tout va bien

I secretely hate everything christmas. It involves Sarnia, and Sarnia reminds me of everything I once had and now do not. And that brings back everything shitty that has happened between my departure, and my inevitable, never-ending return.

The self-pity is so powerful, the guilt, the sadness, the desperation; it's making me ill. And I'm so low right now I can't even bring myself to apologize anymore. My one remaining recourse.

And these empty words, in an empty machine.

addendum (01/01/06): i don't want this shit posted -- in retrospect, off it comes

transluscently speaking

waxing chaotic my mind goes brazilian letting it all hang out


"do not disturb" I'm already fucked

brain drain, times like, a bazillion

I have severe blockage. My academic prowess has gone the way of the codpiece and penny candies. I'm worried it may never come back (unlike the codpiece which made a triumphant return in David Bowie's tight, hot pants).

I am still on page one of an eight-to-ten, and I have no idea how to unravel my thoughts. I can't focus on anything for more than ten minutes (unless it's knitting). I'm beginning to worry that my brain has been forever altered by the practice of po-mo. I fear its (re: brain) rebellion. I feel lost without it.

I'm scaring myself.



Addendum: I'm starting to think that obscure theory is not for me.

dark arts, inspiration, and pro-creative procrastination

(the dark arts of floria sigismondi have my mind and fingers twitching)

Procrastination is inspiration!

You know that feeling, when just for a moment, however brief, things come together in your mind. Stuff makes sense. You glimpse your own potential, and everything you touch seems to inspire you.

Nevermind the fact that I have yet to write a paper that was due a week ago, or the multitude of research, reading, and presenting that lies ahead, I'm having that moment, and I'm loving every inch of it.

(reflections of my s-o-m and inspirations)


(a very talented photographer, dr. joanne, found on flickr)

stealing neko case

you're headed to this hiding place
these lightning threads spun silver tongues
red bells beckon you to ride
a handprint on the driver side
it looks a lot like engine oil
and tastes like being poor and small
and popsicles in summer

deep red bells
deep as I've been down

remembrance

To all those friendships that died (in the wars)

WARNING: Shamefully personal post to follow.

Up all night, listening to the same song over and over again.
Sharing hearts and yearnings.
Sitting under the bridge on the brink of becoming.
Laughing drunk, locked in bathrooms with stir crazy birdies.
Falling over in canoes, firelit charades, and tampons on birthday cakes.

That time you called me selfish.

That time I called you selfish.

Chasing crazy vegans on meth dressed like David Bowie in the Labyrinth.
Hurling obscenities and rotten food at the locals.
Nights on the beach, star watching.
Candles, cigarettes, coffee, tarot, tuesdays, tori, heartbreaks, heaven, stagefright, arousal, anger, despair.
Freezing in protest.
School Night, St. George, Poplar Plains, the North end, the end of you and him.
The end of you and me.

Remembering.

Look for me. I'll be around

I wish I was the moon tonight

My life in fragments.

Virilio makes my brain cry (in a good way).
I have no attention span.
It's much more difficult than I anticipated to purchase a human skull.
There are 47 days t'il christmas and I have 16 people on my list, so that means that I have 3 days per person if I'm gonna get all that knitting done (it's not going to happen; see point two).
Bureaucracies are ridiculous; particularly when associated with student administration. It took us four days to book a room for an environmental working group meeting. We want to get green bin collection on campus (but if it takes us four days just to book a room, I don't think we have much hope).
Neko Case is one of those artists that upon discovering them, I always wonder why I hadn't discovered them earlier.
I am allergic to milk, and despite the fact that it leaves me with breathing problems, just shy of anaphylactic shock, I continue to consume it in its chocolatey incarnation.
I have an unhealthy obsession with photographic instruments. (My latest object of covetous desire is a medium format hasselblad -- what the hell is wrong with me?)

Speed is Time saved in the most absolute sense of the word, since it becomes human Time directly torn from Death


yum-diddly-ummy!