is not exists, but unfortunately you are made of matter, and until you blow space between your atoms you'll continue to feel. Fear is the most unacknowledged emotion. Not that we ignore it, we are aware of it, but we can't just hate it. Because we hate too much of what's necessity already.
Fear will help you. Let it build a scent. Let something hunt you. Listen to its hunger. Listen to it's thoughtlessness. Find it before it comes out.
Be afraid.

Take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/wheatiemattiasich

Listen to Sugarcane.

Shaking Hands

I've fallen in love with illustration.
There's a massive, translucent line or lagoon at odds with the incision between what we see and can communicate with, circumference's us, and how we exhibit and frame the physical things response to our acknowledgment, it's own language, and the manifestation of that through a picture. When one analyzes the two, you begin to see within this lagoon, not an abrupt laceration of the two sitting abreast the other, but rather an inconceivable blur as one becomes the next. It is in the blur where the breathing earths metaphysical characteristics evolve into something more cinematic and charismatic. Using ones extremities to lasso a ghost or an aura within ones self or an object. To then invite that to the page. To portray it senselessly as it does not affect our senses. Miraculous.
An artist is never fully acknowledged for their work because one never fully understands the artists motives. How they felt and what they saw. What is often more frustrating is when perhaps the picture portrays an idea that conflicts the artists own personal message. But then, art will always continue to be different for everyone as we are all approached by art differently. As we are all judged by people differently. In the art community you must be willing to be judged for your work, because your work will judge you. Art will judge you.

take away for today: inventive and standard setting.
Russian Ark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J--TDEHizVA
Vassilis Zidianakis: http://www.atopos.gr/rest/english/index.html

Heaven told me it would hate me

Pouring a martini into a coffee mug is so satisfying. If the heat won't be there to warm you the burn will, and the familiarity of a toasty mug is complimentary. The comfort of the two together is enough milk ones way into addiction. Which is an issue i fear I'm battling currently. The mug makes it easier to drink, and far less casual. Casual would be with a stem attached to the bottom. Habit is an ikea mug, a zip up hoodie and Seinfeld. So i'm working my way into an illness, and it startles me, but not as intensely as say an addiction to tobacco would. I worry about the smell of cigarettes, i realize I'm not going to reek of alcohol on Monday morning. Perhaps I will one day. For now i enjoy fruity mixes and red wine. White wine tastes like liquid gravol. Sorry lovers.
And then there's the friends who smoke. No i don't know if i like to smoke with neighbours. I don't spin. I like spinning. It's wicked obvious as well. It billows. I speak 7 years pre current age. Sub socialistic. Unopinionated and horrifyingly simple with dialect. It's a mock of the sapience and a farce of my poise. I am unknowingly conveying the unornamented version of me. Though hard to say, is no one i would put a name behind. And still, I will continue to, in isolation, use. By myself my mind is macabre. For the rest of my life then I will continue to enjoy chilled wine and bread. Simple food. Soul food. An addiction to une vive.
I could hide this addiction. I could fuck this addiction so hard.

Take away for today: http://www.parasolmag.com/

lovely. free. mindful.

Weather

Hello again.
It's cold outside. Cold for spring. In the sun I feel warm, the wind slaps me across the face in some form of natural envy. And they work to see each other give in to the others polar currents. But then again perhaps they work in acknowledgment of each other. In a close kinship, one isolates the other to make the human who's feeling one of the two weather extremes, feel an abandonment of the other. Than the other relaxes as the human begins to urge the presence of the other extreme. One is far too much. One cannot be exposed to one thing for too long.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Tastes change, but subtly. Someones tastes do not fully change but adapt to the years they are becoming. With each year comes a new ear, new skin that is touched or perhaps dimpled, and new sight. And one may pray that they observe something in a new light or learn to love something more, but it's the exposure to the positives of this 'thing', or the unexpected and enlightening, that truly evolve one's senses.
I've been exposed to many new sounds and faces, especially last summer. And I can't decided if it's the distance between me and that 'thing' that has built this admiration or rather a change of tastes. Whether I've grown to love it because of the memories so potently attached to the thought of it or because I've been through enough to realize this 'thing' can be categorized amongst many things that now, with maturity, suit my interests. Perhaps I over think the effects of growing up. And perhaps it's what I'm supposed to do. Maybe everyone does, it's just an absurd topic of conversation.
take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/bellorchestre

I would've never listen to anything instrumental last year. I see the story telling now.

Storytelling

I once had a history teacher that told me my English mark would always suffer and that if i were to pursue a career in business I would face the same issue because of my writing. She cradled her criticism with the reassurance that if I were patient enough to devote energy to spending time in a null state watching a novel build and leak in the heart of my head, I'd be famous. Now I suppose that's how i write. That the ideas do not exist until I have derived that one before from the idea before that and the idea before that, and so on. It gets messy. Often the ideas have no real link until the end which often leaves my fingers sticky and uncomfortable to rest together. It's only then i consider the best way to rest my hands to avoid odd looks from neighbours and to be able to rest naturally. I suppose if the substance is sheer on your hands you have little to worry about, just act like nothings there. I feel that way about acting too, act like nothings waiting to be flushed out of your mouth to support the scene/your character's purpose/the other actors intentions. Rather to pretend, scientifically, your brain sparked a reasoning function of sorts, and with the intention to respond sincerely to the person speaking to you on the set, instantly connected with the nerves in your lips to communicate your thoughts. I don't feel like I'm writing when I'm writing. I feel like my brain is communicating with my hands. And I feel like I'm running. I feel like I'm out of breath. If i run a bit further I'll reach a goal.
It's nice to achieve that. So everything ties together in the end. And I've discovered something new about myself that I perhaps just wasn't really aware of before.
Writing is about discovery. So is reading. How do you intend to grow if what you know you must experience is already planned. It's definitely why I've never been able to write essays, I try to explore too many ideas within one thesis. Growth happens because of the pull of ideas and the circles they spin. The moments that make you speak to yourself aloud inside your head. All call to arms. You can't always get what you want. Each idea is a powerful trigger that leads to the next, much like each milestone in life is a circumstance that helps you deal with the next that will surely follow. Unless you are dead, Wake the fuck up.
take away for today:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q85xVaTfdgE&feature=PlayList&p=8701FEDF5CDD4253&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=19

sorry if you don't laugh. you don't really have to pay a dollar. but shit happens some times.
you can't always get what you want.